Etched
Title: Etched
Author: jaune_chat
Fandoms: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: Lestrade/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 935
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Humiliation, rough sex
Disclaimer: Not mine! Just playing!
A/N: Written for Five Acts!
Summary: Lestrade has a problem whenever Sherlock decides to mouth off.
The poison dropped so easily from his lips. Contempt exuded from every dismissive expression, those pale eyes cold with dismissal, barely glancing over Lestrade, ignoring him because he wasn't interesting.
"We think he got in the building through the window, sometime right after closing," Lestrade said, trying to impart what information he could before Sherlock could shoot him down.
"Stop right there." Sherlock didn't even look at him, the corpse in the corner holding all his attention. "You thought, Lestrade. Nothing good can come of that."
It was all Lestrade could do to keep his arousal down to acceptable levels. The flush to his cheeks could be taken for anger.
"It's the only way in that isn't secured," he persisted.
"And yet here he is, stabbed with an antique pen, where he should have passed the security camera to enter. But there will be no record of that." Sherlock waved his hand, excluding Lestrade from his presence, and Gregory leaned his head back on the wall, eyes closed. His subordinates must have thought he was praying for patience; most of them did the same whenever Sherlock was around.
Despite Lestrade leaving Sherlock alone, his words persisted, drilling into Lestrade’s mind.
“Five minutes could have told anyone with a functioning brain how this man died, but yet you insisted on dragging me out of my flat for this minor inconvenience? Pathetic.”
Sherlock’s voice curled around something deep inside Lestrade, a place where all his fears and inadequacies lay, and tugged at them, awakening something primal.
“Are we looking for an angry editor, a jilted lover, what?” Lestrade asked, opening his eyes and nearly forgetting to breathe when Sherlock closed the distance between them.
“Entirely the opposite. Which any fool could see, if you just opened your eyes and observed.” The dig at Lestrade trying to give his eccentric consultant some of the privacy he demanded, and then being ridiculed for it, made some of the other Met officers in earshot stare at them.
“Out!” Lestrade demanded, and the remaining officers all jumped to obey. When the door shut behind them, sealing them inside with the corpse, Sherlock moved. His hand thrust down Lestrade’s trousers and cradled his quickly-hardening cock.
“Afraid of what your peons would say, Detective Inspector?” Sherlock asked, smirking. His hand squeezed gently, and Lestrade jumped in his grip. “I recall it’s their duty to observe their superiors, to learn proper behavior.”
A flick with his other hand, and Sherlock had Lestrade’s trousers and boxers down around his knees. “Why should you care what they see?” He stroked once, and Lestrade moaned almost soundlessly, eyes flicking restlessly towards the door.
“They should see you. It’s only proper, what you’re doing.” Sherlock’s hand trailed behind Lestrade’s testicles, and a long, slender digit penetrated him without further ado. Lestrade enveloped him easily, but the way was dry, and he could feel every maddening wriggle of Sherlock’s finger.
“They should know you need to be made small. Inadequate.” Sherlock’s tone was dry, matter-of-fact, and Lestrade felt the guilt and humiliation feeding into his impending orgasm in an unstoppable, rising tide. His cock surged and tapped against Sherlock’s arm. The finger inside him was joined by a second, and the rising burn made Lestrade gasp.
“Do they realize you call me so often, not because you’re as hopeless and hapless as you are, but because you cannot function without me?”
Sherlock’s lips were practically at Lestrade’s ear, and his fingers pumped in and out in a deep and punishing rhythm. Squirming, Lestrade jerked his hips down, meeting Sherlock’s motions, and nodded helplessly against the fine silk of Sherlock’s shirt.
“That you cannot find satisfaction without me?” Sherlock said, poison and heat pouring directly into Lestrade’s heart. Sherlock’s fingers stilled, and Lestrade gasped, poised on the crest of the wave, desperate to dive into the blackness Sherlock’s presence promised him.
“Such good work you do, Lestrade. Your underlings don’t know you very well at all.” Sherlock smiled cruelly as he administered his praise, and Lestrade made a tiny, strangled whine in the back of his throat.
“That you’re nothing.”
Lestrade felt the surge of pleasure at Sherlock’s words, so strong he gripped the wall for support.
“A mockery of the justice system.”
He bucked desperately against Sherlock’s hand, taking three fingers with pained ease.
“Nothing but a toy that I use to while away my time.”
His face was glowing red with shame, but his cock was harder than ever.
“A fraud, Gregory. That’s all you are, a play-acting fraud outshone by even the pettiest of crooks, and all for the glamour of authority.” The sneer in Sherlock’s voice was acidic, cutting and etching the shape of his contempt into Lestrade’s heart. Gasping, he arched and spasmed as Sherlock pressed down hard inside him, driving his release from him.
His breathing slowed, but his knees still felt like jelly. He tried to lean against Sherlock for support, but Sherlock shoved him off, letting him lean against the wall to recover. Sherlock stepped back a pace and raked his eyes over Lestrade before dismissing him again, turning back to the door and opening it the barest fraction.
“Get Anderson in here. And arrest this man’s professor; he was murdered in a jealous rage because his words were better than his teacher’s. Why else would the professor have tried to carve out his heart with a pen?”
Lestrade’s cock gave a last, desperate spasm of interest at Sherlock’s words even as Gregory rapidly got himself together before Sherlock pushed open the door and let the rest of the world back in.
