(no subject)
Title: Choke
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: Adult
Pairing: Molly/Moriarty
Notes: A (dark) Christmas gift for apple_pathways.
He could only let himself come when he was hurting her, and even then he wouldn't let her look at him as he came. Jim preferred to take her from behind, or in the dark, or with silk tied over her eyes. Molly's favourite way was when he choked her, because between the possessive press of his thumbs on her throat and the feel of him coming inside her she would fall into climax herself, a shuddering swooping feeling not like other orgasms, something that left her trembling-limbed and gasping. The little death, the French called it, and in these moments it made sense. Pursuing Jim had made her into a killer, and she supposed she wanted to know something of what it meant to die. Sometimes she wondered if loving Jim had killed something in her. Conscience. Shouldn't she feel sorry for what she'd done? But the restless weeks between their meetings, the frantic hours that they spent together - in all these months she had done more living than she had done in the thirty years of her life before she met him. And so maybe when he choked her, or struck her, or tied her up, she was doing penance for not feeling guilty. Let her skin be bruised, because her heart - for the first time in a long time - was not. One day perhaps he could say the same, and he would let her look.
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: Adult
Pairing: Molly/Moriarty
Notes: A (dark) Christmas gift for apple_pathways.
He could only let himself come when he was hurting her, and even then he wouldn't let her look at him as he came. Jim preferred to take her from behind, or in the dark, or with silk tied over her eyes. Molly's favourite way was when he choked her, because between the possessive press of his thumbs on her throat and the feel of him coming inside her she would fall into climax herself, a shuddering swooping feeling not like other orgasms, something that left her trembling-limbed and gasping. The little death, the French called it, and in these moments it made sense. Pursuing Jim had made her into a killer, and she supposed she wanted to know something of what it meant to die. Sometimes she wondered if loving Jim had killed something in her. Conscience. Shouldn't she feel sorry for what she'd done? But the restless weeks between their meetings, the frantic hours that they spent together - in all these months she had done more living than she had done in the thirty years of her life before she met him. And so maybe when he choked her, or struck her, or tied her up, she was doing penance for not feeling guilty. Let her skin be bruised, because her heart - for the first time in a long time - was not. One day perhaps he could say the same, and he would let her look.