Fill: Toppled (5/7)rat_chanJanuary 5 2012, 08:50:07 UTC
Overwhelmed by pain and shame as he felt the fiery torture of the invading member being withdrawn -- as he saw the ecstatic triumph stretching his greatest enemy's face as the man thrust back in, violating him deeper than before -- Holmes' face dropped back down to the table, eyes closing against tears of agony. Above him, he heard a slight groan and the panting of Moriarty's breath. His stomach heaved at the sound, already aggravated by fear and disgust, and acid burned the back of his throat. The hands on his hips, but not their sweaty imprint, were removed, but only to again grasp the ropes on his arms and his good shoulder. He felt the bite of his bonds as he was pulled upright once more. And his cry of pain was joined by Moriarty's low moan of pleasure, now close against his ear, as the change in position clenched Holmes' muscles around the other man's shaft.
"Open your eyes," Moriarty breathed into his ear, beard scratching shame-heated flesh. "Open them," he repeated as his hands swiftly pulled open the buttons of Holmes' shirt, "or I give the signal to Moran."
Watson, Holmes remembered. He tried to hold an image of his brother-in-arms struggling through his own pain and exhaustion to fight their common battle, as he forced his unwilling eyes to open. That illusion, however, crumbled under the blow of reality and morphed into an image of the doctor's horrified face should he behold Holmes' degradation.
"Look." Pushing away thoughts of Watson except as a vague goad, he complied. He met Moriarty's satisfied gaze in the mirror and followed it when it moved, tracing down the straining column of his throat to where the professor's hands lay splayed, casually possessive, on Holmes' bared chest and abdomen, and lower still to where his flaccid manhood was trapped against the edge of the table. Beyond that, the angle of the mirror allowed him to see one of Moriarty's hips and watch it undulate as the man started, slowly and slightly, to thrust into him again.
"Look, Holmes," his captor crooned against his ear. His gaze snapped back up, repelled first by dominating, animal motion, then by the malevolent pleasure twisting Moriarty's features. Instead, his eyes moved to his own reflected face and watched it flush impossibly redder in horror and humiliation as the corners of his moist eyes creased with the effort of keeping them open. "Ahhh..." The professor breathed a heated sigh against Holmes' cheek and his member throbbed, expanded fractionally within the detective. The disgusting sound and sensation were repeated in response to the pitiful moan Holmes' brittle pride could not hold back.
"Do you understand now?" Moriarty whispered as the molten steel of his gaze compelled Holmes to meet it. "The price you pay for inadequacy? The punishment you earn for your arrogance?" He underscored his quiet words with short, hard pistons of his hips. "How completely I have..." his arms wrapped tighter around Holmes, hands trailing sweat, "...mastered you." His tongue, not finished with its honey-venom assault, darted out to stroke up the shell of his captive's ear.
The words, the sight, the touch, the invasion... They laid mental and physical siege to Holmes' core, shredding his pride and confidence, striking at his foundations. He shuddered in Moriarty's raptorial hold, longing to close his eyes and ears -- wishing he'd not resisted the previous pull to unconsciousness. His tremor pressed his bound arms against his captor, grinding them over something more solid than flesh or fabric. The notebook... When his pain and shame-fogged mind identified the object and grasped its meaning, it tried to latch onto it, use it as a barrier. Not defeated, he reminded himself.
But the red of the notebook became the red of his flushed, contorted face, or the blood staining his shirt, or of Moriarty's tongue on his flesh. And the unspoken words were drowned by his own muffled, uncontrolled cries and the unending poison of the professor's quiet voice.
