Sherlock Holmes: Master
Title: Master
Characters/Pairing: Moriarty/Holmes
Rating: R
Warnings: Vague spoilers for A Game of Shadows. References to nonconsensual sex, kidnapping/captivity, and Stockholm Syndrome.
Word Count: ~950
Disclaimer: Not my characters. Not for profit.
Summary: Kinkmeme prompt for a scenario where Moriarty triumphed, amassed great power, and made Holmes his unwilling bedwarmer. Moriarty is not all violence and abuse, but somehow that makes it worse.
Author's Notes: This is really more of a prologue than anything else. I really became enamored of the initial image, but doubt I will ever write the full story. Especially since someone else is writing a full, long, detailed fill that is promising to be much better than anything I could ever write for this. Check it out.
___________________________________
The door never creaked when he came in. There was only the nearly imperceptible shifting of air when he opened it, the gentle thud when he closed it, and the soft grating of metal when he locked it.
He's here. Holmes willed away the unwonted arrhythmia of his pulse at the sound of Moriarty's footsteps moving to the large writing desk that stood on the opposite side of the room to the wide bed on which Holmes lay. He kept his eyes closed, focusing his dulled analytical skills on the sounds that would tell him exactly what his captor (lover, his body whispered against his will, warming and tingling here and there in a muted fever of anticipation) had in mind.
Concentrate. It was too late to hope (dread) that this was one of the exceedingly rare nights that he would be left alone, but there was still the minute possibility that Moriarty was not in the mood for... that. He refused to consciously define the act, though his treacherous body shivered its name -- began to sweat it out as the footsteps moved away from the desk and a silken rustling of cloth against cloth erased any probability of a quiet night.
What will it be tonight? He strove for calm in his mind, detached contemplation, but the quiver in his limbs and spine had shifted to his belly, gotten warmer. A scrape, a creak, a slide of metal on wood, a click, and a soft, satisfied sigh came from the side table... Followed by a sound that Holmes had come to loathe (love) more than anything: the deceptively gentle buzz that preceded the music on a phonograph -- the melody that would tell him precisely what mood the former professor was in. Almost every night for... many, many nights, Holmes had listened to that sound, heart racing, teeth gripping lower lip, fists clenching and unclenching (heat fluttering deeper, lower inside him). Gluck? Verdi? Moriarty often chose them when he was feeling excited. They meant that he would start quickly, sliding into Holmes with minimal foreplay, but continuing in slow, long, hard strokes that brushed Holmes' prostate in time to the dramatic strains of music and the unpleasant (delicious) tickle of Moriarty's beard against neck and chest. Saint-Saëns? Liszt? Those composers usually presaged one of Moriarty's... playful moods. With them, he would draw Holmes off the bed to try something different, taking him on the plush, smoke-scented hearth rug... against the hard oak of the door... pressed against the cool glass of the window... bent over the sleek marble balustrade of the terrace... Never in the same place or quite the same way, but always leaving him reeling, spent, panting... and with his seed whitewashing the scene, or their entwined bodies... or both. Mozart? Holmes swallowed, fists locking closed. Schubert?
"Ah," before he could stop it, a soft gasp escaped Holmes as the first chords of music came out of the phonograph player's horn. Don Giovanni. Moriarty was feeling nostalgic. Holmes shuddered again in a contradictory mix of relief, disgust, (desire,), and resignation. Disgust (and desire) because this opera, the soundtrack to Moriarty's first triumph over Holmes, meant that the former professor wanted to relive, recreate that defeat, that humiliation, that ascendancy in this bedroom. He would gently, but securely bind the one-time detective's limbs, whispering half-mocking compliments about Holmes' genius, the incomparable challenge he'd once presented. Then he would proceed to undo him, touching, probing, pinching, kissing, nipping and caressing... All over, from earlobes, to nipples, to manhood... Teasing... drawing him to the brink... pulling back... to the brink again, but never over. Fingers stroking outside and in, pulling Holmes down into a fiery inferno, like the hands of Don Giovanni's demons, until unable to bear the (God, so pleasurable) hell of unfulfillment any longer, he gave in and begged Moriarty to fuck him. He would mouth every filthy word of surrender the madman required until finally, with a gloating, possessing kiss, Moriarty would thrust hard into him, drinking Holmes' cries of pleasure and pain along with his degradation and defeat...
