FILL: Territorial (1b/1)
anonymous
April 21 2011, 19:08:17 UTC
It is also the exact opposite of what Lestrade wants right now. Needs right now. But every attempt to deepen the kiss, to instill in John the bone aching desire he has for him right now, is skillfully rebuffed. He tilts his head back slightly, watches John though half lidded eyes. There’s the tiniest of movements, as John flicks his eyes towards the sitting room door.
And it hits him. As if being at the man's beck and call for the last forty days isn't enough, the fucking considerate bastard is still worrying about the man who is most likely comatose in the next room over. It's the same reason why they never hook up at Baker Street, fucking loyal, fucking considerate John just can't stand the idea of making Sherlock uncomfortable with their rampant hormones.
Which, fine, it's fine, that's not the problem. The problem is that Lestrade has been in second place for the last month and a half, and is still in second place to a man who will be dead to the world for the next ten hours at least.
Well, fuck that.
He kisses John again, squeezing hard at his hips before releasing one hand to cup his jaw, to press a thumb against the joint there. There is a noise from John as Lestrade licks along his bottom lip, a bit of a moan at the light pressure, before finally, finally, he opens his mouth for him.
Lestrade takes complete and utter advantage of that, tongue diving in as his hips press John's into the countertop behind him. John's never been the sort to take this kind of treatment lying down, but nonetheless Lestrade enjoys several long moments of uninterrupted exploration before John retaliates with teeth and tongue. It's a battle for dominance that Lestrade has no intention of losing, as he applies a bit more pressure to his thumb and forces John's mouth to where he can attack it properly.
By the time they rip their heads apart both are panting shallowly, and Lestrade smirks as he rubs a thigh against John's growing hard-on. He entertains the thought of shoving John over the kitchen table, but dismisses after realizing it would be a terrible place to pass out afterwards. Sherlock's bedroom is the closest, and the mental image of John spread out across Sherlock's bed sends a sharp twist of desire down his spine. Condescending bastard has definitely earned it, but Lestrade's far too occupied to even imagine what might be lurking between the sheets.
John's bedroom it is, then. Lestrade reluctantly peels himself away from John while pulling the man towards the door to the stairs. There is another glance towards to sitting room, but Lestrade grins in triumph when he sees John's resolve melt away.
They ascend the stairs quickly and quietly- John because, as stated, he is a considerate bastard, and Lestrade because he wants to avoid getting shushed- only for Lestrade to slam the door shut immediately after they cross the threshold. There is a second thud, when John is shoved backwards into the wall, but that one isn't quite so loud.
Lestrade is quick to resume his previous position, flattening John against the wall as he grinds a thigh upwards; John's mouth opens readily when he attacks it, allowing his hands to pluck and pull at the thick jumper he's wearing. It is with great reluctance that he leans back to shed his jacket as John peels the jumper off, but the resulting hip motion is absolutely delicious, so he spends the extra few seconds it takes to undo his button up and remove his t-shirt enjoying the motion.
John's shirt is only half unbuttoned when Lestrade leans forward again, this time aiming for his neck. They've discussed, repeatedly, that John is a medical professional who happens to be pushing forty and it simply will not do to show up to work with a neck covered in bite marks. Lestrade usually spends those discussions nodding and making agreeable sounds while watching the purple splotches on John's neck shift with every head turn and replaying in his mind the choked exhalations John made while he put them there.
FILL: Territorial (1c/1)
anonymous
April 21 2011, 19:09:16 UTC
John's making those noises now, and like always, they go straight to Lestrade’s dick; he's not complaining about it now, he never does, only after, when Sherlock sees him and scoffs. The idea of Sherlock seeing this, seeing what Lestrade does to John, what John lets him do, fills his chest with satisfaction; it makes one side of his mouth curl up as his teeth bite down.
Both their hands are busy- it is rather complicated to remove clothing when both parties refuse to separate- so while John fumbles at his trousers, Lestrade finishes the column of buttons at John's front before sliding two hands underneath the t-shirt and pulling both shirts off at once. It's a messy tangle of cloth that forces them apart as he manhandles the fabric over John's head and down his arms before pressing him back up against the wall, where John wriggles appealingly as he attempts to free his hands.
‘Attempts’ is the key word.