Fill: Toppled (6/7)rat_chanJanuary 5 2012, 08:55:37 UTC
"Mm, Holmes," Moriarty purred after a sharp pinch to one of the detective's nipples caused an unwilled clench of his muscles. "I think we've found your true purpose. So much quicker." He repeated the action on the other side. "So much more responsive." And again, assaulting both. "Than in our duel... So good." The last words were released in a groan as a motion on Holmes' part -- a desperate, involuntary, futile struggle against his tormentor -- drove the professor deeper inside. Moriarty nipped at an earlobe, then mouthed it as he murmured, "Made for this..." He added three more words in German, but his tone was so harsh and breathy, it took Holmes a moment to process them.
My little trout.
Moriarty's heated gaze and small, contented smile... His own reddened, marked body and the sharp motions of the other behind it, around it, dominating it... The entire scene of his debasement wavered and swam in his sight, but Holmes could still make out the glints of light reflecting off his tears.
And so could Moriarty. With an animalistic sound blended of an impassioned growl and a satisfied sigh, the professor pushed Holmes down onto the table again, scattering chess pieces. More fell to the stone floor as Moriarty thrust harder and faster into his captive's body, grunting in counterpoint to their clatter and Holmes' stifled shrieks. Winded, drowning in agony, psyche in tatters, Holmes could do nothing except close his eyes and call back the oblivion he'd resisted earlier.
What came instead was a vile explosion of hot fluid deep inside and Moriarty's teeth on his neck as the madman stifled an ecstatic cry in Holmes' flesh.
The tears stopped. The tension drained from his limbs. For a long, empty moment, as Moriarty lay over him, shaking Holmes with the ragged panting of his breath, he felt nothing. He barely felt the other man's wet, stinging withdrawal. He distantly heard the rustle of the professor tidying himself. The removal of his bonds only registered more strongly because of the influx of cold, clean air into his mouth and the pins and needles of returning sensation.
The welcome void of thought and feeling was not allowed to last, though. "Allow me to help you up, Holmes." That voice and gloved touch were once again deceptively cool. Somehow, that sickened Holmes more -- made the previous few minutes more vivid, more degrading. Coughing on bile, he tried to slap away those helping hands. "Very well," Moriarty conceded, a soupçon of laughter in his cultured tone, "but I do suggest you... tidy yourself before Moran escorts the doctor here."
Watson! Fear for his friend momentarily pushing everything else from his mind, Holmes rapidly levered himself off the table. He was forced to catch himself on the table, though, as pain shot up his lower back and his right leg buckled.
"Not to worry." The detective glared at the reflection of his enemy's smiling face. "He's merely coming to tend to you. That shoulder really needs looking at." He rapidly shifted his gaze from that disturbingly warm smile to the bloody spot on his shirt. His eyes, however, were caught by a different red mark: the imprint of Moriarty's teeth on his neck. They jumped from there to the redness of his abused nipples, the tear tracks on his face, the white fluid trickling from between his exposed thighs...
Fill: Toppled (7/7)rat_chanJanuary 5 2012, 08:59:14 UTC
No! Biting his lips against one more cry, Holmes pushed himself away from the table and staggered away from the hateful image in the glass. He caught himself on the balustrade and clung to it, taking deep cleansing breaths of crisp mountain air. Feeling the loathsome weight of his adversary's stare the whole time, he feverishly, clumsily pulled up his undergarments and trousers, grimacing at the feel of... dampness inside them. He pulled off his gloves in order to close what buttons remained on his shirt and jacket before forcing his gaze to again meet, directly this time, Moriarty's.
"Our business is settled," the professor answered the unspoken question the detective had been unable to keep out of his eyes. One gloved hand reached into a pocket to pull out a pencil. "You and the doctor will be quite free to go," he added, pulling out another object as he began turning away.
The red notebook. Holmes' one redemption at that moment. "But you won't be, professor." His voice was far too weak, but it served.
"I beg your pardon?" He drew power from the slight breaking of that cool facade. "I won't be what?"
"Free to go, I'm afraid." He wanted to say more -- wanted to glibly taunt his nemesis in his accustomed way -- but he simply lacked the energy. Instead, he just looked at the notebook and smiled. He felt a ghost of genuine humor curve his lips further as he watched Moriarty flip through the pages of the notebook.
