brighteyedjill | Five by Five, with extra kink

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Five by Five, with extra kink

Hey friends. It's that time again. Yes, it's the week of Five Acts, a glorious fandom meme where you can post a list of your favorite kinks, and we all have a comment-fic orgy. Or gangbang. Or whatever floats your boat. Here's the deal. You:

1. Post on your journal a list of five favorite kinks to read about, and the fandoms and pairings you enjoy.
2. Drop you info at the sign up post
3. Check out the master list and write some comment fic for other folks and their kinks!

Click the image for rules and info, or see the master list to get comment-ficcin!

My Five Faves (of this week)
1. Begging or offering. Guys on their knees, begging for mercy, or to be taken, or for sexual release, or just get on with it already for the love of God! Or a character offering himself, maybe even emphatically...
2. Non-consensual or semi-consensual sex. Sexual extortion; bribery; reluctant or ambivalent partner; bondage and struggle; trading sexual favors to guards to procure food or medicine for partner; rape fantasies; other consent issues. The good old kidnapped-by-the-enemy or run-into-hostile aliens or even the horrible-alternative-is-worse-I'm-doing-this-for-your-own-good-even-if-you'll-hate-me-forever scenarios are also great.
3. Abuse. Sexual, emotional, and/or violent childhood abuse; past abusive relationships; character A's abuse drives character B into arms of character C; the wounded child as an adult archetype. An experience brings up bad memories, a character discovers something he didn't know about his partner, a friend is suspicious/protective of a love interest's current partner.
4. Power issues. Inequities in beauty, rank, or class; power games; BDSM; power reversals; teacher/student pairings; magical powers; abuse of power; blackmail; romantic slavery; issues of respect; sexual scenarios such as a dominant character giving his partner to others to use, or a character kneeling beneath a desk and blowing someone who's on the phone. I love negotiated power exchange (like healthy D/s relationships), but I'm also a fan of fucked-up power imbalance, too.
5. Animalistic behaviors and characteristics Feral characters or behavior; domesticated pet behavior such as sitting at owner's foot and cheeking their thigh; purring; licking; characters objectified as animals, e.g., puppy play. Collars are nice, too.

My Fandoms/Pairings:

Sherlock (Usually BBC, but I've been known to drift into the Richie or canon-verse): Sherlock/John, Mycroft/John, Mycroft/Sherlock, Lestrade/Sherlock, and basically any threesome-or-more combo of those pairings. Moriarty/whoever he's fucking with today.
Star Trek XI: Kirk/McCoy, Sulu/Chekov, McCoy/Chekov, Kirk/Sulu, Kirk/Chekov, Kirk/Spock, hell, pretty much any combo of the above. Mirror!verse welcome.
Heroes: Nathan/Peter, Sylar/Peter, Sylar/Luke, Adam/Peter. Judicious use of the magnificent bastards (Arthur or Linderman) is a-ok.
Supernatural: Sam/Dean or Dean/Cas
Inception: Arthur/Eames
Crossovers: Yes, please! Other fandoms I'm familiar with include BSG (through Season Three only), True Blood, Pretender, Buffy/Angel, and Firefly.

Things What I Done Wrote
Sherlock: Mycroft/John, writing on body, sleep themes for

setos_puppy
Sherlock: John/Sherlock, fever, dance, touch for

ariadnes_string
Star Trek Reboot: Kirk/McCoy, drowning, nightmare hurt/comfort for

tresa_cho
Sherlock: John/Sherlock, anal play, performing for a partner, sensory deprivation for

emerald_embers
Knowing Your Limits (Heroes: Sylar/Luke, Special powers, power issues, references to multiple orgasms) for

jaune_chat
A United Front (Sherlock: Mycroft & Sherlock, kinda Mycroft/Sherlock, references to past Sherlock/OC; pretending to be together, kinda hurt/comfort) for

rei17
The Foxhunt Adventure (Sherlock: John/Sherlock, accidental stimulation, first time-ish) for

slothfulzel

(Guys, I suck at titles. Halp!)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

OMG YOUR ICON!!!

BONDAGE DUCKIE!

For your begging or offering section, could altered states/intoxication, etc fit in with that? For a reason they're so needy, or would you prefer it to be natural?

Oh yes, I'm a-ok with altered states of all kinds. Sex pollen, ill-advised cocaine use (oh Sherlock), belligerent drunkenness: it's all fine.

Lovely. Incubus intoxication it is!

:D

!! :D

Would you object at all to Sam/Dean/Cas or Sam/Dean/Gabriel?

Not at all! Thresomes are always the answer! I'll even confess to a secret soft spot for Sam/Dean/Cas.

:D

Excellent.

Because if I'm going to do slutty-bottom Sam, I'm going to do it right dammit.

There's a wrong way to do slutty-bottom Sam?!

