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turanteMy part of the super secret porn exchange between me and ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
crocodile_eat_u because she makes me laugh so much my sides hurt afterwards, and one night we were playing with a random pairing generator that was being really, really naughty.
And I forgot how but she accidentally agreed to write me some porn. I didn't want to be selfish, so I decided to make it into a porn exchange.
The pairing (ahem) was chosen by the random pairing generator. So for me it was...
John/his own hand.
Rating: Nc-17
Pairing: John/John (Lestrade/John just imagined)
Word Count: 800
A/N: Dedicated tocrocodile_eat_u (by the way how is my porn coming along?)
Title: John's Solo
John closed his eyes. Even as late as it was he couldn’t sleep, not like that. He couldn’t sleep with those thoughts rolling around in his mind.
He hadn't imagined all those looks from Lestrade. He hadn't, he couldn't have; his imagination wasn't that vivid usually.
It was the sultry look of want, the naked desire that he saw on the detective inspector’s face that made him imagine Lestrade when he was masturbating, it had nothing to do with his silver hair and his fucking middle aged charm.
One of his hand slid under his t-shirt and brushed his skin lightly, more of a caress, really. He started at his abdomen and slowly moved upwards, towards his chest.
His other hand went to his crotch, stroked himself through the fabric of the pyjama. He was hard at the mere thought of the man, and what did that say about his sexuality! He grabbed hold of himself and rubbed a bit harder, teasing, testing, and playing.
He could not imagine how a man like Lestrade could be giving him such compromising looks. He could imagine Sherlock – because by golly, the man had no shame – and how had he ended up thinking about Sherlock? No, back to the subject at hand, no pun intended. Lestrade. Yes, Lestrade, everyone's favourite Met inspector – the why was not hard to imagine – how would he look when he was in private, when he finally took off his suit to relax in front of the telly? That thought brought forward the image of the DI undressing for him, urging on to reach him on the bed. Oh yes.
His hand slipped under the waistband, and it was already barely enough. He closed the hand around himself and pulled once, and a sigh escaped his lips.
It had to be the jumper, he thought, because Lestrade always looked flustered when he wore the striped one. Sometimes John caught him staring and Lestrade didn't try very hard to look away.
He imagined the inspector to be standing by the edge of his bed, (surveying his handiwork?) studying the way he touched himself with that grin on his face, the one that said he always had one on you, even if you were bloody Sherlock Holmes.
His hand moved up, stroked the tip, insisted a bit like he imagined Lestrade would do to him. He thought the man would explore his anatomy minutely, insist until he had him begging for his release, until he pleaded and moaned and finally asked him to be fucked. And he knew he would ask, he would beg without shame, without thinking twice.
He sighed, hand moving slowly down his length, gripping himself as he thought Lestrade would do, paying attention to every inch of his skin, touching and caressing, teasing himself. A soft moan escaped his lips and he lifted his hips against his hand.
He wanted more, and yet he didn’t want to rush things. He wanted a nice, long, drawn out wank.
He thought about Lestrade, and what he would do to him. He’d tell him to undress so he could see better, no doubt, so John lowered his pyjama bottoms, pushing them off his hips, freeing his erection from the fabric.
He closed his hand around it again and started stroking, stopping after each stroke with his hand closed at the base. He turned his head and put the other hand on his mouth to muffle his own moans; there was no need to give Sherlock more ideas than what he surely had already inferred from him.
He bit slightly on his fingers as he imagined Lestrade encouraging him on, his voice ordering him to continue like that, slowly, and God, maybe he would touch himself at the same time.
He would beg to have those fingers touch him now, if he thought it would serve any purpose at all.
John moved his hand on himself, not so leisurely anymore, following what his need demanded of him. He pumped his cock, once, twice, three times harder, faster, raising his hips to go meet his hand.
His fingers were barely a tool for his imagination, enough to deliver him the release he sought while imagining the silver haired inspector.
He moaned, barely able to hold off his orgasm anymore, now that he pumped harder, erratically, until he felt the tension low in his belly become too much, and he came in his own hand, with a groan barely muffled against his pillow and hand.
He lay there for a minute, regaining his breath. Then he heard a knock on his door.
“I hope you’re done, because Lestrade called. We’ll leave in five minutes,” said Sherlock before walking past his door.
And there went all his hopes of Sherlock leaving him some privacy.
crocodile_eat_u because she makes me laugh so much my sides hurt afterwards, and one night we were playing with a random pairing generator that was being really, really naughty.And I forgot how but she accidentally agreed to write me some porn. I didn't want to be selfish, so I decided to make it into a porn exchange.
The pairing (ahem) was chosen by the random pairing generator. So for me it was...
John/his own hand.
Rating: Nc-17
Pairing: John/John (Lestrade/John just imagined)
Word Count: 800
A/N: Dedicated to
crocodile_eat_u (by the way how is my porn coming along?)Title: John's Solo
John closed his eyes. Even as late as it was he couldn’t sleep, not like that. He couldn’t sleep with those thoughts rolling around in his mind.
He hadn't imagined all those looks from Lestrade. He hadn't, he couldn't have; his imagination wasn't that vivid usually.
It was the sultry look of want, the naked desire that he saw on the detective inspector’s face that made him imagine Lestrade when he was masturbating, it had nothing to do with his silver hair and his fucking middle aged charm.
