Molly/Irene 4/5 TW: dubious content bordering on non-con, drugged sex
anonymous
August 26 2012, 11:40:29 UTC
(She doesn’t want this. But it’s not about what she wants, what either of them want. It’s about the play. The Game.)
She draws the terrified girl into another kiss, keeping it slow and soft.
(She doesn’t know anything. She can’t. Why are you playing into his hands?)
This will be easier if she is similarly drugged, but she can’t let herself be another puppet of Moriarty’s.
(What do you call this? Being his equal?)
She will do this on her own terms.
(You’re not even fooling yourself.)
To drive away the voices in her head, she runs her uninjured hand up Molly’s arm, ghosting over the skin, and her fingers come up to wrap around the short ponytail, dragging the girl’s head back. Molly looks like a deer, skittishly held in the headlights of a car. Irene’s not going to brake.
(You are a terrible)
Yanking on her hair draws a choked inhalation from Molly. She should really stop thinking of her as being a person. It will be easier, that way.
(How can you)
Molly gasps again when her jumper is ripped over her head, but not fully down the length of her arms. Boneless and drugged as she is, it makes the perfect binding for her hands. Her shirt is torn open - Irene can’t be bothered with gentle. She’s going to fuck her, and then the girl is going to either be rescued by Sherlock or killed. She tells herself that she doesn’t care either way.
(Why are)
Working with a dislocated thumb is hard; she pops it back into joint, biting hard into Molly’s throat instead of howling, and nearly tearing the skin. For a moment she’s a little concerned about the bruising the girl will wake up with - an echo of her job forcing her to push back and examine the bite with tender fingers - but she pushes it back down.
(Stop)
She doesn’t really need to bother pulling her trousers down too far - just to the knees is sufficient for this.
Then she makes the mistake of glancing up at her charge. Molly is lying there like some fucking limp bride and Irene can’t do this, she really can’t. She reels back, and retreats to the other side of the cell, and James fucking Moriarty can have his victory, she doesn’t want any part of this.
Molly is a sight.
Not a terribly good one, but a sight nonetheless.
She’s still staring at Irene like a bloody stunned woodland creature. Irene thinks she must be a nymph. A nymph who works in a morgue, and wears ugly cat sweaters, and smells strongly of bleach - but tastes like sugar.
Kidnapped just after she entered her flat. The deduction is dull in her mind. Everything is dull. Obviously, adds her own mental version of Sherlock, sneering at the simplicity of it all.
She should have just fucked the girl. Now she’s going to die, too: lovely, dear, sweet Jim doesn’t abide weakness in his lackeys or his ‘partners.’ Unfortunately, dying’s not really on the top of her ‘to-do’ list. Irene closes her eyes, massaging her wrist slowly and hating herself, this situation, Jim, Sherlock, and her own power complex.
She draws the terrified girl into another kiss, keeping it slow and soft.
(She doesn’t know anything. She can’t. Why are you playing into his hands?)
This will be easier if she is similarly drugged, but she can’t let herself be another puppet of Moriarty’s.
(What do you call this? Being his equal?)
She will do this on her own terms.
(You’re not even fooling yourself.)
To drive away the voices in her head, she runs her uninjured hand up Molly’s arm, ghosting over the skin, and her fingers come up to wrap around the short ponytail, dragging the girl’s head back. Molly looks like a deer, skittishly held in the headlights of a car. Irene’s not going to brake.
(You are a terrible)
Yanking on her hair draws a choked inhalation from Molly. She should really stop thinking of her as being a person. It will be easier, that way.
(How can you)
Molly gasps again when her jumper is ripped over her head, but not fully down the length of her arms. Boneless and drugged as she is, it makes the perfect binding for her hands. Her shirt is torn open - Irene can’t be bothered with gentle. She’s going to fuck her, and then the girl is going to either be rescued by Sherlock or killed. She tells herself that she doesn’t care either way.
(Why are)
Working with a dislocated thumb is hard; she pops it back into joint, biting hard into Molly’s throat instead of howling, and nearly tearing the skin. For a moment she’s a little concerned about the bruising the girl will wake up with - an echo of her job forcing her to push back and examine the bite with tender fingers - but she pushes it back down.
(Stop)
She doesn’t really need to bother pulling her trousers down too far - just to the knees is sufficient for this.
Then she makes the mistake of glancing up at her charge. Molly is lying there like some fucking limp bride and Irene can’t do this, she really can’t. She reels back, and retreats to the other side of the cell, and James fucking Moriarty can have his victory, she doesn’t want any part of this.
Molly is a sight.
Not a terribly good one, but a sight nonetheless.
She’s still staring at Irene like a bloody stunned woodland creature. Irene thinks she must be a nymph. A nymph who works in a morgue, and wears ugly cat sweaters, and smells strongly of bleach - but tastes like sugar.
Kidnapped just after she entered her flat. The deduction is dull in her mind. Everything is dull. Obviously, adds her own mental version of Sherlock, sneering at the simplicity of it all.
She should have just fucked the girl. Now she’s going to die, too: lovely, dear, sweet Jim doesn’t abide weakness in his lackeys or his ‘partners.’ Unfortunately, dying’s not really on the top of her ‘to-do’ list. Irene closes her eyes, massaging her wrist slowly and hating herself, this situation, Jim, Sherlock, and her own power complex.
She should hate Molly.
She doesn’t.
This is weakness.
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