The BDSM Meme

[calmyourshit]

Have you ever had a dream where you were running through a sunflower field with clouds dancing across a crystal blue sky, your lover's running towards you? The wind is whipping through lovely lavish locks...and you embrace for that perfect passionate kiss...WELL. This is not that dream. This is hard, sweaty, angry, crazy, monstrous fucking.
-Brendon Urie

Sometimes, when someone has been very naughty, they just need to be tied up and whipped.

Post a comment with your character, fandom, and preferences in the subject line. Make sure to note if there is anything on the list you're not comfortable with. Use the RNG to get a number between 1 and 16, or just pick one (or several!) and tag around! Feel free to get creative!

1 - Handcuffs. An oldie but a goodie. Are you handcuffed to something or just behind your back?

2 - Full bondage. This can be anything from hands tied to the headboard to the most complex of rope bondage.

3 - Sex swing. Sling 'em up! Also includes harnesses and special furniture.

4 - Tied to the bed. You are not going anywhere -- whether spread-eagle or kneeling at the foot, you are not moving from this bed until your lover says so.

5 - Public scene. Whether a demonstration at a small party or a subtle but definite show of dominance in a restaurant, someone else is watching this show.

6 - Riding crop. Giddyup!

7 - Paddle. Leather, metal, or wood? Either way, someone's been bad.

8 - Cane. Just like in school!

9 - Whip. This isn't for beginners. Avoid the vital organs.

10 - Sensory deprivation. Blindfold, gag, breathplay? The possibilities here are endless.

11 - Spanking. Why use toys when your hand works just as well?

12 - Candle wax. Oh it burns so good.

13 - Blades. Careful where you cut, and make sure you clean up after!

14 - Needleplay. Whether it's permanent or just for play, this is a particularly sharp pain.

15 - Electric stimulation. Do you have an instrument, or are you being reckless with a wallplug?

16 - Wild card. Pick one of these or do your own favorite fantasy!

Comments

[on_your_nerves]

[Sherlock doesn't last long but that's not surprising given how worked up she's gotten him.]

[Waves and waves of pleasure crash over one another, each enveloping and absorbing the last and he writhes underneath her as they grind against each other, twisting against the restraints, his expression nearly feral, his hands grasping at the empty air as if he can't stand not being able to touch her.]

[He's vocal, very vocal, and is so out of it he doesn't even realize it--or perhaps he just doesn't care. That deep voice of his, that usually is so controlled, so clipped and clinical, sounds quite different when he's moaning in such a strangled way.]

[In the end, it's almost ugly when he finally loses control. That involuntary muscle contraction of the facial muscles is involuntary, after all, even more so when things are particularly intense, for some people. But that's what makes it beautiful, isn't it? That she could twist up those refined features into such an ugly grimace of sexual satisfaction, an expression that's beyond self-consciousness, beyond physical control. It really is a wonder he doesn't start speaking in tongues, because there's a moment during it where he looks like a man in the throes of an ecstatic religious experience. It ends with him letting out one last choked noise instead, like he can't even get enough air to scream properly.]

[In terms of sexual experience, especially since this is the first time he's done anything remotely sexual, she's utterly destroyed him. She's looted, pillaged, razed everything to the ground, and salted the earth. Nothing and no one else will ever be able to compare. She'd already been imprinted into his head just because of who she is, but now if he ever finds himself sexually attracted to anyone else at all, it'll be because of blood-red lipstick and carefully coiffed hair and riding crops and half-open complimentary robes. It will only happen because of reminders.]

[That's what she's done to him. Even if they were to never meet again, from now until he dies, she owns him, body and soul.]

[When it's over, when the last muscle stops spasming, when his vision stops blurring, when his back stops arching, he collapses back to the bed, breathing raggedly, completely soaked in sweat, utterly wrecked. With him strapped down to the bed like that, it's the kind of image that'd be perfect blackmail material in her phone if she was still doing that kind of thing.]

[Of course, if she were to do that to him, if she were to take advantage of his helplessness at this particular moment, it'd destroy him in other ways, in ways that couldn't ever be fixed. That's the hold she has on him now.]

[whatyoulike]

[It is a photograph she would like to have, though not for anything so nefarious as blackmail. Which isn't to say she's above it now, generally speaking, but in his case it would be a last resort. Cheap and dirty tricks of that sort aren't good enough for the likes of Sherlock Holmes. Not unless she's desperate, anyway. No, the use she'd put it to is a bit more personal.

Her phone is across the room though, so she'll have to make do later with a mental picture.

For now, looking down at him, she makes a pleased rumble in the back of her throat and leans down to press a kiss against his sweaty brow. Then she rolls off sideways and moves to untie her knots with practiced care.]

