![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
turanteI have a dirty mind, but then it's not my fault Lestrade is so... NGHHHH. Yes, that's the most coherence I can muster at the moment.
Last night![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fengirl88 posted some delicious, toe-curling hand!porn and inspired me to write some porn of my own.
Rating: Nc-17 (PWP)
Pairing: it's tricky, Sherlock/John, Sherlock/Lestrade, both established somehow.
Word Count: 1155 (not bad considering there is NO plot)
A/N: Dedicated to and inspired byfengirl88's icon: 
(made by eumelkeks)
Title: Awaiting Gratification
Lestrade is sitting in Sherlock's comfy chair, the one facing the door, awaiting gratification.
Because that's the only thing John can think of when he sees him, hands gripping the leather of the armrest, a naughty smile on his lips and eyes fixed on his naked torso.
Sherlock kisses his neck, bites a little too hard, little things to reclaim his attention; he doesn't like to be neglected, and John for a second has forgotten about his existence, let alone what they were doing.
“John,” calls Sherlock, when it’s obvious that his kisses aren’t enough to make him turn away from Lestrade and look into his eyes instead, “focus,” he adds, and John shivers once.
It was one thing to be doing this with Sherlock, and quite another to do it while Lestrade watched.
John didn’t even know the man’s first name, for God’s sake!
Sherlock might be on intimate terms with the police officer – and John certainly does believe that at some point in those five years of their friendship? association? relationship? they have slept together – but he wasn’t. Sure, they were on friendly terms, but it didn’t go much further than chatting about the weather over bad Scotland Yard coffee.
Sherlock seems determined to change that.
“Sherlock, I’m not sure—” he starts saying, but then Sherlock’s mouth is on his, and his tongue parts his lips to play with his and his knees grow a bit weaker as he lets himself be kissed into silence. And silence means agreement to Sherlock, even when it isn’t exactly voluntary.
John’s eyes are closed now, but he can feel Lestrade’s gaze on his body, it makes his skin itch and burn and it’s distracting him from the hands that undo his belt and then yank his trousers down. He tries not to think about it, but the more he tries, the stronger the impulse to open his eyes becomes.
Sherlock then strokes him over his underwear, firm hand moving over his much firmer flesh, making him gasp and open his eyes. His vision is limited to Sherlock’s lust-darkened eyes, and usually that’s more than enough.
This time he has to turn and look at Lestrade who is watching; the thought of him just watching them is too tempting.
Sherlock lowers his underwear to touch him directly, and he does what he shouldn’t have done, knowing that once he has done that he can never turn back and forget what he has seen. He turns to watch Lestrade, who is now palming his own erection through his clothes, and John suddenly wonders why he doesn’t unzip his pants and take himself in his hand, surprising himself by thinking how much he would like to see the inspector jerking off watching them.
Does that make him a pervert, he wonders, briefly, because Sherlock demands his attention once more, their kisses are more desperate now, Sherlock is greedier, biting and sucking on his lips. He’s relentless, and he’s still moving his hand on his cock, squeezing and pumping just how he likes it.
John moans in his mouth and he can swear he heard another moan join his; the question is whether it came from Sherlock or Lestrade. Not that it matters, really.
He undoes Sherlock’s belt and opens his flies to free him from his clothes; it’s the least he can do in that situation.
His wrist moves up and down on Sherlock’s length, keeping a rhythm that is barely satisfactory, he knows, but he can’t concentrate with all those things demanding a part of his thoughts.
He bites on Sherlock’s neck, and starts leaving a mark just above the collarbone, making the other man groan.
When he is finally spent in Sherlock’s hand he dares open his eyes and turn around. He braces himself on the wall and looks at Lestrade, who is still sitting on the chair, awaiting gratification, showing a remarkable restraint because he is panting now, droplets of sweat on his forehead, but he still has his trousers on.
John wonders if it was Sherlock that posed that condition, and why he didn’t ask him first.
One of Lestrade’s hands is gripping the armrest so hard that his knuckles turned white, the other is stroking his own thigh.
