Untitled, Sherlock (BBC), John/?
Title: Untitled
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: John/?
Rating: NC17
Warnings: Consensual rape play. Might be triggery.
Summary: John wakes up handcuffed and blindfolded
Notes: Written for this prompt at sherlockbbc_fic
Now with extra beta-ing by cefyr
When John wakes up he's dizzy, disoriented. He's lying on his stomach, which is nothing strange, but he's got a blindfold on. He tries to gather himself, and take the blindfold off, and realizes his hands are tied behind his back. No, not tied, handcuffed. A quick examination tells him he won't be able to slip them.
"Hello?" he calls. "Sherlock! This isn't funny." Someone touches him, puts a hand over his mouth. Nitril gloves. John starts to feel scared. Before this he had thought it was just one of Sherlock's really weird experiments, but now he's not sure. The hand on his mouth moves, strokes all along his side and the other hand joins it at his hips. They lift him, and his legs are pushed under him. He struggles, but there is not much for him to do, and when he almost succeeds the person grips him around the neck, presses his head down into the mattress. He can't breathe. The person shushes him, and goes back to gripping his hips.
"No, please," he begs, because he can't think of many things that can happen to a bound and naked person. "Please don't." The hands stroke him, trying to be soothing perhaps, but impersonal, the gloves giving them a cold feel.
He feels someone's breath on his tailbone, and then a wet sensation. Licking, he realizes. What is this?
"Why are you doing this?" he asks, pleads. No answer, just cool hands on his bottom, holding him apart, spreading him open, and the humiliation of his erection. His body betrays him, and he feels like screaming.
When hot air flows over the sphincter muscles he flinches, and can't quite keep a sob inside. It's horrible, why would someone want to do this. When the person starts tonguing at his muscles he lets out a wail, hoping someone will hear him. He can't stop thinking about dirt, bacteria, Hepatitis. He wriggles, tries to get loose, but he can't. Tears are flowing steadily now, making his blindfold wet, and he feels so undignified, shame strengthening his arousal. Whoever this person is they're skillful. It's obviously not the first time they've done this, and John wonders if more people have been assaulted like this.
"Please," he says, but it doesn't sound like a protest anymore. His voice is rough, and he's not so much wriggling to get away as he is to get closer.
"I don't, please, don't," and he no longer knows what he's saying. Just that he needs this to stop. He knows about male rape victims, and how sometimes they come, and he wonders if they feel like this, pleasure and shame mixing together to create something else, something that drives all thoughts out of his mind.
"No," he murmurs, hands clenching despite his best efforts to relax them, and body mindlessly rocking backwards, back onto that slick tongue. Something starts sneaking its way into his rectum. Two fingers. John tenses on instinct, but he knows it will only be worse for him, so he forces himself to relax. The person behind him finds his prostate with accuracy, almost like they've studied where it is. Someone with medical training?
It becomes difficult for him to think, he's left with only guilt, shame and overwhelming desire. The person is stroking his prostate and licking him at the same time, giving him sensory overload, and he's aware that he's moaning now, like he really wants this, like a dirty slut who'd just take it from anyone.
"Please," he says, almost chokes on the words through the tears, "please, please, please."
He gets his pleas answered in a way, the person changes the angle of their ministrations, stroking his prostate in a different, firmer, way, and fluttering their tongue over the stretched out flesh of his sphincter muscles.
John feels it in his entire body, he's going to come, and he fights it with all he's got, because if he comes that proves how dirty he is, what a cheap slut he is, and he doesn't want that, but he can't resist that tongue, and he comes, crying and pleading still, rocking back onto the fingers inside him.
He loses tension in his body and glides down onto his stomach. The person follows him down, gently, and then eases their fingers out. He feels their hands on him, now without gloves on, and they stroke down his arms before unlocking the handcuffs. His arms flop down onto the mattress but has no energy to move away from the wet spot or remove his blindfold. Someone moves onto the bed and lies down next to him. Arms circle around him and pull him close. He feels the flannel of the pyjama trousers and the softness of uncovered breasts.
"Alright?" Sarah whispers, but he can't answer her yet, he's not back in his own head. She wipes him down with wet wipes but doesn't take off his blindfold. He's grateful for that, he wants to come down in darkness, held by Sarah. It was more intense than he had ever expected and he's glad Sherlock isn't coming back in a week, because this will stay with him for a long time, and he's not sure he will be able to take Sherlock looking at him and knowing something so personal.
Sarah is touching him lightly, not with any intent, just letting him know she's still there. He takes off his blindfold and turns around. He kisses her softly and snuggles as close as he can.
"Thank you," he whispers.
"Love you," she says, tightening her arms around him.
