It’s horrifying. It’s painful on multiple levels, and humiliating, and emasculating, but it’s not dry and he’s tried to relax and he’s sure he can survive, so it doesn’t hurt like being shot.
It hurts in an entirely different way. And maybe the repercussions are going to be, he doesn’t know, he just doesn’t know. But on a physical, 1-10 pain scale, he has been through worse. He can deal with this.
His body is collapsing. His arse is being pushed inward. But that’s just physical sensation. He knows how this works. People do it all over the world, even if it should be wanted – less tense, more slicked. It’s nothing extraordinary. His body can deal with it. He can deal with it.
Moriarty pulls almost all the way out before pushing in again, deeper. He can deal with this. He can cope. He can deal with being rocked by a rapist’s thrusts over his best friend’s body – while his best friend looks up at him with wide, watchful eyes – because what other choice does he have.
He cannot deal. He can’t. He can’t cope with this. It’s nothing he ever wanted, nothing he expected. It’s nothing he’s prepared for. Because bad things have happened, bad things have happened to him, but they’ve been –
Sherlock is chanting his name again. John locks eyes with him again, seeing him rather than staring through him.
“Keep –” there’s a hesitation in his speech, as though now that he has John’s attention, Sherlock doesn’t know what to do with it. “Keep moving with it John. Don’t fight it. It’ll be over before you know.”
“It won’t.” Moriarty’s voice pours over his shoulder.
“He’s thinking,” Moriarty leans hard against his back as he speaks, continually moving inside him, “that if he were inside you,” Moriarty interrupts himself by placing the mockery of a tender kiss on John’s shoulder, above his scar, “it would be almost over.”
Moriarty pulls back again. John loses Sherlock’s gaze, watches Sherlock’s eyes flick over his shoulder to Moriarty.
“I don’t have that problem.”
Struggling won’t get him anywhere and might hurt Sherlock. So he doesn’t. There’s nothing he can say that won’t make this worse, so he lowers his head, stares at a bit of sheet off to the side, bites his lip, and tries to stay relaxed. He can suffer this, wait for it to be over. Sherlock is right, really, unless Moriarty has taken something it can’t go on for too long.
He counts the seconds in his head. Twenty-eight adds up to an eternity as Moriarty moves inside him and Sherlock wriggles under him, occasionally saying his name.
It’s at a particularly sharp “John!” from Sherlock that he looks back up at him.
He catches a quick flash of relief when he meets Sherlock’s eyes again.
“Name the muscles in the hand,” Sherlock commands, and John complies without thinking. It’s good. It’s helpful to focus on hands, to focus on the pressure on his hands, rather than on the movement behind him and the burning stretch and push and pull.
“Abductor digiti minimi,” he starts, and falls into a rhythm, whispering names like secrets, “flexor digiti minimi, palmaris brevis, opponens pollicis, adductor pollicis.”
It works. He doesn’t forget, but he relaxes. His body shifts to reduce strain.
And then he loses his train of thought as Moriarty starts pulling out and pushing back in harshly, quickly.
He loses his balance, his weaker leg sliding on the sheets as Moriarty pounds into him. He slips, and there’s a pained grunt from Sherlock as John crashes into him.
Moriarty slips out, but all he does before resheathing himself is push John’s other leg out from under him so his weight rests almost completely on Sherlock.
The position is more painful, and not just for him.
He is crushed nose to jaw against Sherlock. He can feel every one of Sherlock’s shallow breaths through his torso. He can feel both of their bodies panic against the pressing weight. From above him Moriarty presses down, intentionally, and John finds himself crushed into Sherlock’s sharp angles and surely crushing him.
Re: Bound (Warning: non-con) 8/12
It’s horrifying. It’s painful on multiple levels, and humiliating, and emasculating, but it’s not dry and he’s tried to relax and he’s sure he can survive, so it doesn’t hurt like being shot.
It hurts in an entirely different way. And maybe the repercussions are going to be, he doesn’t know, he just doesn’t know. But on a physical, 1-10 pain scale, he has been through worse. He can deal with this.
His body is collapsing. His arse is being pushed inward. But that’s just physical sensation. He knows how this works. People do it all over the world, even if it should be wanted – less tense, more slicked. It’s nothing extraordinary. His body can deal with it. He can deal with it.
Moriarty pulls almost all the way out before pushing in again, deeper. He can deal with this. He can cope. He can deal with being rocked by a rapist’s thrusts over his best friend’s body – while his best friend looks up at him with wide, watchful eyes – because what other choice does he have.
He cannot deal. He can’t. He can’t cope with this. It’s nothing he ever wanted, nothing he expected. It’s nothing he’s prepared for. Because bad things have happened, bad things have happened to him, but they’ve been –
Sherlock is chanting his name again. John locks eyes with him again, seeing him rather than staring through him.
“Keep –” there’s a hesitation in his speech, as though now that he has John’s attention, Sherlock doesn’t know what to do with it. “Keep moving with it John. Don’t fight it. It’ll be over before you know.”
“It won’t.” Moriarty’s voice pours over his shoulder.
“He’s thinking,” Moriarty leans hard against his back as he speaks, continually moving inside him, “that if he were inside you,” Moriarty interrupts himself by placing the mockery of a tender kiss on John’s shoulder, above his scar, “it would be almost over.”
Moriarty pulls back again. John loses Sherlock’s gaze, watches Sherlock’s eyes flick over his shoulder to Moriarty.
“I don’t have that problem.”
Struggling won’t get him anywhere and might hurt Sherlock. So he doesn’t. There’s nothing he can say that won’t make this worse, so he lowers his head, stares at a bit of sheet off to the side, bites his lip, and tries to stay relaxed. He can suffer this, wait for it to be over. Sherlock is right, really, unless Moriarty has taken something it can’t go on for too long.
He counts the seconds in his head. Twenty-eight adds up to an eternity as Moriarty moves inside him and Sherlock wriggles under him, occasionally saying his name.
It’s at a particularly sharp “John!” from Sherlock that he looks back up at him.
He catches a quick flash of relief when he meets Sherlock’s eyes again.
“Name the muscles in the hand,” Sherlock commands, and John complies without thinking. It’s good. It’s helpful to focus on hands, to focus on the pressure on his hands, rather than on the movement behind him and the burning stretch and push and pull.
“Abductor digiti minimi,” he starts, and falls into a rhythm, whispering names like secrets, “flexor digiti minimi, palmaris brevis, opponens pollicis, adductor pollicis.”
It works. He doesn’t forget, but he relaxes. His body shifts to reduce strain.
And then he loses his train of thought as Moriarty starts pulling out and pushing back in harshly, quickly.
He loses his balance, his weaker leg sliding on the sheets as Moriarty pounds into him. He slips, and there’s a pained grunt from Sherlock as John crashes into him.
Moriarty slips out, but all he does before resheathing himself is push John’s other leg out from under him so his weight rests almost completely on Sherlock.
The position is more painful, and not just for him.
He is crushed nose to jaw against Sherlock. He can feel every one of Sherlock’s shallow breaths through his torso. He can feel both of their bodies panic against the pressing weight. From above him Moriarty presses down, intentionally, and John finds himself crushed into Sherlock’s sharp angles and surely crushing him.