"Wait, wait, Lestrade- the cuffs-" John shoves him back a bit with a shoulder as his arms flex, trapped behind him. The cuffs, Lestrade realizes, the buttons on John's shirt cuffs were never undone. He can't remove either shirt from where they've been wrapped around his wrists.
Lestrade feels a wicked grin crawl up his face.
"Oh, you utter wank-" That's as far as John gets with his insults before Lestrade occupies his mouth quite thoroughly. It's up to Lestrade, then, to remove trousers and pants; John is entirely unhelpful, with his frustrated wiggling, but that just makes it all the better when they finally press together, skin to skin.
An excellent handful of minutes are spent just sliding together like that, and Lestrade splits his attention between the hand he's wrapped around the two of them and the way John's chest and shoulder muscles shift underneath his skin and he tries, in vain, to bring his hands forward. And it really is excellent, wonderful, even, but it's just not enough, so Lestrade grabs John's thigh to wrap a leg around his waist, and is scrambling to grab the other, to wrap John around him and force him into the wall when a startlingly strong pelvic thrust from him makes Lestrade stumble.
He nearly drops John's leg, nearly drops John, and there's an awkward moment where it looks like neither of them are going to remain upright until Lestrade smacks a hand against the wall to regain his balance. The look he gives John when they recover is half confusion, half smoldering frustration.
"Bed." There is no room for argument.
Lestrade tries anyway, "But-"
"Bed." John gives another violent forward push.
Lestrade frowns, but says nothing, just drags John away from the wall by his hips only to cross the room and push him backwards onto the bed. His head lands mere inches from the headboard, and Lestrade can't help but smirk as John shuffles ineffectively; he lays a hand on John's chest to feel the muscles jump as John attempts to find a comfortable place to wedge his trapped hands underneath him.
That hand trails slowly downward as he climbs onto the bed, situates himself between John's knees and leans over him. Lestrade takes a moment to enjoy the view; John, red-faced and ruffled, glares back in a manner that is completely irresistible, so Lestrade doesn't resist. Just trails his hand down to John's erection and grips as he smothers the resulting moan with his lips. His second hand he flings out to the side, groping along the bedside table for the bottle of lube that just has to be around there somewhere.
Success in locating it would have been met with a crow of triumph, had John not been attempting to suck his tongue out.
He's had years of practice opening the lube one handed, and John is rather distracted, so Lestrade manages to catch him by surprise with the first finger he inserts. It's been a while, a long fucking while, and John feels so goddamned tight, but Lestrade can't really manage to prep him in a manner that is anything but perfunctory; just slicks up John, slicks up himself, grabs a handful of arse to tilt John's hips and thrusts.
FILL: Territorial (1d/1)
anonymous
April 21 2011, 19:10:25 UTC
This time they're both caught by surprise- Lestrade lays a palm on the wall above the headboard to keep from collapsing at the sensation as John turns his head into the pillow and hisses. With his open hand, Lestrade grabs a knee to drape over his shoulder, curling John to a near right angle as his shoulders remain flat on the bed and his arms trail underneath him.
"Alright?"
"You fucking- just- Yes! Move!" John pants as he shifts his hips.
Lestrade doesn't have to be told twice, starting with short, forceful pushes that curl them both towards the headboard. The wall is absolutely brilliant leverage, allowing him to draw out slowly, even if it doesn't help going forward; he'd wrap his hand over top of the headboard if he wasn't afraid of losing his fingers. He makes due, slowly lengthening each thrust, aiming near downwards for maximum force as John rolls his hips upwards to meet him.
It also means he only has one hand for John, and it is very busy. He pinches John's nipples hard before scratching nails down his side, making John gasp out curses every other breath. John's never been loud in bed (fucking- considerate- bastard- Lestrade thinks with three aggressive thrusts), but he does have the tendency to go from manly, quiet moans and exclamations to higher pitched gasps and whimpers as he gets close. He'll make fun of John for it, afterwards, he always does, but fuck it all if they're not the most erotic sounds he's ever heard.
John's making them now, cursing less, gasping more, and Lestrade can feel heat curling low in his stomach, so he angles himself properly and brings his hand down John's body. He's close, he's so fucking close, so he grabs John's erection to give it long, hard pulls in time with his thrusts. John tries to arch his back, to press his arms into the bed, and Christ, but it can't be comfortable for him, folded in half with his elbows underneath him, but he's still whimpering like it's the most fantastic he's ever felt.
