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Feb. 15th, 2011 12:18 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
r_scribblesOh God, really quick fic post - knocked this up in about an hour, but it needed to come out. The story of Sit On Sherlock - with added Victor Bloody Trevor. WARNING - bullying and underage (teen) m/m sex.
Fun & Games
-x-
The game started when he was 9. Back then it had just been two or three boys at a time, of his own age, seeing how many it would take to pin him down. He’d always been underweight, which had made him a target, he supposed… well. That was one of many aspects of his nature that made him a natural target for bullies. He quickly learned the fastest ways to wrestle them off him, though, and hurt them in the process, and for a while, the boys decided that it really wasn’t worth the bother, and went back to just calling him names.
Then a few months later, some older boys decided to try it. It wasn’t an entirely unprovoked attack, and he knew that the objective was to humiliate him more than hurt him – although, it did hurt. It was an idiotic ‘sport’ – four teenagers sitting on a 9 year old boy, pinning him to the ground, crushing him… and because it was idiotic, everybody seemed to think it was hilarious.
Well. Almost everybody. And as humiliating as the ever increasing volume of older boys piling on top of him was, nothing embarrassed him more than Mycroft’s interventions. He didn’t want Mycroft – beloved Mycroft – House Prefect Mycroft – to fight his battles for him. But what did Mycroft care about what he wanted?
It wasn’t that the games didn’t continue as Mycroft remained at the school – the first student ever to be granted the position of Head Boy for both the Lower and Upper 6th – but they were few and far between, and almost always limited to evenings when Mycroft was in attendance at School Board Meetings and Fundraising Events elsewhere.
And then, when Sherlock was 11, his brother left school and went away to University. And the games returned, in earnest. The rugby players were the worst – they never could seem to grasp the concept of pinning him one at a time – they’d all just leap on him as a team. He taught himself to fight dirty pretty bloody fast – trained on the sports field to bring up his sprinting speed, and at the gymnasium to increase his agility… he even joined the fencing club and took up boxing – but still, the sheer numbers were always against him. Fight as he might, run and clamber and scrabble as he might, he was never able to escape the inevitable when the cry of ‘Sit On Sherlock’ went up.
There was only one person who ever wanted to help him, when it happened. Perhaps Victor wasn’t as universally adored as Mycroft – perhaps his word didn’t wield as much power, but he was often able to pull people up off if he happened upon a gang piling on to him. He even managed to halt a couple of games before they’d really got into full swing – before there were a dozen teenaged boys crushing the air out of his chest and grinding his face into the floor. Sherlock didn’t feel as ashamed by Victor helping out as he had when it had been Mycroft. In fact, when he pondered it, it actually felt good to know he had a friend looking out for him. Victor made him feel fond, and warm, and wanted. And, as puberty struck, thinking about Victor began to elicit new sensations. A writhing in the pit of his belly. A warmth to his cheeks.
But Victor was 4 years above him, and when Sherlock was 14 he knew that Victor too would soon be leaving for University, and would leave him all alone again. He wasn’t really worried about the games, any more. He just didn’t want to be stuck at that wretched place with absolutely no one to talk to. With no one who made him feel the way that Victor made him feel.
One night, a week or so before the Summer holidays, Sherlock felt a weight on his stomach. For a second, he wondered if it was the game again, but the games were always preceded by whoops and screams and insults in his direction. This was utterly silent, and there was only one person on top of him. He didn’t open his eyes, but listened to the breathing of the person on top of him.
Victor.
His skin smelled of grass and his breath smelled of cider. He’d been off drinking with some of his Upper 6th friends behind the gym. And now he’d come back, drunk, and was on top of him.
Sherlock kept his eyes shut – he wasn’t sure what else to do. He felt a hand ghost over his cheekbone, gently tuck back a lock of hair.
‘God, I’ll miss you,’ came the whisper.
Sherlock stayed completely still, his eyes closed, and waited, and hoped for hot, cider scented lips on his.
But then Victor’s name was called from the corridor beyond, and the weight suddenly shifted from Sherlock’s stomach. He heard Victor stumble off to meet his friends. He was alone again.
Another year passed.
It was just about dawn, on Easter Monday. He heard the birds chirping and chirping and fucking chirping, and wished they’d shut up. The haze of cannabis had left him sharply as soon as the pain had begun and the sensation that overwhelmed him, besides how much this was hurting, was that of the weight on top of him - pinning him, crushing the air out of his chest, grinding his face into the seat.
Sit on Sherlock. Sit on Sherlock.
He wanted to tell Victor to stop, but that really wasn’t the done thing, was it? This was what he wanted, wasn’t he? He’d dreamed about this – craved this. And anyway, he loved Victor. He couldn’t stop it now that he’d just found out his feelings were reciprocated, could he - now that he had the chance of winning him over from his fiancée..? Victor grunted and shifted his position a little, and set off a new wave of pain.
