DarkFic Prequel
Title: Desire
Characters: Sherlock, Lestrade
Rating: R, probably.
Warnings: Dark, abuse of police power, dub-con
Spoilers: None
Disclaimers: Sadly, not mine. Probably for the best, seeing as what I do to them.
Author's Notes: Even though this is a prequel, I'd read Desperate first. This is an expansion on this prompt.
If you've any triggers, I'd take a look at the full prompt, just to be safe.
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, it all 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, 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.”
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.”
Continued with Despair
Characters: Sherlock, Lestrade
Rating: R, probably.
Warnings: Dark, abuse of police power, dub-con
Spoilers: None
Disclaimers: Sadly, not mine. Probably for the best, seeing as what I do to them.
Author's Notes: Even though this is a prequel, I'd read Desperate first. This is an expansion on this prompt.
If you've any triggers, I'd take a look at the full prompt, just to be safe.
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, it all 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, 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.”
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.”
Continued with Despair