Sherlock is, nominally, a sub. That is, when he has sex, he generally prefers to be tied down, at least a little bit. He likes being on his knees, and the feel of a warm hand on the back of his head. He's not picky -- gentle or rough, they're both good, they're both satisfying, as long as he can look up through his lashes and hear, "Good boy," murmured to him, low and approving
( ... )
"Sherlock -- Sherlock wait," John interrupts, and he lurches forward until a warning shot rings out and ricochets off the tiled floor.
"Nuh-uh," Moriarty teases smugly, grinning like a cat who'd found something small, wriggling, and helpless between its paws. "Stay out of this, Johnny. I don't care about you."
"Sherlock," John tries again, looking beautiful and anguished and miserable. "Sherlock you don't have to do this."
"Yes, John," Sherlock says, and tries to will the truth into John's mind. It's fine, it's under control, I know what I'm doing. Trust me. "I do."
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
( ... )
4/? (NONCON/DUBCON/BDSM WARNINGS)
anonymous
March 20 2011, 22:20:36 UTC
Sherlock kicks Moriarty in the ribs; Moriarty fights back. Moriarty's clumsier than him, less graceful, less accustomed to dirty scuffles on the ground. Sherlock gets the upper hand and holds it, holds it long enough for them to both realize he can. Then, he loosens his grip enough for Moriarty to get free, lets him reverse their positions so Sherlock is the one on his back, Moriarty looming over him.
"Oh, you're going to regret that, Sherlock," Moriarty hisses.
Sherlock squirms, fights against Moriarty's hands at his trousers, cries out when trousers and pants are pulled down to his knees, exposing him. "Stop!" You're hurting me? No, obviously not true. "Get off me!" Sincere enough, punctuated with a knee in Moriarty's groin that earns Sherlock another backhand, this one hard enough that he tastes the blood.
Better"Do you always fight so hard?" Moriarty complains, sounding half-genuine. A droplet of sweat lands on Sherlock's collarbone. He mouths the side of Sherlock's face -- sloppy, wet. Their erections slide against each
( ... )
5/? (Uh, just BDSM warnings now, I guess)
anonymous
March 20 2011, 22:23:35 UTC
Moriarty goes still and silent behind him. The moment shatters. The world shifts, and suddenly he's Sherlock Holmes again, with a life and responsibilities and people to keep, more or less, safe. How disappointing.
Interesting, the effect a single word can have. He was enjoying himself so much more ten seconds ago.
Moriarty's still inside him, a not-unwelcome feeling of being filled, of being stretched. He can hear Moriarty thinking (not literally, but Sherlock can read it in his lack of movement, in the way Moriarty's hands are loose on his hips, the way their bodies are pressed closely together). Stopping, reason for stopping, hesitation on -- on whether or not he ought to stop, on whether he still has the upper hand or if everything he's doing he's doing with permission.
Moriarty begins to move again, but this time he doesn't mention John.
Sherlock braces himself on his forearms and focuses on breathing. Yes, yes, good -- and then, Less good, repetitive, dull, boring. He feels too bereft, too unanchored. His knees don't hurt
( ... )
D!Moriarty/s!Sherlock
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and I swear it's true, Mycroft is creeping me out big time: Data analfic
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"Sherlock -- Sherlock wait," John interrupts, and he lurches forward until a warning shot rings out and ricochets off the tiled floor.
"Nuh-uh," Moriarty teases smugly, grinning like a cat who'd found something small, wriggling, and helpless between its paws. "Stay out of this, Johnny. I don't care about you."
"Sherlock," John tries again, looking beautiful and anguished and miserable. "Sherlock you don't have to do this."
"Yes, John," Sherlock says, and tries to will the truth into John's mind. It's fine, it's under control, I know what I'm doing. Trust me. "I do."
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Ha, just kidding, but in all seriousness, more, I think my life depends on it xD
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WORDS CANNOT EXPRESS MY JOY
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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 ( ... )
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Sherlock kicks Moriarty in the ribs; Moriarty fights back. Moriarty's clumsier than him, less graceful, less accustomed to dirty scuffles on the ground. Sherlock gets the upper hand and holds it, holds it long enough for them to both realize he can. Then, he loosens his grip enough for Moriarty to get free, lets him reverse their positions so Sherlock is the one on his back, Moriarty looming over him.
"Oh, you're going to regret that, Sherlock," Moriarty hisses.
Sherlock squirms, fights against Moriarty's hands at his trousers, cries out when trousers and pants are pulled down to his knees, exposing him. "Stop!" You're hurting me? No, obviously not true. "Get off me!" Sincere enough, punctuated with a knee in Moriarty's groin that earns Sherlock another backhand, this one hard enough that he tastes the blood.
Better"Do you always fight so hard?" Moriarty complains, sounding half-genuine. A droplet of sweat lands on Sherlock's collarbone. He mouths the side of Sherlock's face -- sloppy, wet. Their erections slide against each ( ... )
Reply
Moriarty goes still and silent behind him. The moment shatters. The world shifts, and suddenly he's Sherlock Holmes again, with a life and responsibilities and people to keep, more or less, safe. How disappointing.
Interesting, the effect a single word can have. He was enjoying himself so much more ten seconds ago.
Moriarty's still inside him, a not-unwelcome feeling of being filled, of being stretched. He can hear Moriarty thinking (not literally, but Sherlock can read it in his lack of movement, in the way Moriarty's hands are loose on his hips, the way their bodies are pressed closely together). Stopping, reason for stopping, hesitation on -- on whether or not he ought to stop, on whether he still has the upper hand or if everything he's doing he's doing with permission.
Moriarty begins to move again, but this time he doesn't mention John.
Sherlock braces himself on his forearms and focuses on breathing. Yes, yes, good -- and then, Less good, repetitive, dull, boring. He feels too bereft, too unanchored. His knees don't hurt ( ... )
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