MiniFill, but this prompt deserves so much more!
anonymous
February 23 2011, 17:50:41 UTC
See title!
John can't stop trembling.
It's cold outside, and all he has on is a pair of jeans and one of Sherlock's button-ups. Bare feet, no shoes, no time for shoes, this is the first chance he's had, and he took it, he had to take it, he hates himself for taking it, but he couldn't stay, he couldn't.
Dear John, and he can't see him, can barely hear him, but the vibrations from the deep voice roll through him, Dear John, he says, trailing fingers over his face like he's something precious.
His legs can barely support him, but he keeps stumbling, dragging his shoulder along brick, and it's hard, he hasn't been on his feet for a week, an entire week, seven days tied down, no matter how he asked begged demanded pleaded.
It is necessary, you see, and John flinches at the baritone, the first noise in hours, but towards it or away he can't recall. You say you won't leave, John, but people lie, John, people lie all the time, and it's not that I don't believe trust love you, John, I just don't trust humanity.
John is panting; short, shallow breaths that exit his lips in a white haze. And he's dizzy, and weak, and he’s stumbling tripping dragging himself away, just away, not sure where he's going.
You understand, don't you John, I knew you'd understand, and his smile is blinding, directed all at him, but John can't smile back, can't, because he's sore and hungry and thirsty and the gag won't let him anyway.
New Scotland Yard shines like a beacon of pure hope, and John's not quite sure how he got there but it's lovely, so lovely. And it hits him like a fist, Lestrade, Lestrade can help will help must help, Sherlock had been on a case and crashed afterwards, had released John to fall asleep wrapped around him, was still asleep, please still be asleep, but Lestrade would be up would be here would help.
And it's empty, blissfully empty, except for the light pouring into the hallway from Lestrade's office, from Lestrade, all lit up and sallow underneath the desk lamp.
"John, are you alright?"
And he isn't, he isn't, he tries to say but can't, can't speak, can only breathe, can only try and slow his lungs down, breathe through his nose, and Lestrade pushes him into a chair.
"You look a mess, what happened?"
Sherlock, your lips move, but no sound comes out, just a croak, a rattle, just dry air moving past chapped lips. And Lestrade hands him the bottle of water hiding among the paperwork but his hands are trembling, he is trembling, and he can't hold onto the cap long enough to twist it off.
Lestrade huffs as he takes the bottle back, twists the cap off, hands it over and it is old and warm and wonderful and lovely.
"Should have known he wouldn't take care of you properly."
And the plastic bottle squeals as John's fist tightens around it.
"Think he'll let me have a go at you for bringing you back?"
He can't breathe again, can't, can only take short, shallow breaths, except he's not breathing, not entirely, because with each exhale his lips form the word no, no, no, but the sound refuses to form.
"Probably best not to ask," Lestrade grins down at him, leans close to him, "he'll be pissed enough for letting you escape."
Bonus points for dark!Lestrade? I think he might just be my new favorite kink.
Re: MiniFill, but this prompt deserves so much more!
anonymous
February 24 2011, 19:05:08 UTC
The scenario you've set up is so creepy and startling, with Sherlock's words alternating with John's POV to capture John's terror, along with the horrifying realization that Lestrade is not who he seems. But it sets my mind whirling, wondering: How did we get here? Were there warning signs or did John just wake up one day tied to the bed? And what about Lestrade, especially the "Think he'll let me have a go at you for bringing you back?" comment? Has Sherlock does this before to other people and Lestrade's covered it up, maybe in exchange for some "favours?"
In short, I loved it and if you ever wrote more, I'd gobble it up.
Re: MiniFill, but this prompt deserves so much more!
anonymous
February 26 2011, 21:00:47 UTC
Bonus fucking first-born, internets and cookies for dark!Lestrade - god damn that was unexpected and hot like burning! (Why the hell hasn't there been more dark!Lestrade?!?!?)
Apparently I Wrote More (!?) - DarkFic Prequel
anonymous
March 14 2011, 03:05:54 UTC
He always knew there was something a bit off about him. Something different, something twisted, in what he wanted from others.
Normal people, in their normal lives, have things like pride and dignity, arrogance and self-respect; things that prevent them from exposing the soft innards of their personalities, all the disgusting, messy bits. The greed, the fear, the selfishness, the unapologetic self interest gets shoved back and hidden and lied about. Which is unfortunately, really, because that’s his favorite part about humanity. That’s the part that makes him feel a little less malignant
Before he moved into the homicide division, Sergeant Lestrade spent several years with narcotics.
