Sherlock Holmes: Gratification
Title: Gratification
Characters/Pairing: Moriarty and Holmes (A Game Of Shadows)
Rating: R
Warning: torture
Word Count: 1715
Disclaimer: Not my characters. Not for profit.
Summary: Written for a kinkmeme prompt (reprompt actually) for:
"Moriarty has more than one reason for torturing Holmes... He's been waiting for the day he could have him right where he wants him. Completely defenseless. Crying out in pain. Moriarty takes advantage of this moment to pleasure himself to the sounds of his nemesis screaming and writhing while tugging at him and playing in his wound."
You can read my original, anonymous teaser for it here, on the original prompt thread.
Author's note: I hate to sound like a whiny teenager on fanfiction dot net, and I know that Moriarty/Holmes didn't have much of an audience even when the AGoS fandom was going strong, but... if anyone besides tabby_stardust is reading with any feeling beyond indifference, I'd like to know. Please?
______________________________________________
“A world war,” Holmes intoned in a refinement of the complacent tone he had used throughout their little “interview.” Needing the outlet it was denied in voice and expression, the nervous energy of anticipation that had been growing inside Moriarty came out as a somewhat rapid tap of pen against paper. Each over-confident phrase the detective had uttered in his self-gratifying display of cleverness had whetted the professor’s appetite for his own… gratification… and now he was positively famished.
With more strength and less grace than he had intended, he put down his pen, pushed his chair back, and got to his feet. “You are familiar with Schubert’s work?” he queried rhetorically, the even tone of his voice belying the steadily increasing flutter in his gut. A passion for music was something they had in common - something they might have shared if Holmes had not been an arrogant, determined obstacle…
Needing his well-planned theatrical staging to maintain the mask of control over his seething emotions, Moriarty moved to the mirror that stood near the table. “’The Trout’ is, perhaps, my favorite,” he continued posing before the glass, though he did not look into it. He instead looked into the darkened corner of the room, his mind painting its bare walls with tantalizing images of the near future as he kept his prey’s reflection in his periphery. “A fisherman grows weary of trying to catch an elusive fish.” His elusive fish looked away, as if bored, but Moriarty knew his attention was still riveted on the scene before him. “So he muddies the water; confuses the fish.” His memory flashed back to that wonderful moment at the opera, when their eyes had met across chess piece, stage, and parquet, and Holmes had realized his defeat at Moriarty’s hands. “It doesn’t realize until too late that it has swum into a trap.” Unable to completely prevent himself from relishing that last word, with all its intimations of triumph and mastery, he slightly over-articulated the “p.” Still, when he finally allowed his gaze to return fully to the mirror and the image within it, Holmes displayed not the least indication of suspicion. The part of him that esteemed his enemy was disappointed by the lack of perspicacity, but the greater part of his being - focused, honed as it was on imminent pleasure - found it far from disagreeable.
Yessss… The mental steam-hiss of satisfaction almost drowned out the pleasing sound of surprised horror and pain that Holmes made as the hook pierced his soft skin and sank into the firmer muscle of his shoulder. In the glass, Moriarty had a perfect view of both the metal’s quick, sharp insertion and of the detective’s expression: the wide, frightened eyes and parted lips that contrasted so delightfully the bored confidence of a moment ago. The next sounds Holmes made - louder cries ripped from his constraint as he was rapidly hoisted into the air, his own weight driving the hook in, encasing it deeper in his flesh - sent tingling thrills of excitation up his captor’s spine. Moriarty allowed himself a brief moment to watch his catch wriggle on its line before he turned, with effort, from the mirror and moved to the phonograph. As the lovely background music of Holmes’ grunting cries gave way to harsh gasps and then silence, he set the player’s needle to an oft-played record, turned up the volume on the address system, and positioned its receiver to the phonograph’s horn. I’m sure the doctor will appreciate our little duet in his last moments.
