Alright. Everybody knows the drill by now, right? I don't own anything but the filth. Warnings go something like: BDSM overtones, angst, and gaygaygaygaygay sex ahead. Minor breathplay as well, so please skip if that doesn't float your bathtub. Also, this is unbeta-d so let me know if you see a glaring error and I'll fix it and smother you with editorial love.
All Apologies, Pt. 6
Locking eyes with Sherlock as John Watson forcefully bent him over the kitchen table and began rutting up against him was quite possibly the most fun that the world's only consulting criminal had in a week. As John stroked his palm along the underside of his erection, Jim gave a few additional moans as he stared down the captive detective. Each subsequent noise was just a touch louder and lustier than it would have been naturally, and he delighted in the well veiled anger and confusion that flashed behind Sherlock's aquamarine eyes.
That's right, Sherly. C'mon pretty. I can see that jealousy burning in you. I told you. I told you I'd burn the heart out of you. I thought it'd be done by fucking you and abandoning you, by making you want something and denying it to you. It would've been so fun to watch you fall apart like the junkie you are, denied your fix. But this is soooooo much better. Your beloved John Watson, fucking me right in front of you. I don't have to do a damn thing except enjoy it. And you don't even know you love him! Oh Sherly, Sherly, Sherly. You're going to burn the heart right out of yourself.
A sudden, hard pressure on his groin snapped Moriarty out of his internal reverie. A soft, genuine gasp of surprise forced its way from his throat. It was immediately followed by an impassioned moan as John wrapped his fingers around Jim's shaft and began to slowly but firmly work the criminal's length in his fist.
It wasn't until John gave him that tight, hard (almost too hard) tug on his cock that Moriarty realized that he may have underestimated the power of Doctor John Watson's carnal techniques. They were so different from Sebastian's; fucking that man was engaging in a constant struggle to see who would be tamed and subdued. His sniper's technique for battle was to respond with smoldering rage, feral passion, and precise application of pain that made Jim frantic for more. Watson was stoic in comparison. That stoicism did not mean, as Jim was coming to find out, that he was any less commandeering.
Where Sebastian made judicious use of Jim's urgency, stoking it into a towering bonfire until the criminal simply had to take what he needed, John was content to let the criminal smolder. The damned doctor seemed entirely unwilling to alter his own pace or plans a fraction to accommodate for Jim's needs. If it weren't for John's strong hand wrapped around his cock and the hot, open mouthed kisses the doctor pressed to his besuited back, it would have been very easy to believe that John didn't actually give a fuck if the criminal enjoyed himself or not. The idea was unexpectedly arousing. And with Sherlock's beautiful whimpers and moans emanating from nearby, Jim thought he was perhaps harder than he had ever been in his entire life.
The idea of John, Sherlock's beloved and loyal dog, fucking him senseless on the stupid kitchen table in their ridiculous flat was heady enough. Shit, John being willing to simply entertain the idea of fucking him had been the basis of their lengthy phone sex games. Now, it was happening. And to know that John was doing it in front of the detective himself, that all Jim had to do was glance over to see the lanky, beautiful man restrained and writhing in his chair... Well. It certainly made each sensation that much sweeter. To know that Sherlock didn't have to imagine the scene (because Jim would have invariably fucked John anyway, will he or nil he), but was bound and very nearly forced to witness their coupling was headier than any drug.
And god the noises he was making! That dulcet baritone hovered somewhere between anguish and ecstasy, moaning in time with each of John's pumps as if it was his very own cock that was being so skillfully attended to. Jim risked another of John's punishing squeezes to steal a glance at Sherlock. The ensnared detective pushed his hips upwards, thrusting his cock into the very-likely unsatisfactory friction of his pajamas. Ivory skin was flushed pink; heat spreading through the lanky detective's neck and torso, and those sharp sapphire eyes were fixed directly on Jim as John pumped his hand around the criminal's cock. The look was quite heated, a combination of lust and anger that had Jim bucking his hips into John's hand in response to his increased arousal.