And there was just something about the addicts he met there, their utter and consuming desire for their drug of choice. Like they were human beings at their most honest, in that moment, willing to put forward any sort of payment, so long as it kept them from lock up, kept them intoxicated. Money they didn’t have, threats that held no weight, objects they didn’t own, the poison riddled bodies they did, all laid at the feet of a Sargent who had never been entirely innocent.
It was a heady feeling, to be on the receiving end of it; and that was enough, for a while, to know he held that sort of power but to not wield it.
Until the day it wasn’t.
The day a young man- just a boy, really- with eyes so green, a green that burst out of bloodshot red, offered anything, anything, I swear, I won’t tell anyone, and Lestrade knew he wouldn’t be the first cop to yield to temptation, and he knew he wouldn’t be the last, and so he got himself a blowjob from an uninclined, but not unwilling, participant.
It was clumsy. Messy. He had to remind the boy repeatedly to keep his eyes open, keep your eyes on me, that’s it. Still the best orgasm of his life.
After that it was like an uphill battle, and battle that he wasn’t sure he would win, wasn’t sure if he wanted to win. And he knew it could only end badly. He had seen it end badly, seen it end in shame and disgrace and discharge from the force. So he took the logical route, the safe dull boring insipid route and filed for a transfer, hoped to hide himself behind dead bodies that couldn’t beg for clemency.
Sometimes he wonders if it was fate, or destiny, or the invisible hand of a God more vindictive towards his children than anyone guessed, that led him to Sherlock Holmes. Most of the time he just thinks it coincidence that on his very last drugs bust he found himself in front of the man who saw everything.
Sherlock Holmes is like no other man on earth, of that Lestrade is certain. As an addict he was no different. No begging, no pleading, no offers. Just grey eyes to distract from his pin pricked forearm, and a smirk, a smirk that made Lestrade’s stomach drop the first time he saw it because this man knew, he knew.
“I can get you what you want.”
Because there’s no need to agonize when you know exactly what to offer.
“I prefer blonds.”
“Excellent.” And that smirk grew and changed into something frightening, something familiar, something Lestrade had only seen in mirrors before. “So do I.”
Apparently I Wrote More (!?) - DarkFic Sequel (1a/1)
anonymous
March 14 2011, 03:07:21 UTC
In a way, Sherlock is proud of him.
After all, how many men can claim to have the courage to run away, knowing full and well that tracking them down would be child’s play? To know how futile it was, to know that there would be repercussions, and to strive for freedom anyway, took a certain mixture of valor and hopeless stupidity.
He can be forgiven, in time, Sherlock supposes. John is so unavoidably human, after all.
But not tonight.
Sherlock knows that he loves like an infant: selfishly, greedily, and entirely in his own self interest. He is loath to share John with anything, ever, yet has no trouble ignoring him in favor of his own desires. He knows it is not love, true love, not that thing described as gallant and lovely and equal, but he also knows that this feeling is the closest he will get to it, and it is a fair enough term for his uses.
People in love do not do what he does to John, and he knows this too, and he does not care.
Love does not compel one to confine their object of affection to a bed for over 150 hours. But really, after the first incident that restraints were introduced to their intimate relations, how could John expect his mind not to go down that path? John loves him, after all, real love, true love, and doesn’t that imply a certain knowledge of the person?
Perhaps he is giving John too much credit. It had been an accident, after all.
He simply neglected to release the man when he ran off to pursue Lestrade’s latest case. But it had been such a relief, knowing exactly where John would be upon his return. Such a dramatic easing of tension, knowing John, wonderfully, terribly human John, wouldn’t suddenly realize exactly what he had given his heart to and run away screaming.
Oh, he screamed anyway, but the cheerful red ball gag muffled it amazingly. And it had looked so nice against his skin, Sherlock had decided to keep it there, even after he stopped.
Lestrade is unbearably smug as he prods the wayward man upstairs. Smug and hopeful, and completely obvious in what he wants. It seems that John has yet to regain his voice as he shivers in their sitting room, clearly conflicted on whether to lean towards Sherlock or Lestrade. No choice he makes at this point will end well for him; it is obvious he knows this.
