In his current state, John wasn't in a mood to resist. Sherlock was such a quick study- their years together meant he noticed every tiny detail about the doctor. He's been gathering data, hasn't he? Every woman I've brought home, every accidental moan in the shower or bath, every creak of my bed… He can play me like his violin. Though his thoughts were disjointed as he fought to focus through the liquor's haze, he found them poetic. Yes. Like his violin. Like my body is an instrument, an instrument for his pleasure…

Sherlock seemed to grow bored with the crop. He tossed it aside. John heard it clatter against the wooden floor. Unable to see, unable to move, John could only wait and anticipate his partner's next move. Unbeknownst to him, Sherlock was undressing. The detective moved carefully, so the rustling of his clothes didn't alert John to his plan. When he was fully nude he slicked his fingers and began to work them into John's warm body.

"Sherlock," John slurred, trying to spread his legs wider. "Y-yes, god, don't stop."

When he was fully open, rocking down against Sherlock's hand eagerly, whispering praises and pleading to be filled, Sherlock removed his fingers and replaced them with his cock. John gasped and tugged at the restraints. Beneath the silk blindfold his lashes were fluttering. "Fuck! Sherlock!"

"That's the point," Sherlock purred cheekily.

The detective's hips came forward, burying his prick in John's eager heat. A low groan tore itself from his throat as he started to move. John gasped and shifted against him. In his liquor-induced haze, he could feel every inch of Sherlock sliding into him, throbbing hot inside of his body with every buck, every thrust, every soft growl rumbling in his chest.

"M-more," he managed to mumble out. "Please, Sherlock!"

"You ask for more, again and again John… Are you sure that's what you desire? More? How much more, and of what?" He lowered his voice and leaned closer, close enough to smell the sweat on John's temple. "You don't what it is you ask of me. I will consume you, I will hurt you, and I deserve to. Don't I, John?"

"Yes," John panted. It was part of Sherlock's game, just a game and nothing more…

"More, more… You've asked twice now, for me to speak, for me to fuck… I want to hear you say it. I want to hear you say that you will take whatever I give you, without hesitation. Say it. Now," he hissed.

"Sherlock, I… I want it. I want everything, anything you'll give me, just..."

Sherlock chuckled. "Good boy, John."

The change was almost instant. His slow, steady thrusts became painful, fast and sharp. One hand closed over John's throat and squeezed. He couldn't pull breath—his chest burned as Sherlock fucked into him, face buried in the space beneath John's jaw. He could smell John's body fighting for oxygen, the desperate tang of sweat and the leaden scent of blood rushing beneath the surface of his skin. John jerked in his restraints and rasped for Sherlock to stop, to let him breathe, but his pleas fell on uncaring ears. Sherlock had warned him that tonight he was under the detective's control.

There were tears in John's eyes as Sherlock drove into him. His blood pounded in his ears as he tried—and failed—to suck down air. He was on fire, he was withering in Sherlock's grasp, and it terrified him.

"Sh… No…" He could barely form Sherlock's name.

"I've got you now, John. Mine, mine, all mine… My blogger, my doctor, my lover. No one else's… Say it."

"Y-yours," John choked out, much to Sherlock's delight. He filled him, again and again, pale cock scraping against the soft cluster of nerves inside of him, until he could take no more. He snarled out John's name as he pulsed inside of him. His skin was turning blue.

Sherlock released his throat and let John cough and sputter. He gasped down air, filling his lungs as Sherlock pulled out of him and started to stroke his softening length.

"N-no, Sherlock. Stop."

He halted, glaring down at the blindfolded doctor. Did he not understand? Sherlock needed to make John come, he needed to watch him spill, he needed to smell his own release against his skin.

"But you are mine. You gave me permission."

"Untie me." His voice was strained and raw. "Untie me, and let me go to sleep. I'm not… I don't want to get off tonight. Just leave me alone."

Sherlock took a minute to look at his own semen dripping down the curve of John's buttocks. He had wanted it rough. Sherlock had asked, Sherlock had been given consent—hadn't he?

"Yes, John," Sherlock sighed. He untied his wrists and pulled off the blindfold. His scent had changed, from the flushed pleasure of earlier to a stale panic as he blinked up at Sherlock. He took a breath, filing the shift away in his mind, making a note to examine it later.

John quickly pulled the blankets around his naked frame and looked away.

"Could I just… Could I have some privacy, please, Sherlock? Just… just for tonight." It didn't matter to him that this was, in fact, Sherlock's room. They hadn't kept the bedrooms distinct after that first night, laying tangled together beneath the duvet.

"… Of course," Sherlock finally answered. He pressed a soft kiss to John's lips that wasn't reciprocated.

"I… Goodnight, John."

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

He exited the room, leaving John to rub his bruised throat and wonder just how dangerous Sherlock could be when provoked.