"How...?" The notebook dropped onto cold, damp stone. "You...?"
"I'm afraid so, professor." Holmes got all the vindication he could from the professor's twitching eyes. Moriarty got all the answer he needed from the muted triumph the detective poured into his gaze. Those steel eyes stopped twitching and narrowed, honed by homicidal rage. The furious man made two jerky steps toward him before--
"Holmes!" Watson called out as he burst out onto the balcony. Moriarty smiled at Holmes then, a humorless, venomous baring of teeth, and turned his knife-like glare on the doctor. His hand reached for whatever weapon he had secreted on his person ("small, discreet, in breast pocket -- likely a blowpipe") as his body followed his gaze.
Holmes didn't weigh options. He lunged forward and wrapped his arms around his enemy. Before the enraged man could react properly, the detective closed his eyes against Watson's startled expression and pulled .
I'm sorry, my friend, he thought briefly. Then he surrendered himself to the exhilaration of the fall and the cold cleansing waters below.
I think the timing of this fic can kind of fit in with movie canon (if we assume Moriarty and Moran can bind and gag with speedy efficiency and that Holmes isn't out of it or spacing out for too long), but let's say that Moran put up [more of] a fight to keep Watson off that balcony.
Anyway, I tried to keep it as realistic as possible. If I hadn't cared about that, this fic would've had: -Moriarty stripping Holmes naked -Moriarty calling Moran to give him some gun oil/grease, lubing up that black king chess piece, and using it for foreplay (don't personally have an object insertion kink -- quite the reverse, actually -- but it seemed to fit) -Moriarty forcing Holmes to enjoy part(s) of it. Sadly, he didn't have that kind of time.
Re: Author's Notejomel10January 8 2012, 16:12:58 UTC
Brilliant. You are amazing. I especially found the moment when Moriarty climaxed as horrifying, the whole horrible ordeal became even more brutal in that moment, and it really made me cringe. I find the fact that Holmes is so inexperienced, and agree definitely that he fears sex, to be such an interesting prompt and it seems to be the most obvious weakness, aside from Watson of course, that Moriarty would use against him.
Re: Fill: Toppled (7/7)tabby_stardustJanuary 9 2012, 16:29:20 UTC
Hahaha. Captcha gives me differential equations sometimes. This has led me to believe that it is in fact Moriarty, and not Mycroft like some people claim. :P
Forgot to mention in my earlier comment that, since bondage is my favourite kink, I appreciate that you tied Holmes up in a more imaginative way than the usual "wrists and ankles" thing you see in many fics.
Re: Fill: Toppled (7/7)rat_chanJanuary 10 2012, 08:05:17 UTC
Maybe the Holmesian characters take turns?
Thanks for noticing! I put a lot of thought into how he'd be tied up to suit the situation and what all was meant to be going on... ... I actually posed myself to see what seemed to interfere least with Moriarty's intentions whilst immobilizing Holmes sufficiently (and not putting too much strain on the shoulder... not because Moriarty is thoughtful, but because he wanted Holmes attention on other things)... ...Yes, I wrote that bit whilst alone in my room... No, I didn't use actual rope.
"Open your eyes," Moriarty breathed into his ear, beard scratching shame-heated flesh. "Open them," he repeated as his hands swiftly pulled open the buttons of Holmes' shirt, "or I give the signal to Moran."
Watson, Holmes remembered. He tried to hold an image of his brother-in-arms struggling through his own pain and exhaustion to fight their common battle, as he forced his unwilling eyes to open. That illusion, however, crumbled under the blow of reality and morphed into an image of the doctor's horrified face should he behold Holmes' degradation.