Discordantly, at the moment, all Sherlock can manage is a deep irritation. Logic dictates that he should be feeling exceedingly wroth, and he knows he will, eventually. But the fact of the matter is that all Sherlock wants to do at this very moment is sleep. Between the case provided by Lestrade and John’s appealingly prostrate form, in the last seven days he has gotten less than 30 hours of sleep, none of which occurred in the last 48 hours. It was a regrettable lapse of judgment that led to the release of John’s restraints, but Sherlock couldn’t muster the energy required to lament it, as at the time it was necessary for an appropriate rest.
No doubt, after several hours of sleep, he will be all too keen to show John the error of his ways. But not right now.
John can't stop trembling.
It's cold outside, and all he has on is a pair of jeans and one of Sherlock's button-ups. Bare feet, no shoes, no time for shoes, this is the first chance he's had, and he took it, he had to take it, he hates himself for taking it, but he couldn't stay, he couldn't.
Dear John, and he can't see him, can barely hear him, but the vibrations from the deep voice roll through him, Dear John, he says, trailing fingers over his face like he's something precious.
His legs can barely support him, but he keeps stumbling, dragging his shoulder along brick, and it's hard, he hasn't been on his feet for a week, an entire week, seven days tied down, no matter how he asked begged demanded pleaded.
It is necessary, you see, and John flinches at the baritone, the first noise in hours, but towards it or away he can't recall. You say you won't leave, John, but people lie, John, people lie all the time, and it's not that I don't believe trust love you, John, I just don't trust humanity.
John is panting; short, shallow breaths that exit his lips in a white haze. And he's dizzy, and weak, and he’s stumbling tripping dragging himself away, just away, not sure where he's going.
You understand, don't you John, I knew you'd understand, and his smile is blinding, directed all at him, but John can't smile back, can't, because he's sore and hungry and thirsty and the gag won't let him anyway.
New Scotland Yard shines like a beacon of pure hope, and John's not quite sure how he got there but it's lovely, so lovely. And it hits him like a fist, Lestrade, Lestrade can help will help must help, Sherlock had been on a case and crashed afterwards, had released John to fall asleep wrapped around him, was still asleep, please still be asleep, but Lestrade would be up would be here would help.
And it's empty, blissfully empty, except for the light pouring into the hallway from Lestrade's office, from Lestrade, all lit up and sallow underneath the desk lamp.
"John, are you alright?"
And he isn't, he isn't, he tries to say but can't, can't speak, can only breathe, can only try and slow his lungs down, breathe through his nose, and Lestrade pushes him into a chair.
"You look a mess, what happened?"
Sherlock, your lips move, but no sound comes out, just a croak, a rattle, just dry air moving past chapped lips. And Lestrade hands him the bottle of water hiding among the paperwork but his hands are trembling, he is trembling, and he can't hold onto the cap long enough to twist it off.
Lestrade huffs as he takes the bottle back, twists the cap off, hands it over and it is old and warm and wonderful and lovely.
"Should have known he wouldn't take care of you properly."
And the plastic bottle squeals as John's fist tightens around it.
"Think he'll let me have a go at you for bringing you back?"
He can't breathe again, can't, can only take short, shallow breaths, except he's not breathing, not entirely, because with each exhale his lips form the word no, no, no, but the sound refuses to form.
"Probably best not to ask," Lestrade grins down at him, leans close to him, "he'll be pissed enough for letting you escape."
Bonus points for dark!Lestrade? I think he might just be my new favorite kink.
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Jesus, this should not excite me as much as it does, and dark!Lestrade is also my new kink. More, please please please!
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Oh my god. That was perfection. How is dark!Lestrade that hot?
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In short, I loved it and if you ever wrote more, I'd gobble it up.
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That was amazing. More please?
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My teacher keeps giving me these looks that apparently mean that I'm biting my lip a bit too hard. ><
You are perfect and lovely and...and all great things. I love this. <3
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I could read a novels worth of this.
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Normal people, in their normal lives, have things like pride and dignity, arrogance and self-respect; things that prevent them from exposing the soft innards of their personalities, all the disgusting, messy bits. The greed, the fear, the selfishness, the unapologetic self interest gets shoved back and hidden and lied about. Which is unfortunately, really, because that’s his favorite part about humanity. That’s the part that makes him feel a little less malignant
Before he moved into the homicide division, Sergeant Lestrade spent several years with narcotics.
And there was just something about the addicts he met there, their utter and consuming desire for their drug of choice. Like they were human beings at their most honest, in that moment, willing to put forward any sort of payment, so long as it kept them from lock up, kept them intoxicated. Money they didn’t have, threats that held no weight, objects they didn’t own, the poison riddled bodies they did, all laid at the feet of a Sargent who had never been entirely innocent.