Still, as the now softer, shoeless footsteps slowly approached the bed, there was relief. Relief that it was not Die Forelle. That song meant anger at Holmes for some inconvenient echo of his former interference. It meant a bruising clutch of hands on shoulder and hip and a quick, hard fuck, pain in greater measure than pleasure, and firm reminders in the aftermath of Holmes' place.
Greater relief, though, that it was not something light, sweet -- a song Moriarty would say reminded him of his childhood. Holmes dreaded (longed for) those times most of all. To the gentle strains of their melodies, Moriarty would hold Holmes' cheeks, kissing him with soft passion, as a leg shifted to ease his legs apart. Every brush of bearded lips, caress of smooth fingertips would be for their mutual pleasure. That husky, silky voice would whisper how beautiful Holmes was, how rare, as that warm, human body moved tenderly over him, in him... And Holmes would respond, utterly helpless then to stop himself from wrapping his legs around Moriarty's hips, his arms around his back, his lips around the other man's. They would cry out together as their mutual climax shook their tangled frames.
And afterward, when he was left alone, Holmes would feel the greatest sickness.
"Holmes," Moriarty intoned as he reached the bedside and, behind him, Il Commendatore sang the prone man's doom. Holmes opened his eyes and met his captor's (ruler's) gaze. Moriarty's eyes glowed with lust, gloating triumph, anticipation... and a question.
"Moriarty," he answered, still giving the other man that name and no other.
For now.
________________________________________________
*Il Commendatore is the dark statue-figure in Don Giovanni. The one who sings the title character to his doom.
If you think you want more (i.e. you want this to in fact be a prologue of a longer fill rather than as-is), just click here, read the proper fill, and you probably won't think so anymore.
In other news, I hope to repost some older meme fills and one or two other new ones over the next few days. If anyone cares.
Characters/Pairing: Moriarty/Holmes
Rating: R
Warnings: Vague spoilers for A Game of Shadows. References to nonconsensual sex, kidnapping/captivity, and Stockholm Syndrome.
Word Count: ~950
Disclaimer: Not my characters. Not for profit.
Summary: Kinkmeme prompt for a scenario where Moriarty triumphed, amassed great power, and made Holmes his unwilling bedwarmer. Moriarty is not all violence and abuse, but somehow that makes it worse.
Author's Notes: This is really more of a prologue than anything else. I really became enamored of the initial image, but doubt I will ever write the full story. Especially since someone else is writing a full, long, detailed fill that is promising to be much better than anything I could ever write for this. Check it out.
___________________________________
The door never creaked when he came in. There was only the nearly imperceptible shifting of air when he opened it, the gentle thud when he closed it, and the soft grating of metal when he locked it.
He's here. Holmes willed away the unwonted arrhythmia of his pulse at the sound of Moriarty's footsteps moving to the large writing desk that stood on the opposite side of the room to the wide bed on which Holmes lay. He kept his eyes closed, focusing his dulled analytical skills on the sounds that would tell him exactly what his captor (lover, his body whispered against his will, warming and tingling here and there in a muted fever of anticipation) had in mind.
Concentrate. It was too late to hope (dread) that this was one of the exceedingly rare nights that he would be left alone, but there was still the minute possibility that Moriarty was not in the mood for... that. He refused to consciously define the act, though his treacherous body shivered its name -- began to sweat it out as the footsteps moved away from the desk and a silken rustling of cloth against cloth erased any probability of a quiet night.
