Sherlock: Bored! Sherlock/Lestrade NC-17
Title: Bored!
Fandom & Pairing: Sherlock BBC, Sherlock/Lestrade
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: none (no season 2 spoilers)
Word Count: Around 1600
Summary: Lestrade discovers that he has John's phone. He decides to tease Sherlock with some texts, but the results get out of hand.
Greg sprawls across his couch in his boxers and a ratty t-shirt, The Cure from 1979 and yes, he'd actually been there, thank you very much. He has the telly remote to hand, a six-pack on the table with a jumbo packet of Walkers Crisps on the side, and he's ready to enjoy a day off doing absolutely sod-all.
Doing nothing is interrupted by a cheerful beep that sounds like an incoming text but his phone is lying innocently on the floor, screen blank. Curious now, he hunts down the sound to the pocket of his coat. There's a phone there, with a new text. It's just not his phone.
It's not password locked - careless, that - so he turns it on to look.
Booooooored!
He walks back to the couch, puzzling over the phone, as the next text arrives.
Bored! Where are you? Entertain me
Only one person among Greg's acquaintances whines with that degree of entitlement. It's Sherlock, so the phone must be John's. That's right, he'd grabbed John's phone at the crime scene last night when his own battery had died. He must've put it in his pocket afterwards and they'd both forgotten about it.
He settles back on the couch, switches on the telly with the sound down - some useless property development programme, bully for those who can afford bloody property these days - opens a beer... And decides to have some fun.
How do you want to be entertained?
I want a case! But given the woeful lack of imagination among London's criminal classes, you'll have to do. Surprise me.
Greg is reluctantly impressed by how fast Sherlock can text. He must have extra muscles in his thumbs. The only person he's ever met who looked like she could compete was that scary bird belonging to Mycroft.
You whine like a five-year-old. What I actually want to do is put you across my knee and spank you.
Greg grins broadly to himself. He feels so much better for having finally got to say that, even if it is done in disguise.
Pardon?
Oh yes, surprised you, haven't I? thinks Greg with satisfaction.
You're a public school boy. You know what I mean. Trousers round your ankles, that porcelain bum of yours up in the air, putting some nice red hand prints across it.
Greg presses send and then takes a few deep breaths. God, that image. Sherlock is normally hidden in that stupid bat-coat of his but during the times he's taken it off, Greg has noticed that he's got a bit of a bum on him. He can just see two rounded globes of the palest cream settled across his thighs, bringing his hand down hard, palm stinging as he watches the skin turn ruby pink, feeling Sherlock squirm in his lap. Would he take it silently, just little huffs of breath, or would he be a moaner? Greg finds himself doing some squirming of his own as his cock begins to swell at the thought.
He's never been one for kinky sex, his ex had been the girl next door from when he was growing up in Weston-super-Mare. He'd liked her and she'd liked things simple and conservative. His eyes and mind might have wandered over the years, but he'd kept his vows, until she'd given up on them.
Just thinking these things makes him a little embarrassed. Saying them makes him hot all over. Saying them to Sherlock... God, what is he thinking? He'd going to get found out, he's going to have to wipe the phone clean and dump it in the Thames...
His small panic attack is interrupted by the impatient beep of the phone. Incoming... Oh Christ....
You are being innovative today. Any other requests?
Greg hesitates. So Sherlock wants to play this game? He's surprised. He'd thought Sherlock considered sex to be beneath him. Of course a better man would have qualms about meddling in John and Sherlock's friendship like this. John seems okay, although Greg's not at all convinced by that mild manner. Not when the man thinks living with Sherlock is fun. Not when he can kill without a qualm with an unauthorised firearm. And he's been taking up all of Sherlock's time these days.
That twist of jealousy has Greg typing rapidly into the phone.
I'd like to shut that mouth of yours, stop all that superior bullshit, all that haughty crap.
He sends it and waits. Will Sherlock take the bait? It's not exactly subtle but he wants to be asked.
Shut it how?
Yes! Greg's thumbs are fumbling on the keyboard.
Get you to suck on my figners til theyre dripping so I can shove them up your arse.
Stick my cock down your throat til youre choking on it, til Ive got my balls pressed to your lips
He waits breathlessly.
Unless you've got two cocks hidden somewhere you're going to have to choose. Mouth or arse. What do you want?
Greg moans softly as he reads, presses a hand against his rampant and aching prick. This is going to end badly. He's going to get caught. He'll have to flee the country, change his name, live in a shack in Thailand. But right now, this is the most exciting thing he's done in ages.
Both. All of it. Spank your arse rose red. Then put you on your knees to suck me hard. Let you beg me to fuck you.
Greg pushes his boxers down below his balls as he waits for the reply, rolls his sac in one hand while teasing his cock with the other. He's already leaking pre-come and he smears it down his length, eyes closed, shivering at his own touch, visualizing Sherlock on his knees on the carpet, those grey eyes blown with lust, mouth swollen from cock-sucking, maybe with flecks of saliva on his lips, begging Greg to fuck him.