"You too," he murmurs and relaxes against her.
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: John/?
Rating: NC17
Warnings: Consensual rape play. Might be triggery.
Summary: John wakes up handcuffed and blindfolded
Notes: Written for this prompt at sherlockbbc_fic
Now with extra beta-ing by cefyr
When John wakes up he's dizzy, disoriented. He's lying on his stomach, which is nothing strange, but he's got a blindfold on. He tries to gather himself, and take the blindfold off, and realizes his hands are tied behind his back. No, not tied, handcuffed. A quick examination tells him he won't be able to slip them.
"Hello?" he calls. "Sherlock! This isn't funny." Someone touches him, puts a hand over his mouth. Nitril gloves. John starts to feel scared. Before this he had thought it was just one of Sherlock's really weird experiments, but now he's not sure. The hand on his mouth moves, strokes all along his side and the other hand joins it at his hips. They lift him, and his legs are pushed under him. He struggles, but there is not much for him to do, and when he almost succeeds the person grips him around the neck, presses his head down into the mattress. He can't breathe. The person shushes him, and goes back to gripping his hips.
"No, please," he begs, because he can't think of many things that can happen to a bound and naked person. "Please don't." The hands stroke him, trying to be soothing perhaps, but impersonal, the gloves giving them a cold feel.
He feels someone's breath on his tailbone, and then a wet sensation. Licking, he realizes. What is this?
"Why are you doing this?" he asks, pleads. No answer, just cool hands on his bottom, holding him apart, spreading him open, and the humiliation of his erection. His body betrays him, and he feels like screaming.
When hot air flows over the sphincter muscles he flinches, and can't quite keep a sob inside. It's horrible, why would someone want to do this. When the person starts tonguing at his muscles he lets out a wail, hoping someone will hear him. He can't stop thinking about dirt, bacteria, Hepatitis. He wriggles, tries to get loose, but he can't. Tears are flowing steadily now, making his blindfold wet, and he feels so undignified, shame strengthening his arousal. Whoever this person is they're skillful. It's obviously not the first time they've done this, and John wonders if more people have been assaulted like this.
"Please," he says, but it doesn't sound like a protest anymore. His voice is rough, and he's not so much wriggling to get away as he is to get closer.
"I don't, please, don't," and he no longer knows what he's saying. Just that he needs this to stop. He knows about male rape victims, and how sometimes they come, and he wonders if they feel like this, pleasure and shame mixing together to create something else, something that drives all thoughts out of his mind.
"No," he murmurs, hands clenching despite his best efforts to relax them, and body mindlessly rocking backwards, back onto that slick tongue. Something starts sneaking its way into his rectum. Two fingers. John tenses on instinct, but he knows it will only be worse for him, so he forces himself to relax. The person behind him finds his prostate with accuracy, almost like they've studied where it is. Someone with medical training?
It becomes difficult for him to think, he's left with only guilt, shame and overwhelming desire. The person is stroking his prostate and licking him at the same time, giving him sensory overload, and he's aware that he's moaning now, like he really wants this, like a dirty slut who'd just take it from anyone.
"Please," he says, almost chokes on the words through the tears, "please, please, please."
He gets his pleas answered in a way, the person changes the angle of their ministrations, stroking his prostate in a different, firmer, way, and fluttering their tongue over the stretched out flesh of his sphincter muscles.
John feels it in his entire body, he's going to come, and he fights it with all he's got, because if he comes that proves how dirty he is, what a cheap slut he is, and he doesn't want that, but he can't resist that tongue, and he comes, crying and pleading still, rocking back onto the fingers inside him.
He loses tension in his body and glides down onto his stomach. The person follows him down, gently, and then eases their fingers out. He feels their hands on him, now without gloves on, and they stroke down his arms before unlocking the handcuffs. His arms flop down onto the mattress but has no energy to move away from the wet spot or remove his blindfold. Someone moves onto the bed and lies down next to him. Arms circle around him and pull him close. He feels the flannel of the pyjama trousers and the softness of uncovered breasts.
"Alright?" Sarah whispers, but he can't answer her yet, he's not back in his own head. She wipes him down with wet wipes but doesn't take off his blindfold. He's grateful for that, he wants to come down in darkness, held by Sarah. It was more intense than he had ever expected and he's glad Sherlock isn't coming back in a week, because this will stay with him for a long time, and he's not sure he will be able to take Sherlock looking at him and knowing something so personal.
Sarah is touching him lightly, not with any intent, just letting him know she's still there. He takes off his blindfold and turns around. He kisses her softly and snuggles as close as he can.
"Thank you," he whispers.
"Love you," she says, tightening her arms around him.
"You too," he murmurs and relaxes against her.