"Look." Pushing away thoughts of Watson except as a vague goad, he complied. He met Moriarty's satisfied gaze in the mirror and followed it when it moved, tracing down the straining column of his throat to where the professor's hands lay splayed, casually possessive, on Holmes' bared chest and abdomen, and lower still to where his flaccid manhood was trapped against the edge of the table. Beyond that, the angle of the mirror allowed him to see one of Moriarty's hips and watch it undulate as the man started, slowly and slightly, to thrust into him again.
"Look, Holmes," his captor crooned against his ear. His gaze snapped back up, repelled first by dominating, animal motion, then by the malevolent pleasure twisting Moriarty's features. Instead, his eyes moved to his own reflected face and watched it flush impossibly redder in horror and humiliation as the corners of his moist eyes creased with the effort of keeping them open. "Ahhh..." The professor breathed a heated sigh against Holmes' cheek and his member throbbed, expanded fractionally within the detective. The disgusting sound and sensation were repeated in response to the pitiful moan Holmes' brittle pride could not hold back.
"Do you understand now?" Moriarty whispered as the molten steel of his gaze compelled Holmes to meet it. "The price you pay for inadequacy? The punishment you earn for your arrogance?" He underscored his quiet words with short, hard pistons of his hips. "How completely I have..." his arms wrapped tighter around Holmes, hands trailing sweat, "...mastered you." His tongue, not finished with its honey-venom assault, darted out to stroke up the shell of his captive's ear.
The words, the sight, the touch, the invasion... They laid mental and physical siege to Holmes' core, shredding his pride and confidence, striking at his foundations. He shuddered in Moriarty's raptorial hold, longing to close his eyes and ears -- wishing he'd not resisted the previous pull to unconsciousness. His tremor pressed his bound arms against his captor, grinding them over something more solid than flesh or fabric. The notebook... When his pain and shame-fogged mind identified the object and grasped its meaning, it tried to latch onto it, use it as a barrier. Not defeated, he reminded himself.
But the red of the notebook became the red of his flushed, contorted face, or the blood staining his shirt, or of Moriarty's tongue on his flesh. And the unspoken words were drowned by his own muffled, uncontrolled cries and the unending poison of the professor's quiet voice.
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My little trout.
Moriarty's heated gaze and small, contented smile... His own reddened, marked body and the sharp motions of the other behind it, around it, dominating it... The entire scene of his debasement wavered and swam in his sight, but Holmes could still make out the glints of light reflecting off his tears.
And so could Moriarty. With an animalistic sound blended of an impassioned growl and a satisfied sigh, the professor pushed Holmes down onto the table again, scattering chess pieces. More fell to the stone floor as Moriarty thrust harder and faster into his captive's body, grunting in counterpoint to their clatter and Holmes' stifled shrieks. Winded, drowning in agony, psyche in tatters, Holmes could do nothing except close his eyes and call back the oblivion he'd resisted earlier.
What came instead was a vile explosion of hot fluid deep inside and Moriarty's teeth on his neck as the madman stifled an ecstatic cry in Holmes' flesh.
The tears stopped. The tension drained from his limbs. For a long, empty moment, as Moriarty lay over him, shaking Holmes with the ragged panting of his breath, he felt nothing. He barely felt the other man's wet, stinging withdrawal. He distantly heard the rustle of the professor tidying himself. The removal of his bonds only registered more strongly because of the influx of cold, clean air into his mouth and the pins and needles of returning sensation.
The welcome void of thought and feeling was not allowed to last, though. "Allow me to help you up, Holmes." That voice and gloved touch were once again deceptively cool. Somehow, that sickened Holmes more -- made the previous few minutes more vivid, more degrading. Coughing on bile, he tried to slap away those helping hands. "Very well," Moriarty conceded, a soupçon of laughter in his cultured tone, "but I do suggest you... tidy yourself before Moran escorts the doctor here."
Watson! Fear for his friend momentarily pushing everything else from his mind, Holmes rapidly levered himself off the table. He was forced to catch himself on the table, though, as pain shot up his lower back and his right leg buckled.