One of his hand slid under his t-shirt and brushed his skin lightly, more of a caress, really. He started at his abdomen and slowly moved upwards, towards his chest.
His other hand went to his crotch, stroked himself through the fabric of the pyjama. He was hard at the mere thought of the man, and what did that say about his sexuality! He grabbed hold of himself and rubbed a bit harder, teasing, testing, and playing.
He could not imagine how a man like Lestrade could be giving him such compromising looks. He could imagine Sherlock – because by golly, the man had no shame – and how had he ended up thinking about Sherlock? No, back to the subject at hand, no pun intended. Lestrade. Yes, Lestrade, everyone's favourite Met inspector – the why was not hard to imagine – how would he look when he was in private, when he finally took off his suit to relax in front of the telly? That thought brought forward the image of the DI undressing for him, urging on to reach him on the bed. Oh yes.
His hand slipped under the waistband, and it was already barely enough. He closed the hand around himself and pulled once, and a sigh escaped his lips.
It had to be the jumper, he thought, because Lestrade always looked flustered when he wore the striped one. Sometimes John caught him staring and Lestrade didn't try very hard to look away.
He imagined the inspector to be standing by the edge of his bed, (surveying his handiwork?) studying the way he touched himself with that grin on his face, the one that said he always had one on you, even if you were bloody Sherlock Holmes.
His hand moved up, stroked the tip, insisted a bit like he imagined Lestrade would do to him. He thought the man would explore his anatomy minutely, insist until he had him begging for his release, until he pleaded and moaned and finally asked him to be fucked. And he knew he would ask, he would beg without shame, without thinking twice.
He sighed, hand moving slowly down his length, gripping himself as he thought Lestrade would do, paying attention to every inch of his skin, touching and caressing, teasing himself. A soft moan escaped his lips and he lifted his hips against his hand.
He wanted more, and yet he didn’t want to rush things. He wanted a nice, long, drawn out wank.
He thought about Lestrade, and what he would do to him. He’d tell him to undress so he could see better, no doubt, so John lowered his pyjama bottoms, pushing them off his hips, freeing his erection from the fabric.
He closed his hand around it again and started stroking, stopping after each stroke with his hand closed at the base. He turned his head and put the other hand on his mouth to muffle his own moans; there was no need to give Sherlock more ideas than what he surely had already inferred from him.
He bit slightly on his fingers as he imagined Lestrade encouraging him on, his voice ordering him to continue like that, slowly, and God, maybe he would touch himself at the same time.
He would beg to have those fingers touch him now, if he thought it would serve any purpose at all.
John moved his hand on himself, not so leisurely anymore, following what his need demanded of him. He pumped his cock, once, twice, three times harder, faster, raising his hips to go meet his hand.
His fingers were barely a tool for his imagination, enough to deliver him the release he sought while imagining the silver haired inspector.
He moaned, barely able to hold off his orgasm anymore, now that he pumped harder, erratically, until he felt the tension low in his belly become too much, and he came in his own hand, with a groan barely muffled against his pillow and hand.
He lay there for a minute, regaining his breath. Then he heard a knock on his door.
“I hope you’re done, because Lestrade called. We’ll leave in five minutes,” said Sherlock before walking past his door.
And there went all his hopes of Sherlock leaving him some privacy.
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no subject
Date: 14/11/2010 19:48 (UTC)no subject
Date: 14/11/2010 20:36 (UTC)Playing with the random pairing generator that night almost transformed NaNo month in MaMo (Masturbation Month).
We got to the conclusion that, since Mycroft controls captcha, Sherlock hacks into phones, Moriarty programmed Cleverbot....
Anderson controls the random pairing generator. U_U
no subject
Date: 19/11/2010 16:32 (UTC)And your scary, scary canon about Anderson. *shivers, in the not-good way*
no subject
Date: 19/11/2010 16:35 (UTC)*is scared*
hmmm I think May is already (officially) Masturbation Month... :P
no subject
Date: 14/11/2010 21:08 (UTC)MaMo... well, creative energy and libido are linked, aren't they.
poor John - and sneaky!omniscient!Sherlock! and irresistible!Lestrade!
hurrah for you!
no subject
Date: 14/11/2010 21:15 (UTC)well, creative energy and libido are linked
OMG I believe you're right.
Poor John indeed... Sherlock has no shame
no subject
Date: 15/11/2010 02:58 (UTC)You have to write the most hottest masturbatory porn don't you? DON'T YOU??? I am speechless and hot and blushing and incoherent and OMG YOUUUUU!
This was just... I know there's a reason why Lestrade and John are hot together and it isn't because of the RP generator (although that played a naughty part!) Hmmmmmm oh this was delicious!
I <3 you! I am now in awe of you! *______*
*sighs dreamily*
(our endings are so similiar it's scary!! XD)
no subject
Date: 19/11/2010 16:33 (UTC)*floats away on a cloud of happy*
no subject
Date: 19/11/2010 16:50 (UTC)Have fun on that cloud!! ;)
no subject
Date: 24/11/2010 09:42 (UTC)no subject
Date: 24/11/2010 10:31 (UTC)I'm glad you liked it! *stupidly runs in circle, happy*
And well... Sherlock is Sherlock. ;P