Jim could practically feel the heat rolling off Sherlock; the entire room felt stifling and almost too small with those big blue eyes fixed on him so intently. Normally Jim could make those eyes flutter closed, but without any stimulation other than visual they remained open wide. Jim wondered if he could truly remember the last time he saw Sherlock so aroused with open eyes. It was captivating, if a bit claustrophobic. The barest slivers of blue highlighted deep black irises. The study in contrast was quite breathtaking. And not merely the contrast in colors, but the conflict of emotion that repeatedly washed over the detective's face. Lust. Anger. Ecstasy. Uncertainty.
Delicious.
While Jim's attentions drifted back to the bound detective, the stocky blond behind him unexpectedly pulled his hand away from Jim's aching length and stepped back. The criminal gasped at the loss of contact; head spinning from the sensations still coursing through him. He half thought to bring his hands from where they rested on the table and take care of things himself, but instead he arched his head over his shoulder, trying to track Watson's movements.
The doctor was made quick work of divesting himself of both cardigan and buttoned shirt, exposing his chest. At the sight of the star-shaped scar marking the ex-soldier's shoulder Jim's heart jumped in his chest. There was something so fucking sexy about a good wound. The smaller man ran his tongue along his lower lip, overcome with the desire to turn himself around and latch his mouth to the network of thick, jagged lines in that tan skin. Moriarty's curiosity was staggering. Would John's pectorals jump as he used his teeth to worry those risen edges? How exactly would the good doctor moan if Jim bit down into the tough flesh, making his own mark overtop of the existing nexus of scar tissue?
Just as Jim's fascination finally spurred him to move, a now shirtless John stepped forward and pushed his hand against the small of the criminal's back. The pressure applied was quite firm, bordering on uncomfortable, and Jim was effectively pinned down again. He kept his elbows bent and hands flat on the table; it gave him a bit of leverage to push back into John. Well, it was effectively his only leverage to push back into John. But that wasn't the most vexing part of his predicament.
How does he do that? How does he know the exact moment I'm ready to act and step in just before? Infuriating sod. Oh. OH. That's quite nice.
John had taken a substantial handful of Jim's ass and gave it a hard squeeze before steadying himself behind the criminal once more. Placing his hands on either side of the smaller man's waist, he lowered himself so that his bare torso was nearly flush with Jim's still-clothed back. Once steadied, he began to nip playfully at the criminal's shoulders through his expensive suit coat, and Moriarty moaned in appreciation. The bites stung in a most delicious way, but it wasn't nearly enough. Jim ached to feel John's teeth buried in him. He wanted to be bruised, bled, and marked while Sherlock watched on.
"Aren't you going to take my shirt and jacket off?" The dark haired man made sure that his voice was pitched perfectly; low and throaty, with vowels drawn out in just the right way. Sebastian had told him once that his voice actually created physical sensation, like nails running down his back. It had seemed overly poetic at the time, but Jim certainly hoped that Watson could feel his words rake over him now. Anything to spur the doctor on. For fuck's sake, the man hadn't even removed his trousers yet! How could one man have so much fucking patience?
"Why should I? I have access to everything I need right here," Watson growled, taking another firm handful of buttock and kneading it roughly. Jim gave another shuddering moan, and John continued to fondle his ass for a few moments longer than strictly necessary. The dark haired man felt himself relax into the touch. It was unyielding but not quite bruising, elegantly toeing the line between tenderness and callousness. Rough and domineering, without needing to resort to pain. It was...
New. Different. Interesting. And oh! So wonderful.
Satisfied with Jim's reaction, those skilled surgeon's hands worked their way back to the criminal's waist and his unopened fly. At first Jim thought John was going to start stroking him again, but those maddening hands simply moved to the buckle of his belt and removed the supple strip of leather from his belt loops.
Quicker than Jim would ever have credited the man for, John lifted himself off the criminal's narrow back. In an instant he had looped the belt through itself, creating a kind of makeshift leash. That loop quickly went over Moriarty's head, the expensive leather settling just below his adam's apple. Once he had it in place John increased the tension on the belt, temporarily constricting the smaller man's airway. Jim tried to find the breath to gasp in both surprise and appreciation, but nothing came. The seal around his throat was quite snug, allowing no air to pass through.
Fucking flexible goddamn Prada leather.