"Not to worry." The detective glared at the reflection of his enemy's smiling face. "He's merely coming to tend to you. That shoulder really needs looking at." He rapidly shifted his gaze from that disturbingly warm smile to the bloody spot on his shirt. His eyes, however, were caught by a different red mark: the imprint of Moriarty's teeth on his neck. They jumped from there to the redness of his abused nipples, the tear tracks on his face, the white fluid trickling from between his exposed thighs...
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"Our business is settled," the professor answered the unspoken question the detective had been unable to keep out of his eyes. One gloved hand reached into a pocket to pull out a pencil. "You and the doctor will be quite free to go," he added, pulling out another object as he began turning away.
The red notebook. Holmes' one redemption at that moment. "But you won't be, professor." His voice was far too weak, but it served.
"I beg your pardon?" He drew power from the slight breaking of that cool facade. "I won't be what?"
"Free to go, I'm afraid." He wanted to say more -- wanted to glibly taunt his nemesis in his accustomed way -- but he simply lacked the energy. Instead, he just looked at the notebook and smiled. He felt a ghost of genuine humor curve his lips further as he watched Moriarty flip through the pages of the notebook.
"How...?" The notebook dropped onto cold, damp stone. "You...?"
"I'm afraid so, professor." Holmes got all the vindication he could from the professor's twitching eyes. Moriarty got all the answer he needed from the muted triumph the detective poured into his gaze. Those steel eyes stopped twitching and narrowed, honed by homicidal rage. The furious man made two jerky steps toward him before--
"Holmes!" Watson called out as he burst out onto the balcony. Moriarty smiled at Holmes then, a humorless, venomous baring of teeth, and turned his knife-like glare on the doctor. His hand reached for whatever weapon he had secreted on his person ("small, discreet, in breast pocket -- likely a blowpipe") as his body followed his gaze.
Holmes didn't weigh options. He lunged forward and wrapped his arms around his enemy. Before the enraged man could react properly, the detective closed his eyes against Watson's startled expression and pulled .
I'm sorry, my friend, he thought briefly. Then he surrendered himself to the exhilaration of the fall and the cold cleansing waters below.
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Anyway, I tried to keep it as realistic as possible.
If I hadn't cared about that, this fic would've had:
-Moriarty stripping Holmes naked
-Moriarty calling Moran to give him some gun oil/grease, lubing up that black king chess piece, and using it for foreplay (don't personally have an object insertion kink -- quite the reverse, actually -- but it seemed to fit)
-Moriarty forcing Holmes to enjoy part(s) of it. Sadly, he didn't have that kind of time.
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um...
What's that string of incoherency Tabby used up there, "ASDGSKJASFHLJSFHKJSFASGJKFJKLH"? Yeah, seconded.
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Thanks, glad you liked it. =D
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I don't mean this as a brag (and it would be a very strange thing to brag about), but I make myself cringe at times.
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*flails*
*dies*
I love you. This is glorious.
(Also, using chess piece for foreplay? I need this now.)
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I'm keeping that chess piece bit in mind. There was a general prompt for Moriarty committing heinous acts on Holmes...
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I love that you made it fit into movie canon. And you wrote this so well... Holmes' shame and his platonic love of Watson came through so well.
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(wtf CAPTCHA!? Chinese? Really?)
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Forgot to mention in my earlier comment that, since bondage is my favourite kink, I appreciate that you tied Holmes up in a more imaginative way than the usual "wrists and ankles" thing you see in many fics.
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Thanks for noticing! I put a lot of thought into how he'd be tied up to suit the situation and what all was meant to be going on... ... I actually posed myself to see what seemed to interfere least with Moriarty's intentions whilst immobilizing Holmes sufficiently (and not putting too much strain on the shoulder... not because Moriarty is thoughtful, but because he wanted Holmes attention on other things)...
...Yes, I wrote that bit whilst alone in my room... No, I didn't use actual rope.
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