[on_your_nerves]

[He lays there trembling, eyes closed, hair plastered down to his forehead with sweat, trying to slow his breathing. His wrists are red from pulling against the restraints, but fortunately her experience with this kind of thing means he hasn't been hurt and his circulation hasn't been cut off. Even when his hands are free, he stays completely still for a moment, just breathing.]

[Then Sherlock opens his eyes slowly and reaches down to unzip his trousers. He squirms out of them and his briefs with a complete lack of self-consciousness--what does it matter if she sees him naked now?--cleans himself up a bit with them and then kicks them over the side of the bed.]

[Slowly, gingerly, he rolls over on his side with his back turned to her, drawing his long legs up so he's in a fetal position. His back is still pale and unmarred, in stark contrast with much of the rest of him.]

[He needs time to process.]

[whatyoulike]

[Recognizing that need, she busies herself with a few tasks — first filling a glass with water from the bathroom tap and bringing it over to the nightstand, then cleaning all the implements that touched skin with a pack of disinfectant wipes from her bag and packing them neatly away. When that's done, she does a final sweep of the drawers and the closet and the bathroom to make sure nothing (of hers, at least) has been left.

Only then does she return to the bed and sit at the edge, not speaking or touching him, just letting her weight on the mattress tell him she's there if he needs her.]

[on_your_nerves]

[He's raw. Not just his skin. Everything is raw and bleeding, like a scab has been ripped off. The walls are down, and those are typically very carefully-constructed walls that are absolutely necessary for holding back the hordes of emotion. Ah, feelings. The fly in the ointment, the grit on the lens.]

[Irene had called him damaged and delusional when they first met, when talking about how his disguise had been a self-portrait. His brother had called him lonely and naive, and said he was desperate to show off. Those sorts of things rarely even register on his radar when they're usually said, because they conflict with his own image of himself--brilliant, unstoppable, always rational, always in control.]

[The truth is that Sherlock Holmes is a man that is full of so many contradictions that he can't even keep them all straight. He's a man with the mind of a scientist or a philosopher that decided to be a detective--when he could have just as easily been a criminal. He spent his whole life telling himself he needed no one--and still pretends that sometimes--but now he gets annoyed if best friend goes away for a weekend instead of running around the city with him. He labeled himself a sociopath but then tossed a man out the window for hurting his landlady because he cared that much. He hates his brother for spending a childhood trying to mother him because it rang with falseness, because he believes in his heart of hearts that Mycroft never actually cared about his well-being.]

[It took him 35 years to make a single friend and all 35 of those years he'd convinced himself he didn't need or want one. It took him even longer to feel anything even remotely akin to love, and yet longer still to have anything even remotely resembling sex, because he'd convinced himself that both were a waste of time, that they were weaknesses that he was completely above having.]

[Underneath the ice, underneath the carefully constructed facade that he presents to the world--and to himself--there is a young man that was a junkie because he didn't care about himself until a detective convinced him to get clean so he didn't destroy his mind. Underneath that is a younger man who spent his university days compulsively showing off how smart he was, pretending it wasn't because he was trying to impress, and getting called a freak until the word became something he stopped flinching at. Underneath that is a schoolboy who terrified the other students into leaving him alone, who got diagnosed for conduct disorder for setting fires and killing and dissecting animals, his curiosity and rationality (combustion was an interesting process and who cared about cats and frogs when people in other countries ate them?) mistaken for cruelty.]

[And buried at the very center, stuffed deep, deep down where he can't be hurt is a small boy that wanted to grow up to be a pirate.]

[It starts out very quiet. Just huffed breaths and the occasional shake of his shoulders. Then his shoulders shake more and a sob escapes his lips and he bites his hand to hold back the ones that threaten to follow after.]

[It's a catharsis more than anything else. It's shame at wanting and needing and feeling--and it's shame at lying to himself about not needing to want and need and feel. It's years of loneliness draining out of him in a rush and anger at himself for dealing with that loneliness with hostility and callousness so that he kept driving others away.]

[He feels pathetic and ashamed and humble and wanted all at once and he doesn't know what to do with it all, doesn't know how to handle it when he can't just shovel it all under the graveyard in the back of his head where all the things that are too intense for him to cope with rot and waste away to nothing.]

[There is a keening noise he doesn't even know that he was capable of--that he'd hoped he wasn't capable of--that comes from his throat, something mewling and pitiful. It makes the shame worse, but it feels good to feel the shame just because he's feeling something.]

[whatyoulike]

[His sobbing doesn't lessen her opinion of him in the slightest. Many of her clients had cried at one time or another after a session from the physical and emotional exhaustion of it. It was natural, to be expected. And, although it didn't come naturally to her, she had learned how to take on a comforting role and guide them through it with caresses and gentle words. To provide light as well as dark.