Jim tried to count off seconds, but his head swam as he tried to calculate how many had already passed. Before he could settle on a number, John released the tension and he took a few great, heaving breaths to fill his aching lungs. The infuriating doctor merely responded with a chuckle and an almost playful slap to Jim's ass.
"I'm going to leave this here," he cautioned as he released his hold on the belt, letting the tail of it trail down Moriarty's spine. "But I want you to know the very second that you do something stupid I'm going to throttle you again. Right?"
"Right." Shit. Fuck. What was that? The word had just sort of come out unbidden, raspy and hoarse from both the belt and his previous moaning. But before he could dwell too much on what had just happened, Jim became acutely aware of John Watson tugging his trousers down. Finally. Finally. John's fingers traced over the bare flesh of his ass. The skin to skin contact was intoxicating; each trail of John's hands leaving heated, tingling aftershocks in their wake. Lost in sensation, the smaller man started when one of John's feet planted itself atop the juncture of his trousers.
"Step out now." Jim refused simply out of spite, still angry for his earlier acquiescence. He felt rather than saw the doctors responding shrug. John's hand simply reached out and grabbed at the belt tethering Moriarty's slender neck and gave it a good, sharp tug. The ex-Colonel gradually increased the pressure, still firmly pressing down on the smaller man's back to pin hips against the table. The combination forced Jim to arch his back almost painfully to avoid being completely choked. His cock throbbed in time with the blood rushing in his ears from lack of oxygen, and just as the edges of his vision started to darken the doctor let his lead go slack. The criminal fell forward onto the table, panting with each breath.
"Are you ready to take your pants off now? Or should I just bind you up and go tend to our poor Sherlock? He's certainly more obedient than you are. And despite the fact that he's been shagging around I think he deserves a good hard fuck more than you do."
The resulting stutter in Jim's heart wasn't from momentary panic at the thought of John actually following through with his ridiculous threat. Certainly not. It was a perfectly normal biological reaction to the pleading groan that escaped Sherlock at the mention of his name.
"God John... please. Please." Two sets of eyes turned to inspect the bound detective, gaze drawn to Sherlock by his lusty outcry. His skin was flushed, every muscle in his lithe body pulled as taut as his bow string. A darkening wet patch stained the front of his pyjama bottoms and Jim could easily imagine how the detective's beautifully flushed and leaking cock would look were it exposed. The moment hung silently between the three men for a moment; both John and Jim focused on Sherlock, while Sherlock's blue eyes centered solely on his doctor.
The air of quiet tension shattered as Jim heard John's surprisingly deep voice rumble out from above him.
"Please what, Sherlock?"
"God. Oh god John... please. Please fuck me. Please..." The detective's baritone hovered somewhere between demanding and pleading. Jim felt something not unlike envy momentarily pulse through him. Of all the times he'd made Sherlock beg, and those were quite numerous indeed, he never - not once - managed to get that tone out of him. Jim immediately recognized the difference. When Sherlock begged for Moriarty he was begging for the sex, the completion, his fix. When the detective begged for John it was simply that. He was begging for John Watson the man. Not what he could provide, but simply what he was.
This is fucking priceless. The criminal pondered what he could do to escalate things, ways that he could tempt John's attention away from Sherlock and back onto him. Fortunately, it seemed that the good doctor was already a step ahead of him.
John's hand dropped the belt again, letting the leather tail trail across one of the Moriarty's thin shoulders. That hand then traced its way down the mastermind's spine, causing his nerve endings to send pulses of delicious tension directly to the smaller man's groin. The hand in the small of Jim's back released it's pressure, instead sliding a few centimeters down to the criminal's round buttocks, spreading them slightly. One broad fingertip traced the ring of Jim's puckered entrance, and the criminal's entire body spasmed in response. John simply repeated the motion, causing the criminal's narrow hips to stutter against the table. But the doctor's entire focus was still fixed on the moaning, writhing mess that was Sherlock.
"What, Sherlock? Do you wish this was you?" John punctuated the question by letting his hand slide lower between Jim's spread legs, caressing the soft skin of his perineum. That actually caused the criminal to cry out in pleasure, and he moved his hips back against John's hand to encourage more of the same. But true to the doctor's methods, he simply pulled back a bit, letting Jim's breathing and pulse settle for a moment before continuing to stroke the sensitive area at his own torturously slow pace.