Author: jaune_chat
Fandoms: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: Lestrade/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 935
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Humiliation, rough sex
Disclaimer: Not mine! Just playing!
A/N: Written for Five Acts!
Summary: Lestrade has a problem whenever Sherlock decides to mouth off.
The poison dropped so easily from his lips. Contempt exuded from every dismissive expression, those pale eyes cold with dismissal, barely glancing over Lestrade, ignoring him because he wasn't interesting.
"We think he got in the building through the window, sometime right after closing," Lestrade said, trying to impart what information he could before Sherlock could shoot him down.
"Stop right there." Sherlock didn't even look at him, the corpse in the corner holding all his attention. "You thought, Lestrade. Nothing good can come of that."
It was all Lestrade could do to keep his arousal down to acceptable levels. The flush to his cheeks could be taken for anger.
"It's the only way in that isn't secured," he persisted.
"And yet here he is, stabbed with an antique pen, where he should have passed the security camera to enter. But there will be no record of that." Sherlock waved his hand, excluding Lestrade from his presence, and Gregory leaned his head back on the wall, eyes closed. His subordinates must have thought he was praying for patience; most of them did the same whenever Sherlock was around.
Despite Lestrade leaving Sherlock alone, his words persisted, drilling into Lestrade’s mind.
“Five minutes could have told anyone with a functioning brain how this man died, but yet you insisted on dragging me out of my flat for this minor inconvenience? Pathetic.”
Sherlock’s voice curled around something deep inside Lestrade, a place where all his fears and inadequacies lay, and tugged at them, awakening something primal.
“Are we looking for an angry editor, a jilted lover, what?” Lestrade asked, opening his eyes and nearly forgetting to breathe when Sherlock closed the distance between them.
“Entirely the opposite. Which any fool could see, if you just opened your eyes and observed.” The dig at Lestrade trying to give his eccentric consultant some of the privacy he demanded, and then being ridiculed for it, made some of the other Met officers in earshot stare at them.
“Out!” Lestrade demanded, and the remaining officers all jumped to obey. When the door shut behind them, sealing them inside with the corpse, Sherlock moved. His hand thrust down Lestrade’s trousers and cradled his quickly-hardening cock.
“Afraid of what your peons would say, Detective Inspector?” Sherlock asked, smirking. His hand squeezed gently, and Lestrade jumped in his grip. “I recall it’s their duty to observe their superiors, to learn proper behavior.”
A flick with his other hand, and Sherlock had Lestrade’s trousers and boxers down around his knees. “Why should you care what they see?” He stroked once, and Lestrade moaned almost soundlessly, eyes flicking restlessly towards the door.
“They should see you. It’s only proper, what you’re doing.” Sherlock’s hand trailed behind Lestrade’s testicles, and a long, slender digit penetrated him without further ado. Lestrade enveloped him easily, but the way was dry, and he could feel every maddening wriggle of Sherlock’s finger.
“They should know you need to be made small. Inadequate.” Sherlock’s tone was dry, matter-of-fact, and Lestrade felt the guilt and humiliation feeding into his impending orgasm in an unstoppable, rising tide. His cock surged and tapped against Sherlock’s arm. The finger inside him was joined by a second, and the rising burn made Lestrade gasp.
“Do they realize you call me so often, not because you’re as hopeless and hapless as you are, but because you cannot function without me?”
Sherlock’s lips were practically at Lestrade’s ear, and his fingers pumped in and out in a deep and punishing rhythm. Squirming, Lestrade jerked his hips down, meeting Sherlock’s motions, and nodded helplessly against the fine silk of Sherlock’s shirt.
“That you cannot find satisfaction without me?” Sherlock said, poison and heat pouring directly into Lestrade’s heart. Sherlock’s fingers stilled, and Lestrade gasped, poised on the crest of the wave, desperate to dive into the blackness Sherlock’s presence promised him.
“Such good work you do, Lestrade. Your underlings don’t know you very well at all.” Sherlock smiled cruelly as he administered his praise, and Lestrade made a tiny, strangled whine in the back of his throat.
“That you’re nothing.”
Lestrade felt the surge of pleasure at Sherlock’s words, so strong he gripped the wall for support.
“A mockery of the justice system.”
He bucked desperately against Sherlock’s hand, taking three fingers with pained ease.
“Nothing but a toy that I use to while away my time.”
His face was glowing red with shame, but his cock was harder than ever.
“A fraud, Gregory. That’s all you are, a play-acting fraud outshone by even the pettiest of crooks, and all for the glamour of authority.” The sneer in Sherlock’s voice was acidic, cutting and etching the shape of his contempt into Lestrade’s heart. Gasping, he arched and spasmed as Sherlock pressed down hard inside him, driving his release from him.
His breathing slowed, but his knees still felt like jelly. He tried to lean against Sherlock for support, but Sherlock shoved him off, letting him lean against the wall to recover. Sherlock stepped back a pace and raked his eyes over Lestrade before dismissing him again, turning back to the door and opening it the barest fraction.
“Get Anderson in here. And arrest this man’s professor; he was murdered in a jealous rage because his words were better than his teacher’s. Why else would the professor have tried to carve out his heart with a pen?”
Lestrade’s cock gave a last, desperate spasm of interest at Sherlock’s words even as Gregory rapidly got himself together before Sherlock pushed open the door and let the rest of the world back in.