Sheldon's solo
Summary: Sheldon masturbating. Carnal, secret Sheldon, alone in his room rubbing one out. Original prompt to be found here.
Words: 1,115
Pairing: Sheldon solo
Warnings: None
Rating: NC-17
~~~~~
Sheldon mutters grumpily as he shuts his bedroom door. What goes on in their tiny minds? How could Leonard think that he wouldn’t notice the one-degree change in the thermostat? Eight years of living together and he hadn’t yet managed to train his flatmate sufficiently. It was a good job that Leonard was working late or else he would have felt the full force of the almighty Sheldor’s wrath. Exasperation rolls off him in waves as he angrily grabs his laptop. He will try to focus on his work. Make use of the time without Leonard in order to get something PRODUCTIVE and beneficial to the whole of humanity done. Unlike Leonard. Poor little guy - still flailing away at his experiments...
His train of thought is abruptly severed as his desktop loads up. A moment’s pause - before he seethes “HOWARD!” His normal wallpaper - a beautiful (yet practical) visualisation of superstring theory - has disappeared. It has been replaced by an image that Sheldon finds simultaneously repellent and yet impossible to avert his eyes from - Amy Farrah Fowler’s face, photoshopped on to the naked body of a woman from one of those ‘men’s special interest’ magazines his mother had warned him about (once, long ago, before she’d surely realised that her Shelly was in no danger of sullying his mind with such trivia). He huffs in rage and gives himself a swat round his cheeks, making himself blink. This momentary distraction is enough to allow him to navigate to the Control Panel, to set about removing the filthy thing. As he fiddles with the settings, a barely audible stream of angry mutterings stream from his lips. “Howard - get you back - you’ll pay for this - you horrible, horrible, DIRTY bastard - shove your trade school diploma up your...”
Nothing he is trying is working. Damn the man, he’s obviously encoded a small but powerful bug into the machine. Every time he thinks the obscene image is gone, it’s back - Amy’s face, smiling up at him, with a mocking hint in her eyes as her hand - no, the model’s hand - caresses her - caresses her - Sheldon’s mind stutters over the word. This infuriates him even further. That Howard should be able to conquer the smooth operating processes of his brain!
“Cunt!” Sheldon spits, no longer certain whether he’s referring to his antagonist or to the picture.
The picture... his eyes are riveted on it again. He goes to shove the computer off his lap, but as he does so, the side of his hand brushes his crotch. He takes an involuntary gasp of air, his hand stilled. His anger has been so all-enveloping, he has not fully remarked what a state he’s in. The wrath coiling in his belly is competing now with another powerful sensation, one dormant since his early teens. Stupid, stupid, he thinks, and goes to complete the action of pushing away the laptop - but he can’t fight this temptation. His eyes fix again on the porno-Amy’s, and almost unconsciously, he unzips his fly and pushes his tighty-whiteys out of the way.
The too-warm air of the apartment on his hardened cock momentarily revives his frustration with Leonard; but that’s rapidly forgotten as he draws one finger up the underside of his penis. The smooth, controlled action makes him shudder - but he’s in full charge of this pleasure. Sheldon is always in control, he tells himself. As if to make sure, he repeats the gesture; this time tracing the finger round each of his balls first, contrasting the looser skin with the tighter, focusing on the sensation sending flickers of racing pleasure up his spine.
Convinced he’s demonstrated his self-control adequately (convinced he’s not behaving like a puny human) he takes his length in his right hand and slowly begins to pump. His breath comes in short gasps and he arches his neck back into the wall as the feeling - hot and powerful - washes though him. He tries to persuade himself to slow up - to delay his release - with his left hand he pinches one of his nipples through his shirts. The white flash of brief pain shifts back the rising tide within him momentarily, allowing him to picture how he must appear; legs spread akimbo on his duvet, flies wantonly undone, hand working busily over his oh-so-aesthetically pleasing functional cock, a cock so achingly hard and red that he whimpers in pleasure-pain to see how aroused he is. He stops pinching his nipple and instead slips his hand up under his shirts to caress his own stomach, brushing the head of his penis as he does so and letting out an involuntary yelp, closing his eyes. His breathing is heavier now; he cannot stop himself from moving his right hand faster and faster, squeezing tighter on the upstroke, looser on the down; sweeping his thumb over the head of his cock as it’s revealed, spreading the pre-cum till it works its way under his fingers, giving a new, slippery sensation to his frenzied stroking.
The ‘ding-dong’ noise of an IM appearing on his computer causes him to open his eyes and look again at the screen, having briefly forgotten what induced him to begin this debauchery in the first place. He is fixed in Amy’s devilish smirk, seduced all over again by that body on display - her hand clearly dipping and teasing her clit... He gasps and tightens his hand - he is coming, coming with a moan all over his hand, coming as he hasn’t in years. The spasm overtakes him completely and he shudders as load after load shoots over his stomach. Only when he finally relaxes does he absent-mindedly note the good fortune of having been caressing his torso at the time - at least his shirts have been held out of the way of the mess.
He cleans himself up with the wipes from his disaster survival pack, feeling partly ashamed of his weakness and partly angry with the sub-par engineer whose prank induced the episode in the first place. It is difficult though, to summon up the same level of wrath he had achieved pre-orgasm; he still feels boneless and sated, a deep glow of contentment flooding his whole being. Another ‘ding-dong’ reminds him that he hasn’t checked the message that arrived moments ago. Steadfastly averting his eyes from the nude image still disgracing his screen, he brings up the conversation - blushing as he realises it’s Amy, shamed by his most recent imagining of her in his head.
The shame is driven far away instantly as he takes in her typed message.
