9/9 (BDSM, and I guess rape fantasy play)
anonymous
March 21 2011, 10:58:41 UTC
"No," Sherlock whimpers, and breathes faster. He can feel his face burning, can feel the fear in his chest and in his lungs. "No, I won't. No, don't." He turns his face away and squeezes his eyes shut tightly. Several tears escape from the corners of his eyes and trail down his cheeks, a slow tickling sensation that stops abruptly when Moriarty's lips press against his cheek, capturing the droplet.
A thumb wipes away the tears on the other side of his face, then presses against Sherlock's half-open mouth. Moriarty tastes of salt and pre-ejaculate. Sherlock licks his thumb clean, and suddenly Moriarty presses his palm firmly against the side of his face, fingers curling around his jaw. There's a noise (knife landing on the ground, his thoughts say, Ignore.), and suddenly Moriarty's weight is on top of him, pushing him against the wall.
"Fuck Sherlock," Moriarty groans, sounding breathless and pained. He memorizes the sound, records it in his mind and stores it for safekeeping. "Do it again."
Sherlock shakes his head helplessly, focusing his thoughts. Several more tears trickle down his face. "I can't, I can't," he whimpers, and Moriarty tenses, shuddering against Sherlock's hunched shoulders and splattering his belly with come.
Then Moriarty's fingers wrap around his cock, firm and hard and perfect. Sherlock groans in pleasure, hips arching. Several strokes later and he's coming too, hard enough that it takes him several seconds to come back down, chest heaving as he breathes.
And that's it -- that's enough, and he's coming back to himself again, the world coming back to him in sharp relief. Sherlock opens his eyes and brings his wrists out from behind his back. He rubs them, but they aren't sore; he hadn't been tied, not literally.
There are several cuts on his body -- on the inside of his thigh, and on his torso -- but none of them are very deep, and all of them are well within the realm of safe. He's confused for a moment because he'd thought they'd been deeper, they'd hurt so much, but oh, of course --
"The chlorine in the water," Moriarty says, and again, his voice is different again, beautifully versatile. "You forgot about it."
Sherlock gets to his feet; Moriarty passes him a handkerchief and he uses it to wipe himself mostly clean. They have -- he doesn't know. He's not sure how long his eyes have been closed, how long Moriarty's been cutting him. "Time?"
Moriarty looks at his watch, then the mobile in his pocket. "A few minutes. I have to go."
Sherlock as well; he dresses quickly and makes himself as presentable as he can. He's sore, in his arse and in his shoulders. It feels great. It makes him want to lie in a bed and go to sleep. Can't, he thinks. Not yet.
They pause before leaving, eyes catching as Sherlock shrugs into his coat and Moriarty finishes sending a text.
The moment stretches, breaks.
Minutes later, they are both gone.
--
Sherlock is still on his way home when he gets a text from the phone number 'Jim from IT' had given him.
Re: 9/9 (BDSM, and I guess rape fantasy play)
anonymous
March 22 2011, 10:14:20 UTC
This is actually weirdly fascinating. Given the prompt I was kind of expecting the usual non-con-ish, abusive, rapey, angsty fill it sort of invites, and instead we get a surprisingly plausible, subtle and weirdly consentual fill that somehow manages to take the rather cracked-out limits of the universe it's set in and craft something that's quite believably true to character in ANY universe. I'm not often so genuinely and pleasantly surprised by a kink meme fill.
Re: 9/9 (BDSM, and I guess rape fantasy play)
anonymous
March 28 2011, 02:00:01 UTC
Wow, this is great, and weirdly thought provoking. I love how they mess with each other's minds and make the balance of power seesaw a bit--at first Sherlock holds all the cards, then Jim surprises him...
"No," Sherlock whimpers, and breathes faster. He can feel his face burning, can feel the fear in his chest and in his lungs. "No, I won't. No, don't." He turns his face away and squeezes his eyes shut tightly. Several tears escape from the corners of his eyes and trail down his cheeks, a slow tickling sensation that stops abruptly when Moriarty's lips press against his cheek, capturing the droplet.
A thumb wipes away the tears on the other side of his face, then presses against Sherlock's half-open mouth. Moriarty tastes of salt and pre-ejaculate. Sherlock licks his thumb clean, and suddenly Moriarty presses his palm firmly against the side of his face, fingers curling around his jaw. There's a noise (knife landing on the ground, his thoughts say, Ignore.), and suddenly Moriarty's weight is on top of him, pushing him against the wall.
"Fuck Sherlock," Moriarty groans, sounding breathless and pained. He memorizes the sound, records it in his mind and stores it for safekeeping. "Do it again."
Sherlock shakes his head helplessly, focusing his thoughts. Several more tears trickle down his face. "I can't, I can't," he whimpers, and Moriarty tenses, shuddering against Sherlock's hunched shoulders and splattering his belly with come.
Then Moriarty's fingers wrap around his cock, firm and hard and perfect. Sherlock groans in pleasure, hips arching. Several strokes later and he's coming too, hard enough that it takes him several seconds to come back down, chest heaving as he breathes.
And that's it -- that's enough, and he's coming back to himself again, the world coming back to him in sharp relief. Sherlock opens his eyes and brings his wrists out from behind his back. He rubs them, but they aren't sore; he hadn't been tied, not literally.
There are several cuts on his body -- on the inside of his thigh, and on his torso -- but none of them are very deep, and all of them are well within the realm of safe. He's confused for a moment because he'd thought they'd been deeper, they'd hurt so much, but oh, of course --
"The chlorine in the water," Moriarty says, and again, his voice is different again, beautifully versatile. "You forgot about it."
Sherlock gets to his feet; Moriarty passes him a handkerchief and he uses it to wipe himself mostly clean. They have -- he doesn't know. He's not sure how long his eyes have been closed, how long Moriarty's been cutting him. "Time?"
Moriarty looks at his watch, then the mobile in his pocket. "A few minutes. I have to go."
Sherlock as well; he dresses quickly and makes himself as presentable as he can. He's sore, in his arse and in his shoulders. It feels great. It makes him want to lie in a bed and go to sleep. Can't, he thinks. Not yet.
They pause before leaving, eyes catching as Sherlock shrugs into his coat and Moriarty finishes sending a text.
The moment stretches, breaks.
Minutes later, they are both gone.
--
Sherlock is still on his way home when he gets a text from the phone number 'Jim from IT' had given him.
Be seeing you, it says.
You know where to find me, he replies.
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YOU = AMAZING
FUCK, this makes me glad in ways I could never tell a normal person.
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sjgkhalskdjflahsgljashdfjhalgsdfh
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I'm not often so genuinely and pleasantly surprised by a kink meme fill.
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my, my breathing just stops..........
*collaps*
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