The first spritely glissandos of the piece echoed through the factory as the professor moved back to the mirror, standing straight and poised before it. The lively music sounded in stimulating counterpoint to labored breathing and creaking pulleys while his own calm demeanor contrasted both his inner agitation and, more strikingly, Holmes’ tense, wracked visage. The trapped man, perfectly, palely illuminated from overhead, had gripped the hook in both hands in a desperate fight to keep his weight off of it. Though Moriarty wanted nothing more at that moment than to crush that last resistance and force more glorious cries from those clenched lips, he maintained his position, keeping to his meticulously planned choreography. The recorded voice started singing the tale of the fisherman and his catch and he joined in with his own deeper, more powerful voice, lavishing the guttural German lyrics with all the sinister promise of the agony and ignominy that was to come. For a few indulgent moments, he gave himself to the music and the bubbling excitement within him came to full boil. Moving with the recorded rhythm, he turned and approached his captive with quick, gliding steps. He gave a slow, solid push to Holmes’ hip and watched, the thrill of the moment stilling his voice, as the other man swung helplessly on the hook. His gaze traced the hanging form of his prey, taking in every beautiful detail of the man’s futile struggle against the pain and defeat that were overtaking him. The rope spun on the pulley, jerking the hook and extracting the barest grunt. Moriarty danced close again and took an intimate hold of Holmes’ upper thigh, pulling down slightly and spinning him around gracefully, just so.
Ah… His mental sigh of satisfaction was a low, muted echo of the detective’s higher, louder cry. Taking firmer hold, turning faster, Moriarty reveled in the sensation of his erstwhile opponent writhing in his arms while further shouts rang out just overhead, wonderfully close. The sound of the phonograph was lost in the sweeter music of that sound and all his choreography was swept away by the heated flow of that moment. Harder he pulled, faster still he spun until he at last elicited one, unrestrained, full-throated, glorious scream from his defeated enemy. He nearly had to close his eyes against the molten flood of unadulterated pleasure than welled up from his core as it reverberated with that exquisite cry.
Need to see his face… Moriarty took hold of Holmes’ wounded arm, raising it, and danced back as he turned the other man round in a torturous waltz. Exulting in yet another agonized, arousing shriek, he again cast his gaze up and down his partner’s pain-wracked frame. He could feel that exultation tugging at his features, pulling them into the barest smirk, as he took in the weakened form… the expression devoid of arrogance or defiance… the tiny noises deliciously close to whimpers that leaked from trembling lips… It was a form stripped of pride, on the edge of defeat… and it was time to push him over.
He made a quick cutting gesture to the man still steadfastly holding the rope attached to the hook and watched Holmes drop hard to the floor, loosing one last grunting cry when he hit the unforgiving floor. As the phonograph scratched its way to the end of the record, Moriarty moved to stand over the fallen detective. His eyes greedily took in all the details before him: the blood deepening the red of Holmes’ clothing and painting his elegant, pale hands, his weakened body capable of nothing beyond breathing, and his dull, dark averted gaze. It was Sherlock Holmes, without defense or dignity, lying defeated at Moriarty’s feet - the gratification of the nearly consuming desire that had burned in him since their first meeting.
“Let’s try this again, shall we?” He spoke, holding back a nearly overwhelming surge of satisfaction, transmuting that unruly tide into subdued menace in his voice. “To whom. Did you send. The telegram?”
“To my…” Contrary pulses of satiation and disappointment beat in Moriarty’s veins as Holmes breathed the pathetic beginnings of his surrender. The professor released a dramatic sigh and rolled his eyes theatrically - a show for his captive audience - before kneeling down to accept it.
Don’t answer, the disappointed, as yet unsatisfied part of him willed as he gripped the hook in his left hand, levering it fractionally deeper into that raw, open wound and eliciting one more delicious gasp of pain. His right hand went to Holmes’ bloodstained left, pinning it down in a dominating hold despite its pleasing lack of resistance. As he moved down over the defeated man, Moriarty took full opportunity of that brief moment to appreciate every aspect of his victory at close range. There was the blood, saturating clothing, wetting his grip on hand and hook, and filling his nostrils with its tangy, metallic perfume… There was the fear, wrinkling the corners of Holmes’ eyes and mouth, sweating out of his pores, and trembling from his frame to Moriarty’s at every point of contact… And there was the pain, leaking from his mouth in labored gasps, pooling in his glazed, dark eyes, and radiating from his entire being in a haze of pure, heady, exhilarating agony.
