Lestrade froze. Fuck, oh fuck. Why hadn’t he had the sense to hang back, be inconspicuous? Why take this risk that wasn’t going to do anyone any good anyway. Trying to be some kind of bloody hero. Sherlock was going to hate him anyway, even if they survived the night.
“What’s that?” Hawk said sharply. “Is he saying he knows you?”
“Probably knows every drug dealer in London, this one.” Lestrade fumbled with the zipper of his jeans, trying to keep his voice level. “Could have sold him blow sometime, I don’t know.” He jammed his fingers into Sherlock’s overlong hair and forced his head down. “Go on. There’re better uses for that mouth of yours than talking.”
Sherlock let himself be pushed, though Lestrade almost wished he would struggle.
He kept one hand in Sherlock’s hair, thick and luxuriant for all it was in need of washing, and shoved his jeans and briefs down with the other. It was truly the worst moment of his not-very-long career, caught between exposing his body to these sadistic bastards, and exposing the whole undercover operation he’d worked to set up. And the worst of it was that he really did fancy Sherlock Holmes—under better circumstances might have found some way to ask him out for a drink, shared a walk along the Thames after the bars closed, a tender, fumbling first kiss.
And thinking these horrible thoughts he felt Sherlock take him into his mouth. He wasn’t tentative, exactly, just very slow, as if he were measuring and probing every millimeter of Lestrade’s prick, working at half speed. Lestrade had thought this would be the part he’d have to fake. There wouldn't be any way he’d get hard under these circumstances. He wasn’t the type of bloke who got off on coercion, much less exhibitionism.
But his body betrayed him. Or came to his aid, depending on how you looked at it. Sherlock’s mouth was sweet, his tongue looping languid circles up Lestrade’s cock, teasing at the slit. And Lestrade still had the picture of that other reality in his mind, of kissing Sherlock on some balmy night, out in the open air, running his hands over that lean body, the tight arse. He was rock hard and aching before he knew it.
“Oi,” Hawk said. “Put some back into it, Lou. This ain’t the bloody Proms. Nobody’s paying for your refinement and gentility.”
Georgie cackled from his perch on the sofa arm, but Lestrade barely heard them. He was fucking into Sherlock’s mouth in earnest now, swept up in the rhythm of it, feeling the tip of his cock bump up against the back of Sherlock’s throat. And Sherlock took him in, took him in as far as he could go, though whether it was through expertise or a byproduct of intoxication, Lestrade didn’t know.
Perhaps the former, because at the last minute, Sherlock reached up a hand to cup Lestrade’s balls, squeezed gently, and Lestrade was gone. Sherlock swallowed him down, coaxed him through the aftershocks, and Lestrade was so grateful he would have leaned down and kissed him in truth if he hadn’t thought it would bring a beating on them both.
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sforzinda
Re: Certain Events in Lambeth, Lestrade/Sherlock, non-con, (nc-17), 4/5
Date: 2011-05-14 04:17 am (UTC)“What’s that?” Hawk said sharply. “Is he saying he knows you?”
“Probably knows every drug dealer in London, this one.” Lestrade fumbled with the zipper of his jeans, trying to keep his voice level. “Could have sold him blow sometime, I don’t know.” He jammed his fingers into Sherlock’s overlong hair and forced his head down. “Go on. There’re better uses for that mouth of yours than talking.”
Sherlock let himself be pushed, though Lestrade almost wished he would struggle.
He kept one hand in Sherlock’s hair, thick and luxuriant for all it was in need of washing, and shoved his jeans and briefs down with the other. It was truly the worst moment of his not-very-long career, caught between exposing his body to these sadistic bastards, and exposing the whole undercover operation he’d worked to set up. And the worst of it was that he really did fancy Sherlock Holmes—under better circumstances might have found some way to ask him out for a drink, shared a walk along the Thames after the bars closed, a tender, fumbling first kiss.
And thinking these horrible thoughts he felt Sherlock take him into his mouth. He wasn’t tentative, exactly, just very slow, as if he were measuring and probing every millimeter of Lestrade’s prick, working at half speed. Lestrade had thought this would be the part he’d have to fake. There wouldn't be any way he’d get hard under these circumstances. He wasn’t the type of bloke who got off on coercion, much less exhibitionism.
But his body betrayed him. Or came to his aid, depending on how you looked at it. Sherlock’s mouth was sweet, his tongue looping languid circles up Lestrade’s cock, teasing at the slit. And Lestrade still had the picture of that other reality in his mind, of kissing Sherlock on some balmy night, out in the open air, running his hands over that lean body, the tight arse. He was rock hard and aching before he knew it.
“Oi,” Hawk said. “Put some back into it, Lou. This ain’t the bloody Proms. Nobody’s paying for your refinement and gentility.”
Georgie cackled from his perch on the sofa arm, but Lestrade barely heard them. He was fucking into Sherlock’s mouth in earnest now, swept up in the rhythm of it, feeling the tip of his cock bump up against the back of Sherlock’s throat. And Sherlock took him in, took him in as far as he could go, though whether it was through expertise or a byproduct of intoxication, Lestrade didn’t know.
Perhaps the former, because at the last minute, Sherlock reached up a hand to cup Lestrade’s balls, squeezed gently, and Lestrade was gone. Sherlock swallowed him down, coaxed him through the aftershocks, and Lestrade was so grateful he would have leaned down and kissed him in truth if he hadn’t thought it would bring a beating on them both.