That thought alone is almost enough to make Lestrade lose his rhythm, but he holds on, recovers with a series of sharp stabs and a twist of the wrist that makes John's breath catch in his throat as he comes all over his stomach. Lestrade fucks him through it, closes his eyes so he can focus past his own harsh panting on the soft, drawn out noise that sounds like it is being squeezed out of John's throat, and follows him over.
FILL: Territorial (1e/1)
anonymous
April 21 2011, 19:11:44 UTC
They both groan when Lestrade manages the coordination necessary to pull out; John rolls onto his side as Lestrade attempts to unlock his elbow and remove his hand from the wall without crashing forward onto the bedspread.
He fails.
"If you-" John pants, "If you fall asleep before my hands are untied, I will literally kill you."
Lestrade winces, immediately feeling guilty as he rolls to face John's back and pick at the mess encasing his wrists.
"Sorry, sorry. I wasn't thinking." He mumbles as his shaking fingers fiddle with the plastic disks, "Is your shoulder alright?"
"M'fine." Is the response he gets, but John still hisses through his teeth once the shirts are removed and he moves his shoulder forward.
"You should have said something." Lestrade presses his hands to the muscles surrounding the scar, rubbing circles into the skin.
"It's fine. Really," John reaches his right hand across his chest to grab hold on Lestrade's over his shoulder, and squeezes as he rolls onto his back.
"It serves you right," Lestrade grumbles as he shifts to lie on his back next to him, "I wanted to fuck you against the wall." He says as he squeezes John's hand in return.
John scoffs, "Last time you did that, you nearly threw your back out, idiot. I just saved you a month of agony." He grins at Lestrade as he heaves himself up to search the floor for something to clean up with.
Lestrade shuffles about for a blanket, watching John reach out; the way John's stretching, he can see the red blooms along his neck, the teeth marks that will be purple come tomorrow. As John returns with the t-shirt that had recently been keeping his hands behind his back, Lestrade imagines he can hear the squeal of couch springs as Sherlock shifts in the room below them. He feels completely and utterly satisfied.
"Alright, fine, you're a considerate bastard. Now come to bed."
END!
Sorry about the weirdly short last two chapters- blame the character limits!
It is also the exact opposite of what Lestrade wants right now. Needs right now. But every attempt to deepen the kiss, to instill in John the bone aching desire he has for him right now, is skillfully rebuffed. He tilts his head back slightly, watches John though half lidded eyes. There’s the tiniest of movements, as John flicks his eyes towards the sitting room door.
And it hits him. As if being at the man's beck and call for the last forty days isn't enough, the fucking considerate bastard is still worrying about the man who is most likely comatose in the next room over. It's the same reason why they never hook up at Baker Street, fucking loyal, fucking considerate John just can't stand the idea of making Sherlock uncomfortable with their rampant hormones.
Which, fine, it's fine, that's not the problem. The problem is that Lestrade has been in second place for the last month and a half, and is still in second place to a man who will be dead to the world for the next ten hours at least.
Well, fuck that.
He kisses John again, squeezing hard at his hips before releasing one hand to cup his jaw, to press a thumb against the joint there. There is a noise from John as Lestrade licks along his bottom lip, a bit of a moan at the light pressure, before finally, finally, he opens his mouth for him.
Lestrade takes complete and utter advantage of that, tongue diving in as his hips press John's into the countertop behind him. John's never been the sort to take this kind of treatment lying down, but nonetheless Lestrade enjoys several long moments of uninterrupted exploration before John retaliates with teeth and tongue. It's a battle for dominance that Lestrade has no intention of losing, as he applies a bit more pressure to his thumb and forces John's mouth to where he can attack it properly.
By the time they rip their heads apart both are panting shallowly, and Lestrade smirks as he rubs a thigh against John's growing hard-on. He entertains the thought of shoving John over the kitchen table, but dismisses after realizing it would be a terrible place to pass out afterwards. Sherlock's bedroom is the closest, and the mental image of John spread out across Sherlock's bed sends a sharp twist of desire down his spine. Condescending bastard has definitely earned it, but Lestrade's far too occupied to even imagine what might be lurking between the sheets.
