Sherlock Holmes: Contest
Title: Contest
Characters/Pairing: Moriarty/Holmes (A Game Of Shadows)
Rating: R
Word Count: 2050
Disclaimer: Not my characters. Not for profit.
Summary: Smutty rewrite of part of the scene in Moriarty's office. Written for this kinkmeme prompt: Moriarty talking Holmes to orgasm. No physical contact - just lots and lots of mental stimulation.
Author's note: (spoilers) I tried to work this into movie canon as best I could. Let's assume for this fic that sometime in the conversation before Moriarty threatens Watson, Holmes tries to leave. (And I don't perfectly remember this scene, so if Moriarty actually stood up at some point in the movie, we'll assume he didn't or that he sat back down for the purpose of this fic).
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"Just a moment, Holmes," Moriarty's voice halted him, turned him back to lock gazes again. "I thought you were too much the sportsman to walk away before a match is finished."
"Were we sparring?" Holmes asked, tone deliberately light and mocking. He gave a slight shrug as well, though it did little to nettle his adversary and far less to shake off the compulsion in the other man's eyes and voice. "I was under the impression that all the blows thus far were mine."
"You don't think that I know you at least as well as you know me?" The barb was ignored and that steel gaze held sharp on Holmes.
"Unless you know me better than you know yourself, I hardly think that likely." The detective twisted mockery into his expression as well, hoping that it would at last lash some of the calm from the other man's tone.
"There's an easy enough way to test it." An answering derision filled the small grin Moriarty gave him. "Unless you're not so confident about winning this game?"
Goaded and intrigued in spite of himself, Holmes felt it again: that indistinct flutter behind his breastbone and at the edges of his consciousness. He'd felt it when he'd first met that disconcerting gaze - clinical, yet not dispassionate - and when that smooth, slightly smoky voice had first spoken to him directly. In an effort (vain, the creases at the corners of Moriarty's eyes told him) to mask his reaction, he cast a sidelong glance at the clock before responding, "I suppose this is a quick game you had in mind?"
"Indeed." A ghost of private humor warmed the professor's voice, causing the nebulous butterfly in Holmes' chest to flit its wings downward. "I don't believe it will take long at all... If you would be so good as to sit down?" Moriarty rose and indicated his own chair.
Why not? Hints of trepidation and excitement adding their own unsteady rhythms to the subtle dance in his breast, Holmes slowly obliged. He kept his opponent in his sight as he moved to the chair and gingerly perched on it. Still with the other man always in his periphery, he scanned the room, reassessing it from his new vantage point.
"Do sit back and relax, Mr. Holmes." The deceptively gentle urging instantly recalled the detective's gaze. "You are well aware that assassination is not part of this game." An unspoken "yet" hung in the air between them, vibrating sub-audibly, like a lightly plucked bowstring. However, Holmes complied with this request too, resting his spine against the back of the chair and his forearms on its armrests. "The first rule of this game," Moriarty elucidated, drawing closer, right hand stroking left. "Is that I," that mobile hand hooked gracefully upward toward his own chest, "do not touch you." The gesture continued in a sinuous twist that brought the back of his hand to hover, on the pronoun, a mere inch above Holmes' before withdrawing with a subdued flourish.
"The second rule?" Holmes asked, forcing his gaze away from the elegant, entrancing motions of the professor's hands.
"The only other rule is that you do not move - not even a finger - from that chair."
"And that is all?" What can he possibly intend? A ripple passed through Holmes' muscles; an incipient tremor he had to suppress. His inability to fathom his opponent's intentions was... disconcerting. "It hardly sounds very stimulating."
"Merely the ground rules, Holmes. The game-play is yet to come." With that cool, soft promise, Moriarty walked around to the back of the chair. "Of course, to break the rules would be to admit defeat," he added as the detective began levering himself up and around to follow the movement.
"Naturally," Holmes replied drily, resettling his limbs as his mind and body began quickening with the nascent thrill of contest. The charge achieved full birth when an oblong of rich black blotted his vision and cool silk pressed against his face.
"I was not expecting you to cede victory so readily..." That equally rich, silken voice stalled his reflexive counter almost before his muscles could tense.
"And you?" He fought the acceleration of his pulse as his dominant sense was gently closed to him.
"I have not touched you," Moriarty replied truthfully enough, deft fingers knotting the blindfold behind Holmes' head without a fingertip so much as brushing his hair. "I have simply ensured that I will have your undivided attention on my words." Those words steamed Holmes' scalp, sending a shiver down his spine and another spur to his heart rate, as a firm final tug secured the blindfold in place. "I know, Holmes, how much you can see - how you cannot stop seeing."
"A fact of which even my unobservant landlady is well aware, professor." He countered the spell in that voice - so much more potent in the diminishment of his senses.
"I also know," Moriarty continued as if Holmes had not spoken. The chair creaked and shifted against the detective's back as his adversary leaned on it. "How much danger..." The next words came softer, intimate by his left ear, "excites you."
"Ah-" Holmes clamped his mouth shut against a gasp and his fingers wrapped themselves around the arms of the chair.
"Yes..." A honeyed hiss almost against his earlobe. "I know how addicted you are to the thrill of it... How it hums in your very veins..." He caught his breath as Moriarty's voice conjured the sensations it described. "Sweet... low..." Just so. "Like the deepest notes of your violin... thrumming in your chest and vibrating down every nerve to its end..."
“I…” Holmes began, but his words were lost to him, ensorcelled or swept away.
“You cannot get enough of it, can you? Holmes?”
