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Title: If at first...
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
unovis
Word Count: around 1000
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Warnings: dub-con fantasy? some roughness
Relationship: Sherlock/Lestrade, NC-17
Summary: The first time Lestrade touched Sherlock might have been right. Then again, possibly not.
Notes: The prompt was "If at first you don't succeed, try, try again." Well, the title relates to that. This is maybe the fifth fic I wrote yesterday and the one that I finished. It's mostly smut.
The first time he touched Sherlock Holmes, it was his fist in his hair, pulling him off... jerking him off...
“The first time I encountered your brother, as I’ve said, was at the site of the Grimber murder. Below the site, to be precise, on the pavement where he’d fallen. From the window. Onto the suspect, as luck had it.”
“The first time I met your son was at a crime scene.”
“The first time I met him, he was too dazed to speak. Less interesting than your story.”
“The first time I met Sherlock Holmes, I was impressed with his remarkable powers of observation and deduction. He remained, from that date, a valuable asset as a consultant to the department.”
The first time Lestrade touched Sherlock Holmes was when this junkie idiot sucked him off in an alley for a pack of cigarettes, both of them high and sloppy and mad. The second time Lestrade touched Sherlock Holmes, it was a year later and quite the shock.
[His libido fell to its knees and howled. He could see this, taste it, shoot it in the arse. Sherlock liked it rough and dirty, he knew, which suited Lestrade. They’d use each other, hard. Spit and blood and pain could scrub away the bad bust, the cheating wife, the fruitless inquiry, the petty boredom of the every goddamn day. God knew what it could do for Sherlock; he’d have to ask. Friends. That too.]
By the time they were friends, or friendly, by the time big brother intruded, well before the introduction of John Watson, Lestrade was sober and Sherlock was clean and there was no opening for sex. The chance for knee-busting, palm-scraping, head banging fumbles against the alley walls oh fuck the locker shower floor the empty cell the stairs biting on the wallet thrust into his mouth to muffle his...had passed. The cheating wife atoned. The children matured. The CCTV was upgraded and repaired.
There was no script, no anecdote, ever, of “the first time I fucked my friend/your brother/your son/your partner/the famous consultant/the charlatan.” Sherlock never acknowledged that first encounter, by word or touch or glance. Erased, Lestrade decided.
Lestrade did not erase. He played the best and dirtiest over in his mind, after his wife was false again and left, and increasingly after Sherlock “died.” All bets were off, then, all restraints. He didn’t feel the howling, scouring, grief of John Watson, or the self-castigating snuffling of Anderson. He felt disgust. He felt rage. He felt, again, the burn of lust. When the memory wore thin, he mined regrets.
There was the time, not the first, in the interrogation room. Wee hours of the night, no sleep, surly staff. “Bored,” growled Sherlock in his ear. “Camera,” said Lestrade. Sherlock sneered. Lestrade left.
[“Camera,” said Lestrade. “Bored,” insisted Sherlock, reaching for Lestrade’s belt. One hand, undoing Lestrade’s belt, one hand squeezing flesh through his trousers, teeth biting below his jaw. Lestrade pushing back, shoving Sherlock against the table. Trousers open, falling down, Sherlock pulling out Lestrade’s cock, still gnawing on his neck. His cock hardening in Sherlock’s hand... (he loved Sherlock’s hands, his fingers, scarred and long, his wrists, fine and strong)... There were cuffs attached to the table, if he could reach them. Sherlock hated, hated being tied or confined. They’d had some epic struggles over cuffs. If he could, he would, he’d throw him over, bolt him down, chest over shackled arms flat on the cold hard table, he’d bury himself in that plush white arse from behind, fist in his hair, elbow on his back, and grind “Why, why, you stupid, fucking bastard, why?”]
There was that second time he laid hands on Sherlock, pulling up his head, off the flattened, bleeding suspect dead beneath him. His mouth slack, his eyes glazed. His hand, randomly, grasping Lestrade’s inner thigh. “If he can walk, throw him in a cell,” he yelled at Cooper, who was saner, summoning aid. He was released, he returned and returned and returned, custom becoming friendship.
[“Throw him in a cell,” he yelled at Cooper. The slack mouth firmed and smirked; one glazed eye winked. Lestrade checked the cell hours later, after shift. He found Sherlock naked, lying on his bench. One arm bent behind his head. His other arm lay across his stomach, his hand grasping his shaft. “You took your time,” he grumbled, deep rumbled; hoarse, but resonant. Lestrade...
