2/? NONCON TRIGGERS, DUBCON TRIGGERS. (just to be safe)
anonymous
March 20 2011, 11:29:19 UTC
my id, let me show you it
--
Once John's gone, Moriarty looks at him, hungry. The snipers wink out, one by one, until there's only a single red dot remaining on Sherlock's chest. Then, that one goes out too. Alone? Are they alone now? If so, he still has the gun; he could --
"Don't even think it, Sherlock," Moriarty warns, and his voice -- deep, commanding, nothing at all like the faux friendliness he'd used before -- sends a shiver of anticipation down Sherlock's spine. "You think I won't kill your pet if you go back on our deal?"
Right. Sherlock drops his eyes, lets the slouch crawl up his spine, lets his shoulders curl. "Fine. Just do it. Whatever it is you want with me."
"Yes, I think I will." The words start light, in that queer cadence that sounds just a little too mad to be appealing, but end with a low, dangerous growl. Sherlock doesn't suppress the way he twitches at the sound -- alert, interested, a slight recoil to hint at reluctance, and Moriarty picks up on it, of course.
The mad lilt is out of his words entirely when he next speaks. "On your knees, Sherlock."
Force me. Sherlock quirks an eyebrow, then draws them together in indecision. It's -- it's harder to do it while he's pretending to be himself, but, no, he knows what Moriarty wants, and he knows what he wants, so.
He gets to his knees, not hiding the slight grimace when the fabric of his trousers presses against the dirty pool tile. Moriarty's taller now -- still not intimidating, not especially, not yet. But, interesting, and he does like things that are interesting.
"Now crawl," Moriarty orders.
"No," he says calmly, defiantly -- boring, too boring. He doesn't want to just sit around and take orders, not even from Moriarty, who is both surprising (a brilliant criminal, a worthy opponent, not as dangerous as Mycroft, but still better than most) and disappointingly predictable (a dom with control issues, really?).
Moriarty backhands him across the face -- not hard, not like they're fighting. Sherlock's had worse from his own momentary bouts of clumsiness. Moriarty backhands Sherlock like it's sex, pulling his punches to do the maximum amount of noise with the least amount of pain.
Better.
You can hit me harder than that. Sherlock prods his jaw thoughtfully (minimal damage, barely split the skin), then says, "So, rape. Is that because you can't satisfy a willing sub?"
"Molly never complained," Moriarty says, and buries his hand in Sherlock's hair. He pulls, rough, and the movement jerks Sherlock's head back, giving him a clear view of the bulge at Moriarty's groin.
--
Once John's gone, Moriarty looks at him, hungry. The snipers wink out, one by one, until there's only a single red dot remaining on Sherlock's chest. Then, that one goes out too. Alone? Are they alone now? If so, he still has the gun; he could --
"Don't even think it, Sherlock," Moriarty warns, and his voice -- deep, commanding, nothing at all like the faux friendliness he'd used before -- sends a shiver of anticipation down Sherlock's spine. "You think I won't kill your pet if you go back on our deal?"
Right. Sherlock drops his eyes, lets the slouch crawl up his spine, lets his shoulders curl. "Fine. Just do it. Whatever it is you want with me."
"Yes, I think I will." The words start light, in that queer cadence that sounds just a little too mad to be appealing, but end with a low, dangerous growl. Sherlock doesn't suppress the way he twitches at the sound -- alert, interested, a slight recoil to hint at reluctance, and Moriarty picks up on it, of course.
The mad lilt is out of his words entirely when he next speaks. "On your knees, Sherlock."
Force me. Sherlock quirks an eyebrow, then draws them together in indecision. It's -- it's harder to do it while he's pretending to be himself, but, no, he knows what Moriarty wants, and he knows what he wants, so.
He gets to his knees, not hiding the slight grimace when the fabric of his trousers presses against the dirty pool tile. Moriarty's taller now -- still not intimidating, not especially, not yet. But, interesting, and he does like things that are interesting.
"Now crawl," Moriarty orders.
"No," he says calmly, defiantly -- boring, too boring. He doesn't want to just sit around and take orders, not even from Moriarty, who is both surprising (a brilliant criminal, a worthy opponent, not as dangerous as Mycroft, but still better than most) and disappointingly predictable (a dom with control issues, really?).
Moriarty backhands him across the face -- not hard, not like they're fighting. Sherlock's had worse from his own momentary bouts of clumsiness. Moriarty backhands Sherlock like it's sex, pulling his punches to do the maximum amount of noise with the least amount of pain.
Better.
You can hit me harder than that. Sherlock prods his jaw thoughtfully (minimal damage, barely split the skin), then says, "So, rape. Is that because you can't satisfy a willing sub?"
"Molly never complained," Moriarty says, and buries his hand in Sherlock's hair. He pulls, rough, and the movement jerks Sherlock's head back, giving him a clear view of the bulge at Moriarty's groin.
And just like that, Sherlock's hard.
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