Don’t answer, repeated that insatiable corner of the professor’s mind, longing for any reason to prolong that blissful torture for even a second… The slightest provocation to tense the muscles of his left hand and thrust the hook harder, deeper into his victim, drawing more of those exquisite screams and forcing shameful tears from those brown eyes that had once mocked him. Then, pulling the vicious curve of metal out slightly before pushing it in once more… withdrawing and pushing in again and again until Holmes’ voice gave out and he was forced over the edge of temporary oblivion in a climax of abject misery. No… we’re not nearly finished…
Still, the victor continued his downward movement, putting his ear close to the mouth of the defeated. “Uhh… to my brother Mycroft,” Holmes breathed his surrender, warm and sweet, against Moriarty’s ear. The professor truly had to close his eyes this time against the exultant spinning of his head and the ecstatic rush of blood through his body as he pulled back, savoring that glorious capitulation. He took a long, deep breath as he moved, sucking back an involuntary vocalization, unsure how it would come out.
“I’ve just got one more question for you,” he said to his conquered foe, voice softened by fulfillment, “which one of us is the fisherman and which, the trout?” He smiled the answer to that question as he basked, however briefly, in the afterglow of victory.
______________________________________________
As if my reveling in all the sadistic detail as I wrote and proofread wasn't evidence enough of my evil, when almost finished with this (and after watching, rewatching, & examining that scene in the movie over and over again), I found myself cheerfully mentally humming "Die Forelle" as I sat down to a pleasant family dinner...
...
Incidentally, *fluttering eyelashes* have y'all read my other Moriarty/Holmes stories? Just click the Moriarty x Holmes tag on this post to see them all. ^__~
Characters/Pairing: Moriarty and Holmes (A Game Of Shadows)
Rating: R
Warning: torture
Word Count: 1715
Disclaimer: Not my characters. Not for profit.
Summary: Written for a kinkmeme prompt (reprompt actually) for:
"Moriarty has more than one reason for torturing Holmes... He's been waiting for the day he could have him right where he wants him. Completely defenseless. Crying out in pain. Moriarty takes advantage of this moment to pleasure himself to the sounds of his nemesis screaming and writhing while tugging at him and playing in his wound."
You can read my original, anonymous teaser for it here, on the original prompt thread.
Author's note: I hate to sound like a whiny teenager on fanfiction dot net, and I know that Moriarty/Holmes didn't have much of an audience even when the AGoS fandom was going strong, but... if anyone besides tabby_stardust is reading with any feeling beyond indifference, I'd like to know. Please?
______________________________________________
“A world war,” Holmes intoned in a refinement of the complacent tone he had used throughout their little “interview.” Needing the outlet it was denied in voice and expression, the nervous energy of anticipation that had been growing inside Moriarty came out as a somewhat rapid tap of pen against paper. Each over-confident phrase the detective had uttered in his self-gratifying display of cleverness had whetted the professor’s appetite for his own… gratification… and now he was positively famished.