"Do you ache to be the one bent over this table? To have me fuck you deep and hard while you scream my name?" Sherlock appeared to be incapable of speech any longer, simply answering his doctor with an strangled, agonized cry that left no doubt as to what his answer was.
"Or is it that you just don't like me playing with Jim here? Hmm, Sherlock? Do you think you're the only one allowed to have a little fun on the side?" John shifted his hand so that the base of his thumb caressed the ring of muscle between Jim's pale cheeks, while his middle finger continued to stroke the overstimulated skin of his perineum. The position couldn't have been comfortable for John's hand or arm, but it certainly provided stimulus necessary to work Jim back into a writhing, gasping mess.
Oh christfuckinggoddamn that feels so good.
There was something wholly appealing to the idea of John Watson using him like some sort of demented living sex toy; tempting and torturing Jim simply to make Sherlock's blood boil. The sensation of it all was heady, and Jim felt nearly drunk. The power, John's hands, the thrill of a well executed plan coming together, and Sherlock's frustration all set his abdomen to coiling tightly, and he could feel just how fucking close he was to begging for release himself.
"You're going to watch me fuck him, Sherlock. You're going to know exactly how it felt every time you left the house without me, wearing your 'fuck me' cologne with product in your hair. Though if I had known Jim was this good of a shag I wouldn't have waited quite so long to try it for myself."
"I bet this perfect ass of his is so tight, isn't it?" Sherlock merely let his head loll back on his shoulders, hips still thrusting as if he no longer had any control over their movements. "Does he make you beg for it? Make you beg to fuck him? You would, too. You're shameless, Sherlock. A right proper slut." The detective squirmed in his chair again, lovely pleading noises emanating from his exposed, pale throat.
As lovely as it all was, this cocktail of anger, confusion, lust, pleasure and jealousy, Jim had taken all the teasing he possibly could. The heat in his groin was nearly unbearable; every centimeter of skin oversensitized and smoldering where John brushed against it. He certainly wasn't going to beg. Jim Moriarty begged for noone. But he could certainly make John feel the same level of desperation that he felt.
"John Watson, look at you," he purred, wriggling sensually against the table as if his body was aching for any contact of any kind. "Captain Watson, reducing the world's only consulting detective and the world's only consulting criminal to wanton, writhing messes." In response to the dark eyed man's words, John increased the pressure of his strokes between Jim's legs. Instantly, the the criminal's writhing went from theatrical to genuine.
"Mmm," John hummed in the back of his throat. "Captain. I like that. Continue to call me Captain. Understood, Jim? Or there will be punishment." Instead of inflicting pain to drive his point home, John simply removed the fingers that had been rubbing against Jim. The smaller man loosed a keening whine at the loss of pressure, and he felt rather than saw John's responding smirk.
"Understand?" A featherlight brush of finger against his entrance caused the criminal's entire body to shudder against the table. God yes. Calling John 'Captain' for the duration of their shag was an agreeable price to pay, as long as the blonde doctor kept him feeling this way.
"Aaah. Y-yes Captain."
One strong hand trailed gathered the lead draped over Jim's shoulder, straightening it and drawing it out over the curved line of the other man's back. Once settled in place, John ran an affectionate hand over the leather that ran along Jim's spine, settling into and then pressing firmly down on the small of his back. "Stay," was the issued command.
Then John's presence behind him was gone; he heard the infuriatingly patient man rummaging around in a drawer. It felt like forever, but finally John came up behind him again, and this time he ran a slicked finger down the cleft of Jim's ass. He spread the other man slightly, and used the pad of his now-lubricated index finger to rub small circles around the puckered entrance. Each round of movement caused Jim to thrust his narrow hips, desperately seeking relief for the overwhelming tension thrumming through every nerve.
With painstaking slowness, Watson began to push one finger inside Jim, who gasped and tried to push back against the invading digit to quicken the pace. In response, the doctor locked one forceful hand around the criminal's hip, steadying the smaller man and holding him in place. He continued to push slowly inward, and Jim could feel the slow burn of intrusion spread through his body like oil atop water. The sensation of John's finger inside him hovered around the edges of pain, coating him with unbearable want, but did little to penetrate the surface of his hunger.