Suck or be sucked, he loved them both. That mouth wrapped around him, that cock on his tongue; both at once, the closed circuit, drinking each other down, hands clutching, fingers pressing into each other’s hips, jerking, rocking on the narrow, punishing bench.]
There was the time, the last time, Sherlock shook his hand. He could remember the press and feel of his fingers. He couldn’t remember the before or after or exactly when. “Take care,” he’d said, and Lestrade had thought that odd.
[“Take care,” he said, and let go Lestrade’s hand to hold his face, to pull him close into a kiss. They’d never kissed before. This was hot and open. This was teeth pressing into his lower lip. This was shockingly sweet. This was Sherlock, when they broke, laying his fingers across Lestrade’s mouth, letting them slide inside, letting Lestrade suck them, lick them, around and between, making them wet.
Naked below the waist, where were they? Naked, under their coats, outside, while sirens wailed? Sherlock’s long fingers, wet, stroking between Lestrade’s opened legs, rubbing across his sac, behind, and up, circling his opening. Lestrade gasps, Sherlock’s fingers stretch and push, up, in, harder in. He licks his lips, he looks cat-eyed in Lestrade’s eyes, and push up and in becomes in and out, in and out, three fingers, four, Lestrade can’t tell, just yes, yes, harder, yes, gripping Sherlock’s arms, and there there there there until his head snaps back to hit bricks and the sirens shriek.]
*
Now this.
Now, amazingly, finally, there’s this time, this time after time, that Sherlock came home.
“You bastard,” said Lestrade. He pulled him close. This time, he told himself (he hoped), he’d do it right.
Author:
unovisWord Count: around 1000
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Warnings: dub-con fantasy? some roughness
Relationship: Sherlock/Lestrade, NC-17
Summary: The first time Lestrade touched Sherlock might have been right. Then again, possibly not.
Notes: The prompt was "If at first you don't succeed, try, try again." Well, the title relates to that. This is maybe the fifth fic I wrote yesterday and the one that I finished. It's mostly smut.
The first time he touched Sherlock Holmes, it was his fist in his hair, pulling him off... jerking him off...
“The first time I encountered your brother, as I’ve said, was at the site of the Grimber murder. Below the site, to be precise, on the pavement where he’d fallen. From the window. Onto the suspect, as luck had it.”
“The first time I met your son was at a crime scene.”
“The first time I met him, he was too dazed to speak. Less interesting than your story.”
“The first time I met Sherlock Holmes, I was impressed with his remarkable powers of observation and deduction. He remained, from that date, a valuable asset as a consultant to the department.”
The first time Lestrade touched Sherlock Holmes was when this junkie idiot sucked him off in an alley for a pack of cigarettes, both of them high and sloppy and mad. The second time Lestrade touched Sherlock Holmes, it was a year later and quite the shock.
[His libido fell to its knees and howled. He could see this, taste it, shoot it in the arse. Sherlock liked it rough and dirty, he knew, which suited Lestrade. They’d use each other, hard. Spit and blood and pain could scrub away the bad bust, the cheating wife, the fruitless inquiry, the petty boredom of the every goddamn day. God knew what it could do for Sherlock; he’d have to ask. Friends. That too.]
By the time they were friends, or friendly, by the time big brother intruded, well before the introduction of John Watson, Lestrade was sober and Sherlock was clean and there was no opening for sex. The chance for knee-busting, palm-scraping, head banging fumbles against the alley walls oh fuck the locker shower floor the empty cell the stairs biting on the wallet thrust into his mouth to muffle his...had passed. The cheating wife atoned. The children matured. The CCTV was upgraded and repaired.
There was no script, no anecdote, ever, of “the first time I fucked my friend/your brother/your son/your partner/the famous consultant/the charlatan.” Sherlock never acknowledged that first encounter, by word or touch or glance. Erased, Lestrade decided.
Lestrade did not erase. He played the best and dirtiest over in his mind, after his wife was false again and left, and increasingly after Sherlock “died.” All bets were off, then, all restraints. He didn’t feel the howling, scouring, grief of John Watson, or the self-castigating snuffling of Anderson. He felt disgust. He felt rage. He felt, again, the burn of lust. When the memory wore thin, he mined regrets.