John's bedroom it is, then. Lestrade reluctantly peels himself away from John while pulling the man towards the door to the stairs. There is another glance towards to sitting room, but Lestrade grins in triumph when he sees John's resolve melt away.
They ascend the stairs quickly and quietly- John because, as stated, he is a considerate bastard, and Lestrade because he wants to avoid getting shushed- only for Lestrade to slam the door shut immediately after they cross the threshold. There is a second thud, when John is shoved backwards into the wall, but that one isn't quite so loud.
Lestrade is quick to resume his previous position, flattening John against the wall as he grinds a thigh upwards; John's mouth opens readily when he attacks it, allowing his hands to pluck and pull at the thick jumper he's wearing. It is with great reluctance that he leans back to shed his jacket as John peels the jumper off, but the resulting hip motion is absolutely delicious, so he spends the extra few seconds it takes to undo his button up and remove his t-shirt enjoying the motion.
John's shirt is only half unbuttoned when Lestrade leans forward again, this time aiming for his neck. They've discussed, repeatedly, that John is a medical professional who happens to be pushing forty and it simply will not do to show up to work with a neck covered in bite marks. Lestrade usually spends those discussions nodding and making agreeable sounds while watching the purple splotches on John's neck shift with every head turn and replaying in his mind the choked exhalations John made while he put them there.
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John's making those noises now, and like always, they go straight to Lestrade’s dick; he's not complaining about it now, he never does, only after, when Sherlock sees him and scoffs. The idea of Sherlock seeing this, seeing what Lestrade does to John, what John lets him do, fills his chest with satisfaction; it makes one side of his mouth curl up as his teeth bite down.
Both their hands are busy- it is rather complicated to remove clothing when both parties refuse to separate- so while John fumbles at his trousers, Lestrade finishes the column of buttons at John's front before sliding two hands underneath the t-shirt and pulling both shirts off at once. It's a messy tangle of cloth that forces them apart as he manhandles the fabric over John's head and down his arms before pressing him back up against the wall, where John wriggles appealingly as he attempts to free his hands.
‘Attempts’ is the key word.
"Wait, wait, Lestrade- the cuffs-" John shoves him back a bit with a shoulder as his arms flex, trapped behind him. The cuffs, Lestrade realizes, the buttons on John's shirt cuffs were never undone. He can't remove either shirt from where they've been wrapped around his wrists.
Lestrade feels a wicked grin crawl up his face.
"Oh, you utter wank-" That's as far as John gets with his insults before Lestrade occupies his mouth quite thoroughly. It's up to Lestrade, then, to remove trousers and pants; John is entirely unhelpful, with his frustrated wiggling, but that just makes it all the better when they finally press together, skin to skin.
An excellent handful of minutes are spent just sliding together like that, and Lestrade splits his attention between the hand he's wrapped around the two of them and the way John's chest and shoulder muscles shift underneath his skin and he tries, in vain, to bring his hands forward. And it really is excellent, wonderful, even, but it's just not enough, so Lestrade grabs John's thigh to wrap a leg around his waist, and is scrambling to grab the other, to wrap John around him and force him into the wall when a startlingly strong pelvic thrust from him makes Lestrade stumble.
He nearly drops John's leg, nearly drops John, and there's an awkward moment where it looks like neither of them are going to remain upright until Lestrade smacks a hand against the wall to regain his balance. The look he gives John when they recover is half confusion, half smoldering frustration.
"Bed." There is no room for argument.
Lestrade tries anyway, "But-"
"Bed." John gives another violent forward push.
Lestrade frowns, but says nothing, just drags John away from the wall by his hips only to cross the room and push him backwards onto the bed. His head lands mere inches from the headboard, and Lestrade can't help but smirk as John shuffles ineffectively; he lays a hand on John's chest to feel the muscles jump as John attempts to find a comfortable place to wedge his trapped hands underneath him.
That hand trails slowly downward as he climbs onto the bed, situates himself between John's knees and leans over him. Lestrade takes a moment to enjoy the view; John, red-faced and ruffled, glares back in a manner that is completely irresistible, so Lestrade doesn't resist. Just trails his hand down to John's erection and grips as he smothers the resulting moan with his lips. His second hand he flings out to the side, groping along the bedside table for the bottle of lube that just has to be around there somewhere.