With more strength and less grace than he had intended, he put down his pen, pushed his chair back, and got to his feet. “You are familiar with Schubert’s work?” he queried rhetorically, the even tone of his voice belying the steadily increasing flutter in his gut. A passion for music was something they had in common - something they might have shared if Holmes had not been an arrogant, determined obstacle…
Needing his well-planned theatrical staging to maintain the mask of control over his seething emotions, Moriarty moved to the mirror that stood near the table. “’The Trout’ is, perhaps, my favorite,” he continued posing before the glass, though he did not look into it. He instead looked into the darkened corner of the room, his mind painting its bare walls with tantalizing images of the near future as he kept his prey’s reflection in his periphery. “A fisherman grows weary of trying to catch an elusive fish.” His elusive fish looked away, as if bored, but Moriarty knew his attention was still riveted on the scene before him. “So he muddies the water; confuses the fish.” His memory flashed back to that wonderful moment at the opera, when their eyes had met across chess piece, stage, and parquet, and Holmes had realized his defeat at Moriarty’s hands. “It doesn’t realize until too late that it has swum into a trap.” Unable to completely prevent himself from relishing that last word, with all its intimations of triumph and mastery, he slightly over-articulated the “p.” Still, when he finally allowed his gaze to return fully to the mirror and the image within it, Holmes displayed not the least indication of suspicion. The part of him that esteemed his enemy was disappointed by the lack of perspicacity, but the greater part of his being - focused, honed as it was on imminent pleasure - found it far from disagreeable.
Yessss… The mental steam-hiss of satisfaction almost drowned out the pleasing sound of surprised horror and pain that Holmes made as the hook pierced his soft skin and sank into the firmer muscle of his shoulder. In the glass, Moriarty had a perfect view of both the metal’s quick, sharp insertion and of the detective’s expression: the wide, frightened eyes and parted lips that contrasted so delightfully the bored confidence of a moment ago. The next sounds Holmes made - louder cries ripped from his constraint as he was rapidly hoisted into the air, his own weight driving the hook in, encasing it deeper in his flesh - sent tingling thrills of excitation up his captor’s spine. Moriarty allowed himself a brief moment to watch his catch wriggle on its line before he turned, with effort, from the mirror and moved to the phonograph. As the lovely background music of Holmes’ grunting cries gave way to harsh gasps and then silence, he set the player’s needle to an oft-played record, turned up the volume on the address system, and positioned its receiver to the phonograph’s horn. I’m sure the doctor will appreciate our little duet in his last moments.
The first spritely glissandos of the piece echoed through the factory as the professor moved back to the mirror, standing straight and poised before it. The lively music sounded in stimulating counterpoint to labored breathing and creaking pulleys while his own calm demeanor contrasted both his inner agitation and, more strikingly, Holmes’ tense, wracked visage. The trapped man, perfectly, palely illuminated from overhead, had gripped the hook in both hands in a desperate fight to keep his weight off of it. Though Moriarty wanted nothing more at that moment than to crush that last resistance and force more glorious cries from those clenched lips, he maintained his position, keeping to his meticulously planned choreography. The recorded voice started singing the tale of the fisherman and his catch and he joined in with his own deeper, more powerful voice, lavishing the guttural German lyrics with all the sinister promise of the agony and ignominy that was to come. For a few indulgent moments, he gave himself to the music and the bubbling excitement within him came to full boil. Moving with the recorded rhythm, he turned and approached his captive with quick, gliding steps. He gave a slow, solid push to Holmes’ hip and watched, the thrill of the moment stilling his voice, as the other man swung helplessly on the hook. His gaze traced the hanging form of his prey, taking in every beautiful detail of the man’s futile struggle against the pain and defeat that were overtaking him. The rope spun on the pulley, jerking the hook and extracting the barest grunt. Moriarty danced close again and took an intimate hold of Holmes’ upper thigh, pulling down slightly and spinning him around gracefully, just so.
Ah… His mental sigh of satisfaction was a low, muted echo of the detective’s higher, louder cry. Taking firmer hold, turning faster, Moriarty reveled in the sensation of his erstwhile opponent writhing in his arms while further shouts rang out just overhead, wonderfully close. The sound of the phonograph was lost in the sweeter music of that sound and all his choreography was swept away by the heated flow of that moment. Harder he pulled, faster still he spun until he at last elicited one, unrestrained, full-throated, glorious scream from his defeated enemy. He nearly had to close his eyes against the molten flood of unadulterated pleasure than welled up from his core as it reverberated with that exquisite cry.