Sherlock licks his lips and walks over to the chair in which Lestrade sits. He looks predatory, but Lestrade doesn’t seem bothered, his breath itches in his throat, and his eyes are locked with Sherlock. He stops torturing his lip and opens his mouth to say something, but Sherlock puts a finger on his lips to shut him up.
Then both of his hands go to the man’s belt, undoing it calmly, reaching for the zip later, opening his trousers and freeing him from the confines of his underwear.
Lestrade sighs in relief, and Sherlock kisses him, passionately, and one of Lestrade’s hand burrows itself in Sherlock’s curls, gripping just a bit too hard, John knows it because he can hear his flatmate moaning.
Sherlock’s right hand closes itself around Lestrade’s erection, and starts moving, much to Lestrade’s gratitude.
“You took your time,” he growls, and Sherlock gets on his knees between Lestrade’s legs, his other hand stroking one thigh, kneading the muscle, teasing him.
“Shut up,” he replies, then puts his mouth to a better use, starting to lick him, making Lestrade groan aloud, his hand hanging on Sherlock’s hair, pulling and trying to guide him, but Sherlock slaps his hand. “Behave,” he warns, then starts over, licking from the base to the tip, and then descending on the other side.
John hears the moan Lestrade makes, and he’s pretty sure he’s never going to forget that.
Then Sherlock gets him in his mouth and starts sucking, doing things with his tongue that John can only imagine but, if the string of obscenities coming from Lestrade’s mouth is some indication, must be incredible.
He can watch Sherlock’s head move up and down, Lestrade’s hand still gripping strands of his hair, accompanying his every movement, the other scratching the leather of the armchair.
Lestrade bites his lips and tries, and John knows the man is trying desperately to think about something else, to hold back because it’s not fair to let Sherlock make him lose control so easily. He knows exactly his thoughts because that’s what he thinks every time.
But it’s not like he can do much about it in the end. Lestrade opens his eyes and sees John staring at them, then he comes, cursing loudly, in Sherlock’s mouth.
Sherlock swallows and then grabs the front of his shirt to pull him down for a kiss.
John stares, unashamed, as they kiss and Sherlock quickly finishes himself off.
He wants to ask what all of that was about, but he’s not sure he has control over his voice.
Lestrade looks at him and winks.
Things have definitely changed between them now.
Last night
fengirl88 posted some delicious, toe-curling hand!porn and inspired me to write some porn of my own.Rating: Nc-17 (PWP)
Pairing: it's tricky, Sherlock/John, Sherlock/Lestrade, both established somehow.
Word Count: 1155 (not bad considering there is NO plot)
A/N: Dedicated to and inspired by
fengirl88's icon: eumelkeks)Title: Awaiting Gratification
Lestrade is sitting in Sherlock's comfy chair, the one facing the door, awaiting gratification.
Because that's the only thing John can think of when he sees him, hands gripping the leather of the armrest, a naughty smile on his lips and eyes fixed on his naked torso.
Sherlock kisses his neck, bites a little too hard, little things to reclaim his attention; he doesn't like to be neglected, and John for a second has forgotten about his existence, let alone what they were doing.
“John,” calls Sherlock, when it’s obvious that his kisses aren’t enough to make him turn away from Lestrade and look into his eyes instead, “focus,” he adds, and John shivers once.
It was one thing to be doing this with Sherlock, and quite another to do it while Lestrade watched.
John didn’t even know the man’s first name, for God’s sake!
Sherlock might be on intimate terms with the police officer – and John certainly does believe that at some point in those five years of their friendship? association? relationship? they have slept together – but he wasn’t. Sure, they were on friendly terms, but it didn’t go much further than chatting about the weather over bad Scotland Yard coffee.
Sherlock seems determined to change that.
“Sherlock, I’m not sure—” he starts saying, but then Sherlock’s mouth is on his, and his tongue parts his lips to play with his and his knees grow a bit weaker as he lets himself be kissed into silence. And silence means agreement to Sherlock, even when it isn’t exactly voluntary.
John’s eyes are closed now, but he can feel Lestrade’s gaze on his body, it makes his skin itch and burn and it’s distracting him from the hands that undo his belt and then yank his trousers down. He tries not to think about it, but the more he tries, the stronger the impulse to open his eyes becomes.