Finally the other man's index finger was seated inside him, gently thrusting and curling to open him up. Jim knew at this angle, with the length of the doctor's fingers taken into consideration, that it was unlikely the other man would be able to hit his prostate until his middle finger was added. The thought of having to wait was unbearable.
How the fuck is Watson managing? For that matter, how is Sherlock? Is this how fucking in 221B always happens? Painfully slow and overwhelmingly intense? How the fuck have they ever managed to foil any of my plans, let alone get the shopping or anything else done?
With a growl, Moriarty pushed back against John as best he could. It wasn't much, but a slight wiggle of his hips at least sent a jolt of sensation pulsing through him.
"Mmm. C'mon, Captain. Is that the best you've got? I can't imagine our dear Sherly would be satisfied with this. Maybe that's why he keeps coming to see me, hmmmm?" Jim smirked as he felt John's whole body tense behind him in response to the barbed words.
There. Thaaaaaat ought to do it. Any minute now, angry fucking will ensue.
But instead of the punishing pace that he expected the stocky blond to take, the other man simply withdrew his finger from Jim's entrance. Jim gasped at the sudden sensation of emptiness; evidently the doctor's technique had stretched him more than he thought it did. The restraining fingers on his hip uncurled and released him, and Jim was about to spin himself over so he could see what was going on when he heard the telltale wet sounds of more lubricant being applied to flesh. In response, he curved his spine and thrusted his hips outward slightly, presenting John with the best access he could given his positioning.
When the other man's digits returned to Jim's tight hole instead of the cock he expected, the criminal had to bite back a frustrated scream.
John. Fucking. Watson. Completely immovable. Stubbornness personified. Frustratingly slow and dense and...
When two thick fingers penetrated him with little preamble or warning Jim was unsuccessful in holding back his pleasured, if surprised scream. The familiar burn of being filled returned, and John's fingers scissored inside him at a maddeningly steady pace. As one hand expertly stretched the criminal, John brought his hand back to Jim's hip, resuming his restraining hold on pale flesh and delicate bone. The doctor's pace was no quicker than before, but there was one crucial difference.
With every fourth or fifth stroke John's fingers would curl and twist inside him just so, deftly seeking out and brushing against the taut bundle of nerves hidden deep inside him. Each touch sent sparks shooting through Moriarty's mind; white hot electricity through his veins. His spine tingled with currents of delight, and the dark haired man had to bite his lip to bleeding to keep from demanding (Begging for? No, demanding.) more. Instead, he gathered his wits about him as best he could, and in between those pleasuring thrusts he managed to growl out a few carefully selected words.
"Mmahhh... G-god, oh god Captain. If you can fuck me like that with your fingers I can't imagine what you'll be able to do to me with that rather impressive cock of yours." The words came out breathy and panting, but Jim was very nearly beyond caring. He wanted, needed John inside him.
"You've got quite the vocabulary Jim. Describe it."
"Wh-what?" Jim stuttered, and John pressed and held his fingers against his hypersensitive prostate. "C-captain!" he managed to gasp out, and the doctor released the increased pressure, returning instead to the previous maddeningly paced stroking.
"Tell me what it feels like, me fucking you. If you stop talking, I'll stop doing this." He thrust his two fingers deeply into Jim again, rapidly stroking them against the sensitive bundle of nerves inside him before pulling back. "Understood?"
Thee dark haired man's entire body thrashed wildly in response, and he managed to gasp what sounded like an affirmative. Almost instantly, John began a pointedly slow withdrawal of his digits, causing Moriarty to buck back into his hand as best he could.
"Yes, C-captain," he moaned. Satisfied, John eased his fingers back into Jim's narrow canal, continuing to move them inside him at his torturously slow pace.
"Keep your hands palm down on the table." Another few thrusts of John's fingers and both Jim and Sherlock were canting their hips in anticipation. "And speak."
Well, Jim's a wordy little bastard isn't he? And he's has run off with the next chapter at the very least. So you'll be stuck with his POV for a little while. Remember that reviews, comments, suggestions (particularly kink suggestions) and the like are so very special to me and are kept in the creepy box under my bed where I keep all my most cherished possessions.
Well, ta until next time!
Mazi