His hands tensed on the arms of the chair in resistance to the impulse to remove the blindfold. His face.. His eyes… What color and intensity of fire would burn in Moriarty’s eyes to match the tone - promise and threat, question and answer - in which he said Holmes’ name?
“The way it first tingles then burns through your body…” Yes. “Through your mind… In glorious, dizzying, electrifying waves.” Distantly, Holmes felt the shift of the chair as Moriarty removed his weight from it. The entrancing flow of speech continued from behind and above him. “Your heart beats to its tempo: moderato… allegro… vivace…” So it did. “You feel that rhythm in your breast… in your pulsing throat and your breath catches.”
“Ah!” Further and further in thrall to that hypnotic voice, the detective’s body responded to every suggestion. How…? A dozen endings for the question escaped him.
“I told you, Holmes: I know you.” Had he spoken the question aloud? “I know that it is moments like this - fraught with danger, challenge… possibility - that make you feel so aware.” There was a shifting of air behind him, a muted rustle of movement, and change in the angle of assault. “So alive.” Closer again, by his right ear. “So very, very…” Holmes felt Moriarty’s closeness - felt the radiant heat of his lips beside the already hot flesh of his ear - and his pulse temporarily lost any definite rhythm. “…aroused.”
“Hhunn…nn…” Holmes caught the high, breathy sound with his teeth, tried to morph it into a negation. But there was no denying the other man’s words. All the sweet, sultry warmth that had flowed in through his ears seemed to have pooled in his groin. His grip locked tighter on the chair and a ripple undulated through his abdomen as his hips tried to thrust forward. The hint of a laugh tickled his earlobe, intensifying the pressure and heat within.
“You may touch yourself if you wish,” the professor invited, voice coming from farther away again. “No one will interrupt.” Holmes’ ears tracked that voice as it moved around him, two compass points drawn by its magnetism. “You could release the chair, slide a hand into your trousers, and stroke yourself with those clever fingers.” Each word called an answering throb from between his legs, as if the sibilants caressed the hardness there. “Is that what you want to do, Holmes?”
No… His grip on the chair was so tight he could feel its grain in his bones. Yes… His pelvis rocked minutely in his seat, striving for any contact, any friction. “Mmm,” he moaned, shaking his head slightly, when he couldn’t find any.
“No,” Moriarty agreed, voice coming from directly in front of Holmes. “There’s no contest, no risk in that.” The detective’s respiration was reduced to a soft, staccato panting. “You want me to touch you.” It wasn’t a question. “You need me to reach out… catch your racing pulse in one hand… brush your aching desire with the other.” Holmes made another sound (it might have been “yes”) as words summoned images of neat, precise hands and phantoms of a cool, controlling touch. “You’re already seeing it play out. How agonizingly slowly each button would come undone…” The work would be deft, but still not fast enough. “How strongly my hands would grip you, pull you…” They wouldn’t be gentle but they would be oh so right. “How my lips and teeth would tease your flesh… marking you…” The pain-tinged pleasure from that cunning mouth… the sensual scratch of his beard against sensitive skin…
“Mor-“ More… The merest frayed tatters of will held Holmes bound to his chair, though his entire body strained against it. Moriarty…
That beguiling, enthralling voice again seduced him from his left side. “It’s not enough, is it?” No. “You need more - need me to touch you deeper.” Yes… “Need me inside you, probing. Seeking out your weakness. Exploiting. Knowing.” Yes! “You need me claiming you harder and faster… longer and deeper… Possessing you. Right to your center. Your essential core.” Closer and closer again: that spell of words, the space between his breaths, the throbbing of pulse and desire. Until Moriarty was again whispering directly in his ear, “Sherlock Holmes.”
A buzzing static filled Holmes’ ears, drowning out whatever sound or words he cried, as all that built-up heat and pressure detonated inside him in exhilarating, explosive release. Shuddering, rocking in the waves of aftermath, he half-collapsed into the chair, tension draining away with the ebb-tide of passion. Another electric shiver passed through him as he felt Moriarty’s hands; the left resting on his collarbone while the right brushed the back of his head as it removed the blindfold. He’s touching me… Was the detective’s first dazed thought as the light of the room dazzled him.
He’s already won this game, he realized as sense and sight returned.
“You see how well I know you, Holmes?” Moriarty asked, voice still pitched soft and low, his hand stroking the detective’s throat through sweat-damped clothes. With uncharacteristic hesitation, Holmes turned his head to face his triumphant opponent. Whatever response he might have made at that moment, however, caught in his throat as he met the professor’s eyes. There was no triumph, no mockery, no threat - just… understanding. He shivered again. “You must see how ideal a combination we would make.”
Yes. Even without the intensity in Moriarty’s words and gaze compelling agreement, Holmes could feel the truth in the proposal. But… “You and I deal in realities, professor.”
The other man simply nodded, released his hold, and rose from his kneeling position beside the chair. He murmured something that might have been “regrettable” as he brushed dust from his knees.
Spell finally broken, Holmes also stood up, wincing at the wetness in his trousers. Round one to Professor Moriarty, he silently conceded, but our game is far from finished. He pushed away the shame that threatened to flush his cheeks - transmuted it into resolve - as he mended his appearance as best he could. The blush came in spite of his efforts, however, when he re-met his adversary’s gaze. The same cool derision that had marked the professor’s expression at the beginning of their… bout had returned.
“As you can see,” Moriarty gestured toward the clock, “our game did not take long at all.”
“Indeed.” Holmes couldn’t find a more glib response than that. He molded his features into an expression of polite boredom.
“There’s still plenty of time… to catch a train…”
Round two.
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