Hmmm, the fantasy does fall apart a bit when it comes to Sherlock begging. More likely demanding that Greg fuck him right the hell now. That works too-- The beep of the phone jerks him out of his reverie.
You really think you've got what it takes to get me to beg?
Somewhere in the back of Greg's mind a voice is screaming that Sherlock thinks this is John and Greg needs to stop this right fucking now. But he hasn't been this turned on in years and he's long past thinking straight.
Handcuff you to the bed. Gag that bloody mouth of yours. And then spend hours slowly taking you apart. I'd give it my best shot.
His sticky thumbs are smearing pre-come all over John's phone. It really is going to have to be thrown into the Thames. He drops the phone and wraps one hand around his aching cock while with the other he pushes up his t-shirt and twists hard on a nipple. He needs to come and he needs it now. It takes him several long moments to realise the buzzing is not simply happening in his head. It's coming from his own phone. With a sudden sense of dread, he picks it up from the floor.
Would you like to shoot all over me? Stand over me while I'm on my knees and come all over my face?
Greg can only stare at the screen and whimper. Busted.
He wonders how quickly he can get himself to an international airport. He wonders what Sherlock's face would look like striped with his come. Strands of it caught in those dark curls. Curls dishevelled from where Greg had grabbed his head to face-fuck him. God! He wonders if he can fit in an orgasm or two before heading for the airport.
His front door creaks open. He turns on the couch in time to see a black-coated figure stalk into his living room. "Well, well Inspector, you are full of surprises."
Greg gapes up at Sherlock, who throws his coat over the nearest chair and toes off his shoes. Greg is sprawled on the couch, shirt pushed up to his nipples, boxers down round his thighs, his leaking prick rampant, with both phones lying on his stomach. He's surprised he's got enough blood left outside his cock for the full-body blush he can feel flooding over him.
"You don't seriously think I was taken in, do you? John's so straight it's painful. It took only a minute to work out where his phone must have gone."
Sherlock saunters up to the couch and settles himself down, kneeling across Greg's thighs, looking down with detached curiosity at the flushed cock bobbing in front of him.
"But John is still out, I'm still bored and you've proved unexpectedly interesting. So you're going to entertain me."
Greg groans as long pale fingers trail teasingly through his pubic curls. He's fairly certain he's going to be the one doing the begging, but he's finding he doesn't really mind.
- THE END -
Now that Lestrade has so unexpectedly got Sherlock's attention, sexually speaking, how the hell is he going to keep it? The sequel: Riding The Tiger
Fandom & Pairing: Sherlock BBC, Sherlock/Lestrade
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: none (no season 2 spoilers)
Word Count: Around 1600
Summary: Lestrade discovers that he has John's phone. He decides to tease Sherlock with some texts, but the results get out of hand.
Greg sprawls across his couch in his boxers and a ratty t-shirt, The Cure from 1979 and yes, he'd actually been there, thank you very much. He has the telly remote to hand, a six-pack on the table with a jumbo packet of Walkers Crisps on the side, and he's ready to enjoy a day off doing absolutely sod-all.
Doing nothing is interrupted by a cheerful beep that sounds like an incoming text but his phone is lying innocently on the floor, screen blank. Curious now, he hunts down the sound to the pocket of his coat. There's a phone there, with a new text. It's just not his phone.
It's not password locked - careless, that - so he turns it on to look.
Booooooored!
He walks back to the couch, puzzling over the phone, as the next text arrives.
Bored! Where are you? Entertain me
Only one person among Greg's acquaintances whines with that degree of entitlement. It's Sherlock, so the phone must be John's. That's right, he'd grabbed John's phone at the crime scene last night when his own battery had died. He must've put it in his pocket afterwards and they'd both forgotten about it.
He settles back on the couch, switches on the telly with the sound down - some useless property development programme, bully for those who can afford bloody property these days - opens a beer... And decides to have some fun.
How do you want to be entertained?
I want a case! But given the woeful lack of imagination among London's criminal classes, you'll have to do. Surprise me.
Greg is reluctantly impressed by how fast Sherlock can text. He must have extra muscles in his thumbs. The only person he's ever met who looked like she could compete was that scary bird belonging to Mycroft.
You whine like a five-year-old. What I actually want to do is put you across my knee and spank you.
Greg grins broadly to himself. He feels so much better for having finally got to say that, even if it is done in disguise.
Pardon?
Oh yes, surprised you, haven't I? thinks Greg with satisfaction.
You're a public school boy. You know what I mean. Trousers round your ankles, that porcelain bum of yours up in the air, putting some nice red hand prints across it.
Greg presses send and then takes a few deep breaths. God, that image. Sherlock is normally hidden in that stupid bat-coat of his but during the times he's taken it off, Greg has noticed that he's got a bit of a bum on him. He can just see two rounded globes of the palest cream settled across his thighs, bringing his hand down hard, palm stinging as he watches the skin turn ruby pink, feeling Sherlock squirm in his lap. Would he take it silently, just little huffs of breath, or would he be a moaner? Greg finds himself doing some squirming of his own as his cock begins to swell at the thought.