Success in locating it would have been met with a crow of triumph, had John not been attempting to suck his tongue out.
He's had years of practice opening the lube one handed, and John is rather distracted, so Lestrade manages to catch him by surprise with the first finger he inserts. It's been a while, a long fucking while, and John feels so goddamned tight, but Lestrade can't really manage to prep him in a manner that is anything but perfunctory; just slicks up John, slicks up himself, grabs a handful of arse to tilt John's hips and thrusts.
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This time they're both caught by surprise- Lestrade lays a palm on the wall above the headboard to keep from collapsing at the sensation as John turns his head into the pillow and hisses. With his open hand, Lestrade grabs a knee to drape over his shoulder, curling John to a near right angle as his shoulders remain flat on the bed and his arms trail underneath him.
"Alright?"
"You fucking- just- Yes! Move!" John pants as he shifts his hips.
Lestrade doesn't have to be told twice, starting with short, forceful pushes that curl them both towards the headboard. The wall is absolutely brilliant leverage, allowing him to draw out slowly, even if it doesn't help going forward; he'd wrap his hand over top of the headboard if he wasn't afraid of losing his fingers. He makes due, slowly lengthening each thrust, aiming near downwards for maximum force as John rolls his hips upwards to meet him.
It also means he only has one hand for John, and it is very busy. He pinches John's nipples hard before scratching nails down his side, making John gasp out curses every other breath. John's never been loud in bed (fucking- considerate- bastard- Lestrade thinks with three aggressive thrusts), but he does have the tendency to go from manly, quiet moans and exclamations to higher pitched gasps and whimpers as he gets close. He'll make fun of John for it, afterwards, he always does, but fuck it all if they're not the most erotic sounds he's ever heard.
John's making them now, cursing less, gasping more, and Lestrade can feel heat curling low in his stomach, so he angles himself properly and brings his hand down John's body. He's close, he's so fucking close, so he grabs John's erection to give it long, hard pulls in time with his thrusts. John tries to arch his back, to press his arms into the bed, and Christ, but it can't be comfortable for him, folded in half with his elbows underneath him, but he's still whimpering like it's the most fantastic he's ever felt.
That thought alone is almost enough to make Lestrade lose his rhythm, but he holds on, recovers with a series of sharp stabs and a twist of the wrist that makes John's breath catch in his throat as he comes all over his stomach. Lestrade fucks him through it, closes his eyes so he can focus past his own harsh panting on the soft, drawn out noise that sounds like it is being squeezed out of John's throat, and follows him over.
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They both groan when Lestrade manages the coordination necessary to pull out; John rolls onto his side as Lestrade attempts to unlock his elbow and remove his hand from the wall without crashing forward onto the bedspread.
He fails.
"If you-" John pants, "If you fall asleep before my hands are untied, I will literally kill you."
Lestrade winces, immediately feeling guilty as he rolls to face John's back and pick at the mess encasing his wrists.
"Sorry, sorry. I wasn't thinking." He mumbles as his shaking fingers fiddle with the plastic disks, "Is your shoulder alright?"
"M'fine." Is the response he gets, but John still hisses through his teeth once the shirts are removed and he moves his shoulder forward.
"You should have said something." Lestrade presses his hands to the muscles surrounding the scar, rubbing circles into the skin.
"It's fine. Really," John reaches his right hand across his chest to grab hold on Lestrade's over his shoulder, and squeezes as he rolls onto his back.
"It serves you right," Lestrade grumbles as he shifts to lie on his back next to him, "I wanted to fuck you against the wall." He says as he squeezes John's hand in return.
John scoffs, "Last time you did that, you nearly threw your back out, idiot. I just saved you a month of agony." He grins at Lestrade as he heaves himself up to search the floor for something to clean up with.
Lestrade shuffles about for a blanket, watching John reach out; the way John's stretching, he can see the red blooms along his neck, the teeth marks that will be purple come tomorrow. As John returns with the t-shirt that had recently been keeping his hands behind his back, Lestrade imagines he can hear the squeal of couch springs as Sherlock shifts in the room below them. He feels completely and utterly satisfied.
"Alright, fine, you're a considerate bastard. Now come to bed."
END!
Sorry about the weirdly short last two chapters- blame the character limits!
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This fill, right here? Thing of beauty. Thank you, authoranon!
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