Sherlock then strokes him over his underwear, firm hand moving over his much firmer flesh, making him gasp and open his eyes. His vision is limited to Sherlock’s lust-darkened eyes, and usually that’s more than enough.
This time he has to turn and look at Lestrade who is watching; the thought of him just watching them is too tempting.
Sherlock lowers his underwear to touch him directly, and he does what he shouldn’t have done, knowing that once he has done that he can never turn back and forget what he has seen. He turns to watch Lestrade, who is now palming his own erection through his clothes, and John suddenly wonders why he doesn’t unzip his pants and take himself in his hand, surprising himself by thinking how much he would like to see the inspector jerking off watching them.
Does that make him a pervert, he wonders, briefly, because Sherlock demands his attention once more, their kisses are more desperate now, Sherlock is greedier, biting and sucking on his lips. He’s relentless, and he’s still moving his hand on his cock, squeezing and pumping just how he likes it.
John moans in his mouth and he can swear he heard another moan join his; the question is whether it came from Sherlock or Lestrade. Not that it matters, really.
He undoes Sherlock’s belt and opens his flies to free him from his clothes; it’s the least he can do in that situation.
His wrist moves up and down on Sherlock’s length, keeping a rhythm that is barely satisfactory, he knows, but he can’t concentrate with all those things demanding a part of his thoughts.
He bites on Sherlock’s neck, and starts leaving a mark just above the collarbone, making the other man groan.
When he is finally spent in Sherlock’s hand he dares open his eyes and turn around. He braces himself on the wall and looks at Lestrade, who is still sitting on the chair, awaiting gratification, showing a remarkable restraint because he is panting now, droplets of sweat on his forehead, but he still has his trousers on.
John wonders if it was Sherlock that posed that condition, and why he didn’t ask him first.
One of Lestrade’s hands is gripping the armrest so hard that his knuckles turned white, the other is stroking his own thigh.
Sherlock licks his lips and walks over to the chair in which Lestrade sits. He looks predatory, but Lestrade doesn’t seem bothered, his breath itches in his throat, and his eyes are locked with Sherlock. He stops torturing his lip and opens his mouth to say something, but Sherlock puts a finger on his lips to shut him up.
Then both of his hands go to the man’s belt, undoing it calmly, reaching for the zip later, opening his trousers and freeing him from the confines of his underwear.
Lestrade sighs in relief, and Sherlock kisses him, passionately, and one of Lestrade’s hand burrows itself in Sherlock’s curls, gripping just a bit too hard, John knows it because he can hear his flatmate moaning.
Sherlock’s right hand closes itself around Lestrade’s erection, and starts moving, much to Lestrade’s gratitude.
“You took your time,” he growls, and Sherlock gets on his knees between Lestrade’s legs, his other hand stroking one thigh, kneading the muscle, teasing him.
“Shut up,” he replies, then puts his mouth to a better use, starting to lick him, making Lestrade groan aloud, his hand hanging on Sherlock’s hair, pulling and trying to guide him, but Sherlock slaps his hand. “Behave,” he warns, then starts over, licking from the base to the tip, and then descending on the other side.
John hears the moan Lestrade makes, and he’s pretty sure he’s never going to forget that.
Then Sherlock gets him in his mouth and starts sucking, doing things with his tongue that John can only imagine but, if the string of obscenities coming from Lestrade’s mouth is some indication, must be incredible.
He can watch Sherlock’s head move up and down, Lestrade’s hand still gripping strands of his hair, accompanying his every movement, the other scratching the leather of the armchair.
Lestrade bites his lips and tries, and John knows the man is trying desperately to think about something else, to hold back because it’s not fair to let Sherlock make him lose control so easily. He knows exactly his thoughts because that’s what he thinks every time.
But it’s not like he can do much about it in the end. Lestrade opens his eyes and sees John staring at them, then he comes, cursing loudly, in Sherlock’s mouth.
Sherlock swallows and then grabs the front of his shirt to pull him down for a kiss.
John stares, unashamed, as they kiss and Sherlock quickly finishes himself off.
He wants to ask what all of that was about, but he’s not sure he has control over his voice.
Lestrade looks at him and winks.
Things have definitely changed between them now.