There was the time, not the first, in the interrogation room. Wee hours of the night, no sleep, surly staff. “Bored,” growled Sherlock in his ear. “Camera,” said Lestrade. Sherlock sneered. Lestrade left.
[“Camera,” said Lestrade. “Bored,” insisted Sherlock, reaching for Lestrade’s belt. One hand, undoing Lestrade’s belt, one hand squeezing flesh through his trousers, teeth biting below his jaw. Lestrade pushing back, shoving Sherlock against the table. Trousers open, falling down, Sherlock pulling out Lestrade’s cock, still gnawing on his neck. His cock hardening in Sherlock’s hand... (he loved Sherlock’s hands, his fingers, scarred and long, his wrists, fine and strong)... There were cuffs attached to the table, if he could reach them. Sherlock hated, hated being tied or confined. They’d had some epic struggles over cuffs. If he could, he would, he’d throw him over, bolt him down, chest over shackled arms flat on the cold hard table, he’d bury himself in that plush white arse from behind, fist in his hair, elbow on his back, and grind “Why, why, you stupid, fucking bastard, why?”]
There was that second time he laid hands on Sherlock, pulling up his head, off the flattened, bleeding suspect dead beneath him. His mouth slack, his eyes glazed. His hand, randomly, grasping Lestrade’s inner thigh. “If he can walk, throw him in a cell,” he yelled at Cooper, who was saner, summoning aid. He was released, he returned and returned and returned, custom becoming friendship.
[“Throw him in a cell,” he yelled at Cooper. The slack mouth firmed and smirked; one glazed eye winked. Lestrade checked the cell hours later, after shift. He found Sherlock naked, lying on his bench. One arm bent behind his head. His other arm lay across his stomach, his hand grasping his shaft. “You took your time,” he grumbled, deep rumbled; hoarse, but resonant. Lestrade...
Suck or be sucked, he loved them both. That mouth wrapped around him, that cock on his tongue; both at once, the closed circuit, drinking each other down, hands clutching, fingers pressing into each other’s hips, jerking, rocking on the narrow, punishing bench.]
There was the time, the last time, Sherlock shook his hand. He could remember the press and feel of his fingers. He couldn’t remember the before or after or exactly when. “Take care,” he’d said, and Lestrade had thought that odd.
[“Take care,” he said, and let go Lestrade’s hand to hold his face, to pull him close into a kiss. They’d never kissed before. This was hot and open. This was teeth pressing into his lower lip. This was shockingly sweet. This was Sherlock, when they broke, laying his fingers across Lestrade’s mouth, letting them slide inside, letting Lestrade suck them, lick them, around and between, making them wet.
Naked below the waist, where were they? Naked, under their coats, outside, while sirens wailed? Sherlock’s long fingers, wet, stroking between Lestrade’s opened legs, rubbing across his sac, behind, and up, circling his opening. Lestrade gasps, Sherlock’s fingers stretch and push, up, in, harder in. He licks his lips, he looks cat-eyed in Lestrade’s eyes, and push up and in becomes in and out, in and out, three fingers, four, Lestrade can’t tell, just yes, yes, harder, yes, gripping Sherlock’s arms, and there there there there until his head snaps back to hit bricks and the sirens shriek.]
*
Now this.
Now, amazingly, finally, there’s this time, this time after time, that Sherlock came home.
“You bastard,” said Lestrade. He pulled him close. This time, he told himself (he hoped), he’d do it right.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2015-03-17 01:58 pm (UTC)Say, you started four other fics yesterday? What blandishments might a reader offer to encourage you to finish and post them?
(no subject)
Date: 2015-03-17 11:45 pm (UTC)I think there's only one worth salvaging. I'm poking it now, after a nap.
(no subject)
Date: 2015-03-17 02:18 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2015-03-17 11:45 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2015-03-17 02:24 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2015-03-17 11:46 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2015-03-17 06:57 pm (UTC)Thanks for sharing!
(no subject)
Date: 2015-03-17 11:50 pm (UTC)I'm happy you liked this little quickie.
(no subject)
Date: 2015-03-18 01:53 am (UTC)More! More! Bravo!
(no subject)
Date: 2015-03-19 01:46 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2015-03-18 07:28 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2015-03-19 01:47 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2015-03-18 12:47 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2015-03-19 01:52 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2015-03-18 12:55 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2015-03-19 01:53 pm (UTC)