With Sherlock Holmes fanfiction porn, my dear Watson. And not actually any nice normal Holmes/Watson porn, but porn for an evil villain rare pairing. And I can't stop writing them. Why.
Title: That one time at that one place, Paris
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes 2009 - aka Guy Ritchie's Sherlock Holmes - aka why do you do this to me, Jared Harris and Paul Anderson
Pairing: Professor Moriarty/Sebastian Moran
Spoilers for A Game of Shadows.
Written for this kinkmeme prompt (my fic is here.)
"After the opera, they go back to their hotel room in Paris giddy with the accomplishment of their recent destruction. Moriarty pays his gratitude to Moran with sex."
"How was Don Giovanni?" came the question from the depths of the window seat.
"Splendid. A superlative production this year. Pity you were unable to attend," Moriarty said, tossing his gloves onto the side table and loosening his collar. The two men shared a smirk.
"I had an...urgent appointment to honor at the time," Moran said. He unfolded himself from his casually slouched pose - Moriarty wasn't unappreciative of that image - and crossed the room to help the professor shed his dinner jacket. "Did you enjoy my handiwork?"
"I did." Like any other upright, concerned citizen, Moriarty had received news of the bombing disaster and hurried to the scene to observe it - and incidentally exchange words with several attending inspecteurs, to remind them of the expected results of the investigation. Wonderful resource, underpaid civil servants. "I daresay Sherlock Holmes quite enjoyed your work as well."
Moran's grin this time bared more teeth. "D'you think he'll see through the bombing ruse?" He started in on Moriarty's waistcoat.
Moriarty shrugged and unclipped one of Moran's suspenders. The marksman had already discarded his outer accoutrements and was down to his shirtsleeves. "If he does, it's already far too late. You did clean up after yourself, didn't you?"
Moran's hands paused and he drew back, stung. "Of course. What do you take me for?"
"Always professional," Moriarty said smoothly, and unclipped the other suspender, easing Moran's trousers down just enough to slip his fingers through to the bare skin of the other man's hips.
"Damn right," Moran said, mollified, most likely a good deal from the fact that Moriarty was now rubbing circles into his skin. He drew in a slightly shaky breath, and his fingers weren't so sure as he unbuttoned Moriarty's shirt. The professor smiled. Predictable, like a dog. Find his favorite spot to scratch, and he was putty in your hands.
Moran's fingers on his belt went still.
Moriarty kept his hands on Moran's hips and gently pushed him backwards, until his knees encountered the window seat, and pushed him down. Moran stiffened - he disliked putting his back to doors and windows - but Moriarty smiled and held him still.
"Tell me, Sebastian," Moriarty said conversationally as he sank to his knees and slotted himself between Moran's legs. "What are the sight lines to this window? Who could look across and see us now, so conveniently framed?"
The sharpshooter had gone from his usual relaxed-tension to a far more unnatural spring-tension, the stiffness radiating through his limbs and tightening around his eyes. He hunched his shoulders - a soldier's survival instinct, displeased at being pressed and exposed against the uncurtained window. Moriarty removed Moran's shoes and stockings, which still smelled of Parisian streets and squalid rooftops.
"The Hotel d'Chevalier," the man finally said. Moriarty passed caresses over Moran's legs while he pulled down his trousers, relishing the thigh muscles jumping in the wake of his fingers. "Easy shot anywhere from the roof or the windows underneath." Moran's pupils had gone dark and dilated, his heart rate greatly elevated, his breath coming shorter. "Two buildings on either side, gable windows." Barely perceptible tremors, results of the adrenaline left from completing the assassination, no doubt, combined with the predator's exquisite awareness of every aspect of this situation. "Three row houses across the square, two upper windows each."
Moriarty reached up to unbutton Moran's shirt, making sure to carelessly brush his knuckles against the bulge in his smallclothes. Moran swallowed convulsively and fell silent. "Well?" Moriarty prompted again. "Surely an ingenious sharpshooter like yourself would study every option available to him."
"I'd look into disguising myself as a window-washer." Moran's breath tripped as Moriarty gently pinched a nipple. "The square is cleaned regularly, the hotel likes it that way, brings in the high-flown folk. But nobody pays attention to the cleaners." Moriarty nodded. Moran obediently shifted, and Moriarty pulled his smallclothes off.
He admitted to himself that rendering Moran vulnerable was a pleasure he did indeed enjoy indulging. Soldier's body, all compact muscle - the sharpshooter did have a kind of masculine beauty, framed pleasingly against the sooty red glow of the Parisian skyline.
"Professor?" Moran's voice gone hoarse.
Moriarty blinked, and gathered himself and nudged Moran’s cock towards him. Its skin was soft-hot under his fingertips, the tip just slightly moistened. He closed his eyes and tongued the slit roughly. Moran’s body went stiff. A part of his mind catalogued the man’s reactions, remembering and noting each sigh, each hitch and spasm. Another part of his mind knew nothing more than the heat and the wet, the burning skin underneath his lips and the solid shaft sliding on his tongue.
Lord Allison MacDonald had introduced Moriarty to the esoteric art of orally pleasuring men, twenty-one years ago, when they were young men together at King's College. As in all fields of endeavor that Moriarty cared to devote any time to, he had sought to improve his skill beyond reproach, on MacDonald and on a few discreet lovers in subsequent years.
"Professor--" Moran stopped breathing altogether for six - seven - eight seconds, and his head snapped back to knock against the window, mouth open in soundless orgasm. The muscles of his neck stood in sharp relief. Moriarty carefully swallowed, two great pulses of heat and liquid. He ignored the bitter taste with the ease of long practice.
Above him, Moran's breath finally exploded from his chest, unmodulated gasps, and he shivered convulsively when Moriarty withdrew his mouth slowly. Moran was the very picture of exhausted pleasure, sprawled naked and spent against the window. Yet his eyes were sharp beneath their heavy lids, and Moriarty smiled with unexpected fondness as he watched his man regain mastery of himself impressively quickly. The spring-tension leeched away.
Moriarty made to stand after a moment, but Moran lifted a hand to his shoulder to stop him. He saw the intention in the other man's eyes a split second before Moran leaned forward and kissed him hungrily, licking the taste of himself from Moriarty's lips. Yes, he thought as his eyes closed and he leaned into the kiss. Good boy.
- How did I break my writer's block with 1064 words of porn?