3/? (NONCON AND DUBCON TRIGGERS)
anonymous
March 20 2011, 22:18:23 UTC
He's hard and aching and really quite interested about how Moriarty's cock would feel against the back of his throat. His heart pounds. He can almost pretend it's fear. "Wait, stop," he says, the familiar script coming easily to him.
"No, I don't think I will," Moriarty says. He undoes his trousers and brings his cock out, thick and heavy. He guides it to Sherlock's mouth, and Sherlock turns his head away.
Boring. Try harder. Force me, force me.
"Come on, Sherlock," Moriarty coaxes, the slide of his cock against Sherlock's cheek leaving a slick, wet trail. "Open up."
"Try and I'll bite you," he threatens, and Moriarty cuffs him again. It startles a laugh out of him. "Is this honestly the best you can do?"
Moriarty doesn't have a gun, but he does have a knife, and the sudden appearance of it at Sherlock's face sends a thrill of excitement racing through his body. "Open your mouth. Now."
Sherlock parts his lips, not struggling when Moriarty shoves his cock into Sherlock's mouth. They're uncoordinated against each other -- Moriarty thrusting in deeper when Sherlock's trying to take a breath, pounding roughly against the back of Sherlock's throat until it makes his eyes water. Sherlock braces his hands on his knees, forcing himself to take it. He can feel the calmness -- the trance-like, peaceful state he falls into sometimes, at the edges of his consciousness, wanting him to give in, telling him that he's safe.
Except, he's not safe. He can't really trust Moriarty, and he gives himself a mental shake. Focus, he tells himself, digging his nails into his thighs.
What do I want, what do I want? He wants Moriarty to pull his hair again, wants to feel the flare of pain and the sudden shift in his field of vision. So he ducks his head, drops his gaze, presses against the head of Moriarty's cock (uncircumcised, recently washed, smelling of musk and soap and tasting mostly of skin) with his tongue, as if trying to push him out.
Like a beautifully manipulated puppet, Moriarty yanks on Sherlock's hair, forcing his head back. The movement slips his cock free from Sherlock's lips (bitten earlier, properly swollen now), momentarily stretching a wet strand of saliva between them.
Don't lick your lips. Sherlock doesn't.
"You're so beautiful with your lips wrapped around my prick," Moriarty says. He's still holding the knife, and when Sherlock tilts his head slightly, he can watch its blade glint under the fluorescent lights. The blade drifts closer -- fear, excitement, the heady rush of adrenaline -- until it's lying flat against Sherlock's cheek.
Sherlock holds his breath, but there's no bite of pain, nothing to mark Moriarty splitting his skin, just the cool, laser-intense scratch of the tip of the knife against his body. It travels down his cheek, along his jaw, then dangerously underneath his throat. It gives his laryngeal prominence a wide berth, then curves wide to trail down the side of his throat and down his collarbone, before coming to a stop at his supra-sternal notch.
Moriarty twists the knife, and, oh. Sherlock's breath hitches, because that's the sharp cut of metal through skin. It stings, making his whole body tighten. Moriarty brings the knife to Sherlock's face, a single bead of blood caught on the tip, and Sherlock wants to touch his tongue to it, wants to taste the blend of salt and metal and sweat.
"Stop," he murmurs. He wriggles, and realizes belatedly that he's still got both hands free, that to struggle realistically he needs to -- he lashes out, grabs Moriarty by the ankle, and manages to bring him crashing down on top of him with a rough jerk. The knife goes skidding across the floor -- Moriarty's a less stupid dom than most, getting rid of his props when he loses his balance -- and lands in the pool with a wet plop.
He's hard and aching and really quite interested about how Moriarty's cock would feel against the back of his throat. His heart pounds. He can almost pretend it's fear. "Wait, stop," he says, the familiar script coming easily to him.
"No, I don't think I will," Moriarty says. He undoes his trousers and brings his cock out, thick and heavy. He guides it to Sherlock's mouth, and Sherlock turns his head away.
Boring. Try harder. Force me, force me.
"Come on, Sherlock," Moriarty coaxes, the slide of his cock against Sherlock's cheek leaving a slick, wet trail. "Open up."
"Try and I'll bite you," he threatens, and Moriarty cuffs him again. It startles a laugh out of him. "Is this honestly the best you can do?"
Moriarty doesn't have a gun, but he does have a knife, and the sudden appearance of it at Sherlock's face sends a thrill of excitement racing through his body. "Open your mouth. Now."
Sherlock parts his lips, not struggling when Moriarty shoves his cock into Sherlock's mouth. They're uncoordinated against each other -- Moriarty thrusting in deeper when Sherlock's trying to take a breath, pounding roughly against the back of Sherlock's throat until it makes his eyes water. Sherlock braces his hands on his knees, forcing himself to take it. He can feel the calmness -- the trance-like, peaceful state he falls into sometimes, at the edges of his consciousness, wanting him to give in, telling him that he's safe.
Except, he's not safe. He can't really trust Moriarty, and he gives himself a mental shake. Focus, he tells himself, digging his nails into his thighs.
What do I want, what do I want? He wants Moriarty to pull his hair again, wants to feel the flare of pain and the sudden shift in his field of vision. So he ducks his head, drops his gaze, presses against the head of Moriarty's cock (uncircumcised, recently washed, smelling of musk and soap and tasting mostly of skin) with his tongue, as if trying to push him out.
Like a beautifully manipulated puppet, Moriarty yanks on Sherlock's hair, forcing his head back. The movement slips his cock free from Sherlock's lips (bitten earlier, properly swollen now), momentarily stretching a wet strand of saliva between them.
Don't lick your lips. Sherlock doesn't.
"You're so beautiful with your lips wrapped around my prick," Moriarty says. He's still holding the knife, and when Sherlock tilts his head slightly, he can watch its blade glint under the fluorescent lights. The blade drifts closer -- fear, excitement, the heady rush of adrenaline -- until it's lying flat against Sherlock's cheek.
Sherlock holds his breath, but there's no bite of pain, nothing to mark Moriarty splitting his skin, just the cool, laser-intense scratch of the tip of the knife against his body. It travels down his cheek, along his jaw, then dangerously underneath his throat. It gives his laryngeal prominence a wide berth, then curves wide to trail down the side of his throat and down his collarbone, before coming to a stop at his supra-sternal notch.
Moriarty twists the knife, and, oh. Sherlock's breath hitches, because that's the sharp cut of metal through skin. It stings, making his whole body tighten. Moriarty brings the knife to Sherlock's face, a single bead of blood caught on the tip, and Sherlock wants to touch his tongue to it, wants to taste the blend of salt and metal and sweat.
"Stop," he murmurs. He wriggles, and realizes belatedly that he's still got both hands free, that to struggle realistically he needs to -- he lashes out, grabs Moriarty by the ankle, and manages to bring him crashing down on top of him with a rough jerk. The knife goes skidding across the floor -- Moriarty's a less stupid dom than most, getting rid of his props when he loses his balance -- and lands in the pool with a wet plop.
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