Need to see his face… Moriarty took hold of Holmes’ wounded arm, raising it, and danced back as he turned the other man round in a torturous waltz. Exulting in yet another agonized, arousing shriek, he again cast his gaze up and down his partner’s pain-wracked frame. He could feel that exultation tugging at his features, pulling them into the barest smirk, as he took in the weakened form… the expression devoid of arrogance or defiance… the tiny noises deliciously close to whimpers that leaked from trembling lips… It was a form stripped of pride, on the edge of defeat… and it was time to push him over.
He made a quick cutting gesture to the man still steadfastly holding the rope attached to the hook and watched Holmes drop hard to the floor, loosing one last grunting cry when he hit the unforgiving floor. As the phonograph scratched its way to the end of the record, Moriarty moved to stand over the fallen detective. His eyes greedily took in all the details before him: the blood deepening the red of Holmes’ clothing and painting his elegant, pale hands, his weakened body capable of nothing beyond breathing, and his dull, dark averted gaze. It was Sherlock Holmes, without defense or dignity, lying defeated at Moriarty’s feet - the gratification of the nearly consuming desire that had burned in him since their first meeting.
“Let’s try this again, shall we?” He spoke, holding back a nearly overwhelming surge of satisfaction, transmuting that unruly tide into subdued menace in his voice. “To whom. Did you send. The telegram?”
“To my…” Contrary pulses of satiation and disappointment beat in Moriarty’s veins as Holmes breathed the pathetic beginnings of his surrender. The professor released a dramatic sigh and rolled his eyes theatrically - a show for his captive audience - before kneeling down to accept it.
Don’t answer, the disappointed, as yet unsatisfied part of him willed as he gripped the hook in his left hand, levering it fractionally deeper into that raw, open wound and eliciting one more delicious gasp of pain. His right hand went to Holmes’ bloodstained left, pinning it down in a dominating hold despite its pleasing lack of resistance. As he moved down over the defeated man, Moriarty took full opportunity of that brief moment to appreciate every aspect of his victory at close range. There was the blood, saturating clothing, wetting his grip on hand and hook, and filling his nostrils with its tangy, metallic perfume… There was the fear, wrinkling the corners of Holmes’ eyes and mouth, sweating out of his pores, and trembling from his frame to Moriarty’s at every point of contact… And there was the pain, leaking from his mouth in labored gasps, pooling in his glazed, dark eyes, and radiating from his entire being in a haze of pure, heady, exhilarating agony.
Don’t answer, repeated that insatiable corner of the professor’s mind, longing for any reason to prolong that blissful torture for even a second… The slightest provocation to tense the muscles of his left hand and thrust the hook harder, deeper into his victim, drawing more of those exquisite screams and forcing shameful tears from those brown eyes that had once mocked him. Then, pulling the vicious curve of metal out slightly before pushing it in once more… withdrawing and pushing in again and again until Holmes’ voice gave out and he was forced over the edge of temporary oblivion in a climax of abject misery. No… we’re not nearly finished…
Still, the victor continued his downward movement, putting his ear close to the mouth of the defeated. “Uhh… to my brother Mycroft,” Holmes breathed his surrender, warm and sweet, against Moriarty’s ear. The professor truly had to close his eyes this time against the exultant spinning of his head and the ecstatic rush of blood through his body as he pulled back, savoring that glorious capitulation. He took a long, deep breath as he moved, sucking back an involuntary vocalization, unsure how it would come out.
“I’ve just got one more question for you,” he said to his conquered foe, voice softened by fulfillment, “which one of us is the fisherman and which, the trout?” He smiled the answer to that question as he basked, however briefly, in the afterglow of victory.
______________________________________________
As if my reveling in all the sadistic detail as I wrote and proofread wasn't evidence enough of my evil, when almost finished with this (and after watching, rewatching, & examining that scene in the movie over and over again), I found myself cheerfully mentally humming "Die Forelle" as I sat down to a pleasant family dinner...
...
Incidentally, *fluttering eyelashes* have y'all read my other Moriarty/Holmes stories? Just click the Moriarty x Holmes tag on this post to see them all. ^__~