It was a heady feeling, to be on the receiving end of it; and that was enough, for a while, to know he held that sort of power but to not wield it.
Until the day it wasn’t.
The day a young man- just a boy, really- with eyes so green, a green that burst out of bloodshot red, offered anything, anything, I swear, I won’t tell anyone, and Lestrade knew he wouldn’t be the first cop to yield to temptation, and he knew he wouldn’t be the last, and so he got himself a blowjob from an uninclined, but not unwilling, participant.
It was clumsy. Messy. He had to remind the boy repeatedly to keep his eyes open, keep your eyes on me, that’s it. Still the best orgasm of his life.
After that it was like an uphill battle, and battle that he wasn’t sure he would win, wasn’t sure if he wanted to win. And he knew it could only end badly. He had seen it end badly, seen it end in shame and disgrace and discharge from the force. So he took the logical route, the safe dull boring insipid route and filed for a transfer, hoped to hide himself behind dead bodies that couldn’t beg for clemency.
Sometimes he wonders if it was fate, or destiny, or the invisible hand of a God more vindictive towards his children than anyone guessed, that led him to Sherlock Holmes. Most of the time he just thinks it coincidence that on his very last drugs bust he found himself in front of the man who saw everything.
Sherlock Holmes is like no other man on earth, of that Lestrade is certain. As an addict he was no different. No begging, no pleading, no offers. Just grey eyes to distract from his pin pricked forearm, and a smirk, a smirk that made Lestrade’s stomach drop the first time he saw it because this man knew, he knew.
“I can get you what you want.”
Because there’s no need to agonize when you know exactly what to offer.
“I prefer blonds.”
“Excellent.” And that smirk grew and changed into something frightening, something familiar, something Lestrade had only seen in mirrors before. “So do I.”
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After all, how many men can claim to have the courage to run away, knowing full and well that tracking them down would be child’s play? To know how futile it was, to know that there would be repercussions, and to strive for freedom anyway, took a certain mixture of valor and hopeless stupidity.
He can be forgiven, in time, Sherlock supposes. John is so unavoidably human, after all.
But not tonight.
Sherlock knows that he loves like an infant: selfishly, greedily, and entirely in his own self interest. He is loath to share John with anything, ever, yet has no trouble ignoring him in favor of his own desires. He knows it is not love, true love, not that thing described as gallant and lovely and equal, but he also knows that this feeling is the closest he will get to it, and it is a fair enough term for his uses.
People in love do not do what he does to John, and he knows this too, and he does not care.
Love does not compel one to confine their object of affection to a bed for over 150 hours. But really, after the first incident that restraints were introduced to their intimate relations, how could John expect his mind not to go down that path? John loves him, after all, real love, true love, and doesn’t that imply a certain knowledge of the person?
Perhaps he is giving John too much credit. It had been an accident, after all.
He simply neglected to release the man when he ran off to pursue Lestrade’s latest case. But it had been such a relief, knowing exactly where John would be upon his return. Such a dramatic easing of tension, knowing John, wonderfully, terribly human John, wouldn’t suddenly realize exactly what he had given his heart to and run away screaming.
Oh, he screamed anyway, but the cheerful red ball gag muffled it amazingly. And it had looked so nice against his skin, Sherlock had decided to keep it there, even after he stopped.
Lestrade is unbearably smug as he prods the wayward man upstairs. Smug and hopeful, and completely obvious in what he wants. It seems that John has yet to regain his voice as he shivers in their sitting room, clearly conflicted on whether to lean towards Sherlock or Lestrade. No choice he makes at this point will end well for him; it is obvious he knows this.
Discordantly, at the moment, all Sherlock can manage is a deep irritation. Logic dictates that he should be feeling exceedingly wroth, and he knows he will, eventually. But the fact of the matter is that all Sherlock wants to do at this very moment is sleep. Between the case provided by Lestrade and John’s appealingly prostrate form, in the last seven days he has gotten less than 30 hours of sleep, none of which occurred in the last 48 hours. It was a regrettable lapse of judgment that led to the release of John’s restraints, but Sherlock couldn’t muster the energy required to lament it, as at the time it was necessary for an appropriate rest.
No doubt, after several hours of sleep, he will be all too keen to show John the error of his ways. But not right now.
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