Sit on Sherlock. Sit on Sherlock. Sit on Sherlock.
Fun & Games
-x-
The game started when he was 9. Back then it had just been two or three boys at a time, of his own age, seeing how many it would take to pin him down. He’d always been underweight, which had made him a target, he supposed… well. That was one of many aspects of his nature that made him a natural target for bullies. He quickly learned the fastest ways to wrestle them off him, though, and hurt them in the process, and for a while, the boys decided that it really wasn’t worth the bother, and went back to just calling him names.
Then a few months later, some older boys decided to try it. It wasn’t an entirely unprovoked attack, and he knew that the objective was to humiliate him more than hurt him – although, it did hurt. It was an idiotic ‘sport’ – four teenagers sitting on a 9 year old boy, pinning him to the ground, crushing him… and because it was idiotic, everybody seemed to think it was hilarious.
Well. Almost everybody. And as humiliating as the ever increasing volume of older boys piling on top of him was, nothing embarrassed him more than Mycroft’s interventions. He didn’t want Mycroft – beloved Mycroft – House Prefect Mycroft – to fight his battles for him. But what did Mycroft care about what he wanted?
It wasn’t that the games didn’t continue as Mycroft remained at the school – the first student ever to be granted the position of Head Boy for both the Lower and Upper 6th – but they were few and far between, and almost always limited to evenings when Mycroft was in attendance at School Board Meetings and Fundraising Events elsewhere.
And then, when Sherlock was 11, his brother left school and went away to University. And the games returned, in earnest. The rugby players were the worst – they never could seem to grasp the concept of pinning him one at a time – they’d all just leap on him as a team. He taught himself to fight dirty pretty bloody fast – trained on the sports field to bring up his sprinting speed, and at the gymnasium to increase his agility… he even joined the fencing club and took up boxing – but still, the sheer numbers were always against him. Fight as he might, run and clamber and scrabble as he might, he was never able to escape the inevitable when the cry of ‘Sit On Sherlock’ went up.
There was only one person who ever wanted to help him, when it happened. Perhaps Victor wasn’t as universally adored as Mycroft – perhaps his word didn’t wield as much power, but he was often able to pull people up off if he happened upon a gang piling on to him. He even managed to halt a couple of games before they’d really got into full swing – before there were a dozen teenaged boys crushing the air out of his chest and grinding his face into the floor. Sherlock didn’t feel as ashamed by Victor helping out as he had when it had been Mycroft. In fact, when he pondered it, it actually felt good to know he had a friend looking out for him. Victor made him feel fond, and warm, and wanted. And, as puberty struck, thinking about Victor began to elicit new sensations. A writhing in the pit of his belly. A warmth to his cheeks.
But Victor was 4 years above him, and when Sherlock was 14 he knew that Victor too would soon be leaving for University, and would leave him all alone again. He wasn’t really worried about the games, any more. He just didn’t want to be stuck at that wretched place with absolutely no one to talk to. With no one who made him feel the way that Victor made him feel.
One night, a week or so before the Summer holidays, Sherlock felt a weight on his stomach. For a second, he wondered if it was the game again, but the games were always preceded by whoops and screams and insults in his direction. This was utterly silent, and there was only one person on top of him. He didn’t open his eyes, but listened to the breathing of the person on top of him.
Victor.
His skin smelled of grass and his breath smelled of cider. He’d been off drinking with some of his Upper 6th friends behind the gym. And now he’d come back, drunk, and was on top of him.
Sherlock kept his eyes shut – he wasn’t sure what else to do. He felt a hand ghost over his cheekbone, gently tuck back a lock of hair.
‘God, I’ll miss you,’ came the whisper.
Sherlock stayed completely still, his eyes closed, and waited, and hoped for hot, cider scented lips on his.
But then Victor’s name was called from the corridor beyond, and the weight suddenly shifted from Sherlock’s stomach. He heard Victor stumble off to meet his friends. He was alone again.
Another year passed.
It was just about dawn, on Easter Monday. He heard the birds chirping and chirping and fucking chirping, and wished they’d shut up. The haze of cannabis had left him sharply as soon as the pain had begun and the sensation that overwhelmed him, besides how much this was hurting, was that of the weight on top of him - pinning him, crushing the air out of his chest, grinding his face into the seat.
Sit on Sherlock. Sit on Sherlock.
He wanted to tell Victor to stop, but that really wasn’t the done thing, was it? This was what he wanted, wasn’t he? He’d dreamed about this – craved this. And anyway, he loved Victor. He couldn’t stop it now that he’d just found out his feelings were reciprocated, could he - now that he had the chance of winning him over from his fiancée..? Victor grunted and shifted his position a little, and set off a new wave of pain.
Sit on Sherlock. Sit on Sherlock. Sit on Sherlock.