What will it be tonight? He strove for calm in his mind, detached contemplation, but the quiver in his limbs and spine had shifted to his belly, gotten warmer. A scrape, a creak, a slide of metal on wood, a click, and a soft, satisfied sigh came from the side table... Followed by a sound that Holmes had come to loathe (love) more than anything: the deceptively gentle buzz that preceded the music on a phonograph -- the melody that would tell him precisely what mood the former professor was in. Almost every night for... many, many nights, Holmes had listened to that sound, heart racing, teeth gripping lower lip, fists clenching and unclenching (heat fluttering deeper, lower inside him). Gluck? Verdi? Moriarty often chose them when he was feeling excited. They meant that he would start quickly, sliding into Holmes with minimal foreplay, but continuing in slow, long, hard strokes that brushed Holmes' prostate in time to the dramatic strains of music and the unpleasant (delicious) tickle of Moriarty's beard against neck and chest. Saint-Saëns? Liszt? Those composers usually presaged one of Moriarty's... playful moods. With them, he would draw Holmes off the bed to try something different, taking him on the plush, smoke-scented hearth rug... against the hard oak of the door... pressed against the cool glass of the window... bent over the sleek marble balustrade of the terrace... Never in the same place or quite the same way, but always leaving him reeling, spent, panting... and with his seed whitewashing the scene, or their entwined bodies... or both. Mozart? Holmes swallowed, fists locking closed. Schubert?
"Ah," before he could stop it, a soft gasp escaped Holmes as the first chords of music came out of the phonograph player's horn. Don Giovanni. Moriarty was feeling nostalgic. Holmes shuddered again in a contradictory mix of relief, disgust, (desire,), and resignation. Disgust (and desire) because this opera, the soundtrack to Moriarty's first triumph over Holmes, meant that the former professor wanted to relive, recreate that defeat, that humiliation, that ascendancy in this bedroom. He would gently, but securely bind the one-time detective's limbs, whispering half-mocking compliments about Holmes' genius, the incomparable challenge he'd once presented. Then he would proceed to undo him, touching, probing, pinching, kissing, nipping and caressing... All over, from earlobes, to nipples, to manhood... Teasing... drawing him to the brink... pulling back... to the brink again, but never over. Fingers stroking outside and in, pulling Holmes down into a fiery inferno, like the hands of Don Giovanni's demons, until unable to bear the (God, so pleasurable) hell of unfulfillment any longer, he gave in and begged Moriarty to fuck him. He would mouth every filthy word of surrender the madman required until finally, with a gloating, possessing kiss, Moriarty would thrust hard into him, drinking Holmes' cries of pleasure and pain along with his degradation and defeat...
Still, as the now softer, shoeless footsteps slowly approached the bed, there was relief. Relief that it was not Die Forelle. That song meant anger at Holmes for some inconvenient echo of his former interference. It meant a bruising clutch of hands on shoulder and hip and a quick, hard fuck, pain in greater measure than pleasure, and firm reminders in the aftermath of Holmes' place.
Greater relief, though, that it was not something light, sweet -- a song Moriarty would say reminded him of his childhood. Holmes dreaded (longed for) those times most of all. To the gentle strains of their melodies, Moriarty would hold Holmes' cheeks, kissing him with soft passion, as a leg shifted to ease his legs apart. Every brush of bearded lips, caress of smooth fingertips would be for their mutual pleasure. That husky, silky voice would whisper how beautiful Holmes was, how rare, as that warm, human body moved tenderly over him, in him... And Holmes would respond, utterly helpless then to stop himself from wrapping his legs around Moriarty's hips, his arms around his back, his lips around the other man's. They would cry out together as their mutual climax shook their tangled frames.
And afterward, when he was left alone, Holmes would feel the greatest sickness.
"Holmes," Moriarty intoned as he reached the bedside and, behind him, Il Commendatore sang the prone man's doom. Holmes opened his eyes and met his captor's (ruler's) gaze. Moriarty's eyes glowed with lust, gloating triumph, anticipation... and a question.
"Moriarty," he answered, still giving the other man that name and no other.
For now.
________________________________________________
*Il Commendatore is the dark statue-figure in Don Giovanni. The one who sings the title character to his doom.
If you think you want more (i.e. you want this to in fact be a prologue of a longer fill rather than as-is), just click here, read the proper fill, and you probably won't think so anymore.
In other news, I hope to repost some older meme fills and one or two other new ones over the next few days. If anyone cares.