He's never been one for kinky sex, his ex had been the girl next door from when he was growing up in Weston-super-Mare. He'd liked her and she'd liked things simple and conservative. His eyes and mind might have wandered over the years, but he'd kept his vows, until she'd given up on them.
Just thinking these things makes him a little embarrassed. Saying them makes him hot all over. Saying them to Sherlock... God, what is he thinking? He'd going to get found out, he's going to have to wipe the phone clean and dump it in the Thames...
His small panic attack is interrupted by the impatient beep of the phone. Incoming... Oh Christ....
You are being innovative today. Any other requests?
Greg hesitates. So Sherlock wants to play this game? He's surprised. He'd thought Sherlock considered sex to be beneath him. Of course a better man would have qualms about meddling in John and Sherlock's friendship like this. John seems okay, although Greg's not at all convinced by that mild manner. Not when the man thinks living with Sherlock is fun. Not when he can kill without a qualm with an unauthorised firearm. And he's been taking up all of Sherlock's time these days.
That twist of jealousy has Greg typing rapidly into the phone.
I'd like to shut that mouth of yours, stop all that superior bullshit, all that haughty crap.
He sends it and waits. Will Sherlock take the bait? It's not exactly subtle but he wants to be asked.
Shut it how?
Yes! Greg's thumbs are fumbling on the keyboard.
Get you to suck on my figners til theyre dripping so I can shove them up your arse.
Stick my cock down your throat til youre choking on it, til Ive got my balls pressed to your lips
He waits breathlessly.
Unless you've got two cocks hidden somewhere you're going to have to choose. Mouth or arse. What do you want?
Greg moans softly as he reads, presses a hand against his rampant and aching prick. This is going to end badly. He's going to get caught. He'll have to flee the country, change his name, live in a shack in Thailand. But right now, this is the most exciting thing he's done in ages.
Both. All of it. Spank your arse rose red. Then put you on your knees to suck me hard. Let you beg me to fuck you.
Greg pushes his boxers down below his balls as he waits for the reply, rolls his sac in one hand while teasing his cock with the other. He's already leaking pre-come and he smears it down his length, eyes closed, shivering at his own touch, visualizing Sherlock on his knees on the carpet, those grey eyes blown with lust, mouth swollen from cock-sucking, maybe with flecks of saliva on his lips, begging Greg to fuck him.
Hmmm, the fantasy does fall apart a bit when it comes to Sherlock begging. More likely demanding that Greg fuck him right the hell now. That works too-- The beep of the phone jerks him out of his reverie.
You really think you've got what it takes to get me to beg?
Somewhere in the back of Greg's mind a voice is screaming that Sherlock thinks this is John and Greg needs to stop this right fucking now. But he hasn't been this turned on in years and he's long past thinking straight.
Handcuff you to the bed. Gag that bloody mouth of yours. And then spend hours slowly taking you apart. I'd give it my best shot.
His sticky thumbs are smearing pre-come all over John's phone. It really is going to have to be thrown into the Thames. He drops the phone and wraps one hand around his aching cock while with the other he pushes up his t-shirt and twists hard on a nipple. He needs to come and he needs it now. It takes him several long moments to realise the buzzing is not simply happening in his head. It's coming from his own phone. With a sudden sense of dread, he picks it up from the floor.
Would you like to shoot all over me? Stand over me while I'm on my knees and come all over my face?
Greg can only stare at the screen and whimper. Busted.
He wonders how quickly he can get himself to an international airport. He wonders what Sherlock's face would look like striped with his come. Strands of it caught in those dark curls. Curls dishevelled from where Greg had grabbed his head to face-fuck him. God! He wonders if he can fit in an orgasm or two before heading for the airport.
His front door creaks open. He turns on the couch in time to see a black-coated figure stalk into his living room. "Well, well Inspector, you are full of surprises."
Greg gapes up at Sherlock, who throws his coat over the nearest chair and toes off his shoes. Greg is sprawled on the couch, shirt pushed up to his nipples, boxers down round his thighs, his leaking prick rampant, with both phones lying on his stomach. He's surprised he's got enough blood left outside his cock for the full-body blush he can feel flooding over him.
"You don't seriously think I was taken in, do you? John's so straight it's painful. It took only a minute to work out where his phone must have gone."
Sherlock saunters up to the couch and settles himself down, kneeling across Greg's thighs, looking down with detached curiosity at the flushed cock bobbing in front of him.
"But John is still out, I'm still bored and you've proved unexpectedly interesting. So you're going to entertain me."
Greg groans as long pale fingers trail teasingly through his pubic curls. He's fairly certain he's going to be the one doing the begging, but he's finding he doesn't really mind.
- THE END -
Now that Lestrade has so unexpectedly got Sherlock's attention, sexually speaking, how the hell is he going to keep it? The sequel: Riding The Tiger