But it's more than that. He's seen her cry as well. Once, at the moment when her clever joke—the password she thought he'd never guess because it was something so human, so personal—became her undoing and he tore apart all her careful plans with the press of just four keys. She had cried then, silently, from the sheer horror of it and absolutely despised herself for doing so where he could see. Loathed herself for the way her voice quivered when she called after him. For letting her armor crack. For being weak. For being something other than The Woman at her most professional.

And again, kneeling at what was to be her execution. She had put on a brave front, didn't beg or plead. But it was only an act. In truth, she was terrified, and no amount of biting her inner lip or holding her shoulders taut as she waited for the blade could keep a tear from leaking out and trickling warm through her lashes and down her cheek. She had forgiven herself for that one. Who wouldn't cry at death?

So there's not an ounce of judgment or pity when she reaches out and rubs his back, murmuring nonsense phrases.]

[on_your_nerves]

[Sherlock flinches away, at first, like he doesn't want to be touched. The keening noises stop, even though his shoulders are still shaking and his breath is still coming in quiet, little gasps.]

[He wants to be touched and comforted, but doesn't want to want it. He wants to cling to her and shove her away at the same time.]

[Though she can't see it, his face contorts into a grimace as he fights with himself, as there's an absolutely vicious internal struggle. Then one part of him loses and another part wins, and he rolls over, sits up, and leans against her, butting his head into her shoulder. He can't make himself put his arms around her first, but he can force her to make the decision for him.]

[whatyoulike]

[Her arms come around to encircle him and she turns just slightly so his head shifts from her shoulder to lay against her collarbone instead. It's a nice, secure hold that says this is okay, that she isn't going anywhere, that he can stay right where he is and drip snot on her robe and it will all be fine.]

[on_your_nerves]

[He goes very quiet now, even though her robe is still consistently getting dripped on. Sherlock trembles as she holds him, tugging away from her slightly like he's going to shove her away, then stopping himself, tugging away from her slightly and then stopping himself, and then finally the struggling stops and he slowly relaxes in her arms, clinging to her like he'd curl up under her skin if it was possible.]

[It's very needy.]

[But then he's very damaged.]

[When they first met, she'd pretty much hit the nail on the head with that one.]

[whatyoulike]

Oh, it's all right. You're all right.

[Part of her is off thinking about checkout and flight times and whether, if he's still in this state by the time they have to leave, she should just phone down to the front desk and renew the room with some lighthearted comment about needing another day of honeymoon because, oh, it's all so wonderful, they can't bear to go home yet. Practicalities. But mostly she is there with him, rubbing soft circles on his back as one might with a child who's had a bad dream, and speaking in that same gentle tone she used way back when she snuck in to return his coat.]

[on_your_nerves]

[Sherlock keeps taking deep breaths, in and out, in and out, and finally starts to calm down. Now he's just getting very tired. Either he's going to have to book the room another night just to sleep--even if he's alright for her to leave--or he's going to have to sleep on the plane. His grip on her loosens, though he still leans his head against her, staring at the fabric of her robe.]

[His voice is shaky and very quiet, but he sounds more like himself when he finally speaks.]

To me, you are superlative, you know. You...you eclipse and predominate the whole of...

[The entire human race? No, there are others that are peerless in their ways, like John. For once, he can't find the words, so he just closes his eyes and lets that sentence trail off into silence. Irene Adler has her own category set aside, though. He settles for:]

You are without compare. Even if we walk away from here and never see one another again, that's how I'll hold you in my mind.

[He'd wanted to tell her that at least once, and the only reason he's done it is because all his barriers are down right now, letting him do what he wants.]

[whatyoulike]

And you're unexpectedly sweet with all the thinking worn out of you.

[It's a deflection. She wants to drink in all his unfiltered confessions, but can't bring herself to respond in kind. To acknowledge his importance to her would be to hand over a tiny sliver of power and she doesn't know how to set aside the game long enough for it to be any other way.

He occupies a singular position of respect, set apart from anyone she has ever encountered. Even pleading beneath her or crying against her chest, she respects him. For his mind and how he chooses to use it, for who he is. And yet, to articulate that feels like a concession.

Her own walls are still built too high to trade vulnerabilities, especially with the way he once used them against her.]

[on_your_nerves]

[There is tiny little bit of him that's soft, that's almost tender, that he always buries deep and keeps locked away, barricaded where it's safe, just like he keeps her old phone safely locked in the drawer of his file cabinet.]

[That part of him belongs to her.]

[(Hence why he kept her phone in the first place.)]

[He doesn't need her to say anything back. He's content to simply have that part of himself owned.]

[In any case, Sherlock is finally somewhat calmed down now, and leans back enough to press a small, soft kiss to the line of her jaw, before finally moving away, to sit up on the bed and work out how much pain exactly that he's in now that the adrenaline rush is fading. He's hurting quite a bit--starting to shake a little from it, in fact--and he should probably drink that water now.]