“Please, please fuck me,” and either his desperation is growing, or Sherlock’s gotten better at hiding his insincerity. “I don’t want it but I can’t stop you. You can thrust inside me as I writhe to get away. You can make me scream, and make me cry. You can make me,” the breaking of his voice has to be faked, it’s done so artfully, carrying so much horror, “feel you come.”
“I know I can darling, I know,” Moriarty sighs, “and here I thought I would have to teach you manners.”
Sherlock is only making it worse – will only continue to make it worse. He’s trying to cope with what’s about to happen; he can’t think about what could happen to Sherlock instead. He doesn’t want to deal with that many horrible possibilities. He doesn’t want to think of Sherlock writhing and crying while attached to him. He doesn’t want to imagine that maybe Sherlock could take it better, would prefer to be fucked than to watch it happen to John. He has to believe that this happening to him is for the best if he wants to get through it. He can’t bear the other option, and he can not bear the possibility that he really is a weakness, that his pain could be used to hurt Sherlock more than his own.
John presses his knees inward as far as they’ll go. It’s not far, considering his position and restraints, and the weight of Moriarty on top of him, but it’s a pressure against Sherlock’s waist, another point of intentional contact, another place he can squeeze to say “Shut the hell up you mad bastard.”
Sherlock stills under him and breathes deep.
“But someone’s done a good job of that,” Moriarty is speaking to him now, “Was it you?”
Moriarty’s moving his hands over John’s arse, circling closer to the part of him that John wants Moriarty to touch least. “Wriggling your arse to keep my attention. That’s so nice of you. So kind,” Moriarty spits the word like an expletive, “But then not particularly surprising. You’ve already shown you’d give your life for him. What’s your dignity after that?”
“Stop it.” Sherlock’s voice is high. “If you let him go I won’t come after you.”
“Or I will,” he startles. “I will if you’re bored, if that’s what you want.” He lowers his voice, speaks as if trying to seduce, “I’ll come after you alone. I’ll –”
“Not polite. Blatant lies are not polite.” Moriarty pinches his flank and John’s body instinctually moves away, hips pressing down against Sherlock, legs spreading and unbalancing Moriarty.
“I’m not –”
“You are.”
“You had damn well better be.”
Sherlock looks up at him. “John, I’m sorry –”
“Don’t!” He doesn’t care how Sherlock’s apology ends, what exactly he’s sorry for. Whatever it is, it’s not enough, and it it’s everything then it includes things he shouldn’t be apologising for.
Moriarty giggles from behind him. “Don’t be angry darling. He’s doing his best.” Then Moriarty takes his hands away from John completely.
“Believe me darling, I really do hate getting my hands dirty, but this needs to happen, and it has to be personal. I would say sorry but,” there’s a short, hissing inhalation, “I’m really not.”
John can hear the rustle of clothing, the sound of fabric loud over his controlled breathing and Sherlock’s deep but uneven breathing.
Then there’s a hand at the base of his back, pressing him down even harder as Moriarty leans over them and dangles an empty latex glove in front of Sherlock’s face.
“You can suck on the index and pointer fingers. Get them wet.”
Sherlock doesn’t move.
“This is a limited time offer.” Moriarty jerks the glove away as John leans toward it. “Only you Sherlock. It won’t make it much easier, but will you deny him this much?”
John watches Sherlock’s tongue flick out to guide the latex into his mouth as Moriarty brings it closer again. Sherlock’s gaze flicks to his own, then away. John can see the humiliation and shame mixed in with the apology. He can’t really sympathise, considering what he knows he’s about to be put through.
Moriarty yanks the glove away fast enough that John can feel a spot of spittle land on his shoulder as the glove whips past. John keeps his attention focussed on Sherlock’s slick lips as he listens to Moriarty pull the glove on behind him.
Re: Bound (Warning: non-con) 6/12
“I know I can darling, I know,” Moriarty sighs, “and here I thought I would have to teach you manners.”
Sherlock is only making it worse – will only continue to make it worse. He’s trying to cope with what’s about to happen; he can’t think about what could happen to Sherlock instead. He doesn’t want to deal with that many horrible possibilities. He doesn’t want to think of Sherlock writhing and crying while attached to him. He doesn’t want to imagine that maybe Sherlock could take it better, would prefer to be fucked than to watch it happen to John. He has to believe that this happening to him is for the best if he wants to get through it. He can’t bear the other option, and he can not bear the possibility that he really is a weakness, that his pain could be used to hurt Sherlock more than his own.
John presses his knees inward as far as they’ll go. It’s not far, considering his position and restraints, and the weight of Moriarty on top of him, but it’s a pressure against Sherlock’s waist, another point of intentional contact, another place he can squeeze to say “Shut the hell up you mad bastard.”
Sherlock stills under him and breathes deep.
“But someone’s done a good job of that,” Moriarty is speaking to him now, “Was it you?”
Moriarty’s moving his hands over John’s arse, circling closer to the part of him that John wants Moriarty to touch least. “Wriggling your arse to keep my attention. That’s so nice of you. So kind,” Moriarty spits the word like an expletive, “But then not particularly surprising. You’ve already shown you’d give your life for him. What’s your dignity after that?”
“Stop it.” Sherlock’s voice is high. “If you let him go I won’t come after you.”
“Or I will,” he startles. “I will if you’re bored, if that’s what you want.” He lowers his voice, speaks as if trying to seduce, “I’ll come after you alone. I’ll –”
“Not polite. Blatant lies are not polite.” Moriarty pinches his flank and John’s body instinctually moves away, hips pressing down against Sherlock, legs spreading and unbalancing Moriarty.
“I’m not –”
“You are.”
“You had damn well better be.”
Sherlock looks up at him. “John, I’m sorry –”
“Don’t!” He doesn’t care how Sherlock’s apology ends, what exactly he’s sorry for. Whatever it is, it’s not enough, and it it’s everything then it includes things he shouldn’t be apologising for.
Moriarty giggles from behind him. “Don’t be angry darling. He’s doing his best.” Then Moriarty takes his hands away from John completely.
“Believe me darling, I really do hate getting my hands dirty, but this needs to happen, and it has to be personal. I would say sorry but,” there’s a short, hissing inhalation, “I’m really not.”
John can hear the rustle of clothing, the sound of fabric loud over his controlled breathing and Sherlock’s deep but uneven breathing.
Then there’s a hand at the base of his back, pressing him down even harder as Moriarty leans over them and dangles an empty latex glove in front of Sherlock’s face.
“You can suck on the index and pointer fingers. Get them wet.”
Sherlock doesn’t move.
“This is a limited time offer.” Moriarty jerks the glove away as John leans toward it. “Only you Sherlock. It won’t make it much easier, but will you deny him this much?”
John watches Sherlock’s tongue flick out to guide the latex into his mouth as Moriarty brings it closer again. Sherlock’s gaze flicks to his own, then away. John can see the humiliation and shame mixed in with the apology. He can’t really sympathise, considering what he knows he’s about to be put through.
Moriarty yanks the glove away fast enough that John can feel a spot of spittle land on his shoulder as the glove whips past. John keeps his attention focussed on Sherlock’s slick lips as he listens to Moriarty pull the glove on behind him.