“So,” it reads, “what did you think of my picture? ;) “
Sheldon’s brain revs furiously in neutral. Another rare occurrence.
Words: 1,115
Pairing: Sheldon solo
Warnings: None
Rating: NC-17
~~~~~
Sheldon mutters grumpily as he shuts his bedroom door. What goes on in their tiny minds? How could Leonard think that he wouldn’t notice the one-degree change in the thermostat? Eight years of living together and he hadn’t yet managed to train his flatmate sufficiently. It was a good job that Leonard was working late or else he would have felt the full force of the almighty Sheldor’s wrath. Exasperation rolls off him in waves as he angrily grabs his laptop. He will try to focus on his work. Make use of the time without Leonard in order to get something PRODUCTIVE and beneficial to the whole of humanity done. Unlike Leonard. Poor little guy - still flailing away at his experiments...
His train of thought is abruptly severed as his desktop loads up. A moment’s pause - before he seethes “HOWARD!” His normal wallpaper - a beautiful (yet practical) visualisation of superstring theory - has disappeared. It has been replaced by an image that Sheldon finds simultaneously repellent and yet impossible to avert his eyes from - Amy Farrah Fowler’s face, photoshopped on to the naked body of a woman from one of those ‘men’s special interest’ magazines his mother had warned him about (once, long ago, before she’d surely realised that her Shelly was in no danger of sullying his mind with such trivia). He huffs in rage and gives himself a swat round his cheeks, making himself blink. This momentary distraction is enough to allow him to navigate to the Control Panel, to set about removing the filthy thing. As he fiddles with the settings, a barely audible stream of angry mutterings stream from his lips. “Howard - get you back - you’ll pay for this - you horrible, horrible, DIRTY bastard - shove your trade school diploma up your...”
Nothing he is trying is working. Damn the man, he’s obviously encoded a small but powerful bug into the machine. Every time he thinks the obscene image is gone, it’s back - Amy’s face, smiling up at him, with a mocking hint in her eyes as her hand - no, the model’s hand - caresses her - caresses her - Sheldon’s mind stutters over the word. This infuriates him even further. That Howard should be able to conquer the smooth operating processes of his brain!
“Cunt!” Sheldon spits, no longer certain whether he’s referring to his antagonist or to the picture.
The picture... his eyes are riveted on it again. He goes to shove the computer off his lap, but as he does so, the side of his hand brushes his crotch. He takes an involuntary gasp of air, his hand stilled. His anger has been so all-enveloping, he has not fully remarked what a state he’s in. The wrath coiling in his belly is competing now with another powerful sensation, one dormant since his early teens. Stupid, stupid, he thinks, and goes to complete the action of pushing away the laptop - but he can’t fight this temptation. His eyes fix again on the porno-Amy’s, and almost unconsciously, he unzips his fly and pushes his tighty-whiteys out of the way.
The too-warm air of the apartment on his hardened cock momentarily revives his frustration with Leonard; but that’s rapidly forgotten as he draws one finger up the underside of his penis. The smooth, controlled action makes him shudder - but he’s in full charge of this pleasure. Sheldon is always in control, he tells himself. As if to make sure, he repeats the gesture; this time tracing the finger round each of his balls first, contrasting the looser skin with the tighter, focusing on the sensation sending flickers of racing pleasure up his spine.
Convinced he’s demonstrated his self-control adequately (convinced he’s not behaving like a puny human) he takes his length in his right hand and slowly begins to pump. His breath comes in short gasps and he arches his neck back into the wall as the feeling - hot and powerful - washes though him. He tries to persuade himself to slow up - to delay his release - with his left hand he pinches one of his nipples through his shirts. The white flash of brief pain shifts back the rising tide within him momentarily, allowing him to picture how he must appear; legs spread akimbo on his duvet, flies wantonly undone, hand working busily over his oh-so-aesthetically pleasing functional cock, a cock so achingly hard and red that he whimpers in pleasure-pain to see how aroused he is. He stops pinching his nipple and instead slips his hand up under his shirts to caress his own stomach, brushing the head of his penis as he does so and letting out an involuntary yelp, closing his eyes. His breathing is heavier now; he cannot stop himself from moving his right hand faster and faster, squeezing tighter on the upstroke, looser on the down; sweeping his thumb over the head of his cock as it’s revealed, spreading the pre-cum till it works its way under his fingers, giving a new, slippery sensation to his frenzied stroking.
The ‘ding-dong’ noise of an IM appearing on his computer causes him to open his eyes and look again at the screen, having briefly forgotten what induced him to begin this debauchery in the first place. He is fixed in Amy’s devilish smirk, seduced all over again by that body on display - her hand clearly dipping and teasing her clit... He gasps and tightens his hand - he is coming, coming with a moan all over his hand, coming as he hasn’t in years. The spasm overtakes him completely and he shudders as load after load shoots over his stomach. Only when he finally relaxes does he absent-mindedly note the good fortune of having been caressing his torso at the time - at least his shirts have been held out of the way of the mess.
He cleans himself up with the wipes from his disaster survival pack, feeling partly ashamed of his weakness and partly angry with the sub-par engineer whose prank induced the episode in the first place. It is difficult though, to summon up the same level of wrath he had achieved pre-orgasm; he still feels boneless and sated, a deep glow of contentment flooding his whole being. Another ‘ding-dong’ reminds him that he hasn’t checked the message that arrived moments ago. Steadfastly averting his eyes from the nude image still disgracing his screen, he brings up the conversation - blushing as he realises it’s Amy, shamed by his most recent imagining of her in his head.
The shame is driven far away instantly as he takes in her typed message.
“So,” it reads, “what did you think of my picture? ;) “
Sheldon’s brain revs furiously in neutral. Another rare occurrence.