He’s been actively ignoring that area. Their bodies are crushed together, so obviously there’s contact, but it’s nothing that he’s needed to focus on.
He can’t ignore it now.
Sherlock isn’t hard, but he isn’t flaccid either. He is growing as Moriarty’s rhythm moves their bodies together.
John doesn’t care. He doesn’t care. It’s stimulation, it’s natural. Maybe John would be having a similar reaction if his own discomfort weren’t so great. If his own distress weren’t so –
Sherlock catches his eye. John knows he knows John knows.
“It’s not –” Sherlock starts, but John just shakes his head at him once.
Maybe he shouldn’t begrudge it. Maybe this is part of Moriarty’s plan. Maybe this is Sherlock’s thing, the ropes and the helplessness and the humiliation. Maybe he can’t help it. Surely he can’t help it.
But still, the betrayal of it floods him.
“Please, John, look at me please,” Sherlock begs, voice tight, and John does because what good does resisting do? What good does any of it do?
“This isn’t – I don’t – I’m not getting off on this.” Sherlock’s voice is pleading. “I swear.”
There’s hard evidence to the contrary pressing against him.
“I’m sorry, but it’s not – you have to listen to me John –” He squeezes his hands tight again. “It’s the transport. It’s not me. It’s a physical reaction and I can’t control it and please –”
“Shut up!” John says, “Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up!” and his tantrum does do some good because Sherlock – miracle of miracles – shuts up.
“No, don’t.” Moriarty’s breath is hot against his back. “Tell us. Tell us you can’t control it. Tell us,” he slows on the slide in, “what you’re going to do to me the second you have the chance.”
Sherlock shuts his eyes, and swallows, and when he opens them again he ignores Moriarty to stare up at John.
“It will,” he hesitates for a brief moment, “decrease when the pressure does. It changes nothing. You are going to get through this. I promise. We will get through this and nothing needs to change –”
“But it will,” Moriarty interrupts him, “He’s felt it now.” John can hear the smile in Moriarty’s voice as he repeats the word with emphasis, “Now, and he’ll always remember it.” Moriarty presses another quick kiss to the skin surrounding his scar, and that’s just as violating as the rest of it. “The feeling of your cock,” he draws the word out, “pressing into him while he was being raped. Look at his face,” Moriarty commands, and John’s not sure who he’s talking to, but he clearly gains nothing from being contrary so he holds Sherlock’s gaze, “Remember this.”
There are tears, actual tears, in Sherlock’s eyes. They sort of do actually make John feel better about it. He can’t associate crying with willing arousal.
“I will.” Moriarty presses the side of his face against John’s back as he speaks. “Fondly.”
And then Moriarty’s thrusts grow erratic and he pushes deeper. His body goes stiff and heavy for several seconds before he lets out a long breath and pulls out.
Re: Bound (Warning: non-con) 10/12
He can’t ignore it now.
Sherlock isn’t hard, but he isn’t flaccid either. He is growing as Moriarty’s rhythm moves their bodies together.
John doesn’t care. He doesn’t care. It’s stimulation, it’s natural. Maybe John would be having a similar reaction if his own discomfort weren’t so great. If his own distress weren’t so –
Sherlock catches his eye. John knows he knows John knows.
“It’s not –” Sherlock starts, but John just shakes his head at him once.
Maybe he shouldn’t begrudge it. Maybe this is part of Moriarty’s plan. Maybe this is Sherlock’s thing, the ropes and the helplessness and the humiliation. Maybe he can’t help it. Surely he can’t help it.
But still, the betrayal of it floods him.
“Please, John, look at me please,” Sherlock begs, voice tight, and John does because what good does resisting do? What good does any of it do?
“This isn’t – I don’t – I’m not getting off on this.” Sherlock’s voice is pleading. “I swear.”
There’s hard evidence to the contrary pressing against him.
“I’m sorry, but it’s not – you have to listen to me John –” He squeezes his hands tight again. “It’s the transport. It’s not me. It’s a physical reaction and I can’t control it and please –”
“Shut up!” John says, “Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up!” and his tantrum does do some good because Sherlock – miracle of miracles – shuts up.
“No, don’t.” Moriarty’s breath is hot against his back. “Tell us. Tell us you can’t control it. Tell us,” he slows on the slide in, “what you’re going to do to me the second you have the chance.”
Sherlock shuts his eyes, and swallows, and when he opens them again he ignores Moriarty to stare up at John.
“It will,” he hesitates for a brief moment, “decrease when the pressure does. It changes nothing. You are going to get through this. I promise. We will get through this and nothing needs to change –”
“But it will,” Moriarty interrupts him, “He’s felt it now.” John can hear the smile in Moriarty’s voice as he repeats the word with emphasis, “Now, and he’ll always remember it.” Moriarty presses another quick kiss to the skin surrounding his scar, and that’s just as violating as the rest of it. “The feeling of your cock,” he draws the word out, “pressing into him while he was being raped. Look at his face,” Moriarty commands, and John’s not sure who he’s talking to, but he clearly gains nothing from being contrary so he holds Sherlock’s gaze, “Remember this.”
There are tears, actual tears, in Sherlock’s eyes. They sort of do actually make John feel better about it. He can’t associate crying with willing arousal.
“I will.” Moriarty presses the side of his face against John’s back as he speaks. “Fondly.”
And then Moriarty’s thrusts grow erratic and he pushes deeper. His body goes stiff and heavy for several seconds before he lets out a long breath and pulls out.