;P

:P

Only if you don't include a fair number of cocks

The register of received diplomatic gifts did not cater to situations such as this. For one, it was designed to be filled in by an administrator, or a yeoman if on mission. Also, despite the fact that there were over four hundred categories to sift through, none of them quite covered what was currently standing in Jim Kirk’s quarters. In fact, nothing much covered him at all. Jim reluctantly clicked on ‘Other Miscellaneous Livestock’.

It was pretty to look at, there was no question. Pale skin, dark unruly hair which framed his face and the most stunning blue eyes Jim had seen since he looked in the mirror this morning. They were Science Blue. And Jim kind of hated himself for having nothing more poetic than that to compare them to.

“Your name, is...”

“Castiel.”

“Castiel. Well, I guess you have to stay here until the very generous Ambassador is off the ship, then we’ll find you...somewhere to go.”

The thing looked at Jim with curiosity. “I am here for a purpose Captain, one defined by the Ambassador through his singular skill. I like to be useful.”

Jim reached round to scratch at the back of his neck. “I understand that Castiel, but while Starfleet doesn’t permit me to take the Ambassador to task over his brain searches and pimping of....whatever you think you are...it also doesn’t permit me to indulge in his very generous offerings.”

“You are tired. I can help you.”

Castiel walked towards him,managing to look somehow stately despite wearing nothing more than a kind of loincloth and a metal band about the neck. Jim held out his hands but found them quickly full of So Called Angel as Castiel refused to stop. Pushed up against the wall Jim tried to force him back but felt his strength come to nothing against the solid form. “Castiel I don’t consent to this, do you know what that means?”

Castiel nodded. “I know what it means. But believe me Captain, when I say I also know that you do consent.”

“Because you can read my thoughts, I know, but you forget Cas, we can’t always have what we want.” Jim stared into his eyes and saw something flicker there, some discomfort. “What is it?”

“Nothing Captain. May we continue?”

“No, Castiel, we....” Jim swallowed hard as the thing dropped to his knees and pressed his face into Jim’s crotch, mouthing at him eagerly. “No Castiel, stop it.” Jim wasn’t convincing anyone, least of all himself. He wondered if he could just...let it happen, just once.

Castiel had Jim’s pants on the floor in a split second and Jim couldn’t help but dig his fingers into that thick hair, stroking it as Castiel started to suck. His fingers caught on the metal collar and he grimaced. “Take this off.”

Castiel’s leaned back, letting Jim’s hard, wet cock pop from his lips. “I am not permitted to.”

“You’re mine, right? So I say take it off, I don’t like it.”

Nodding, Castiel reached back and gingerly undid the collar, handing it to Jim and waiting for a signal to continue. Jim stroked the back of his head and he was engulfed in the wet heat again. Castiel hummed and moaned softly around Jim’s dick, stroking his hands up and down trembling hips. Jim pulled at his hair, enjoying the whimpers it caused. He imagined what it would be like to keep him, to come back here after a shift and just click his fingers, call the thing to its knees and use him, his pretty, pouting mouth and his tight, virgin hole. He wondered whether all the starship captains were afforded this gift, or whether the minds of others revealed a need for an elegant vase or a nicely aged port.

He felt his orgasm pressing on him and held Castiel’s head still as he thrust into his mouth, the improbable angel taking everything he had and gulping steadily, still sucking as Jim softened. Castiel stood, his brow furrowing as if he was listening to something. He suddenly looked straight into Jim’s eyes and gathered him up into his arms like a rag doll, holding him tight.

“I’m more than just a toy, Captain. You have important work to do and you need your release, and your comfort. This is a role I have played before. A long time ago.”

Jim saw that little flicker again. “What happened? He didn’t need you anymore?”

Castiel blinked. This time in his expression, there was pain. “Nobody lives forever, Captain. You of all people should know that.”

Jim stepped away from him, dressing himself. “You can stay. It wouldn’t be safe for you to return with the Ambassador, I can’t guarantee what would happen to you. You’re my responsibility now.”

Castiel didn’t smile exactly, but something changed. “Yes, Captain. Just as you need.”

Well, you just totally gave me a new crossover OTP! This is lovely and hot and sad.

Thanks! I think it was divine intervention because I've never considered them before XD

Jim reluctantly clicked on ‘Other Miscellaneous Livestock’. HAAAAAAAAA! Ha.

This was lovely and sad and hot like burning! I also liked the hints of long-ago Dean/Castiel. Jim definately has the same wounded hero thing going on, and I like how easily Cas sees through him. Very lovely meshing of the two fandoms! Oh baby, you know what I like!

Glad you liked it! xxx

Interesting! I never thought of a Castiel/Kirk pairing but I can totally see it.

And Poor Cas! Although, I just love the way that he can totally see Kirk. He's so similar to Dean in many ways.

Me neither till I saw this post! Thanks for reading x

Lovely! Very yummy :D

Oh, this is just gorgeous, and I love the echoes of Castiel's personal history with beautiful damaged heroes!

Ooh, I like the way you prompt.

Thanks! I am to ~~misbehave~~ please.

John usually didn’t blog from Sherlock’s couch, particularly when there hadn’t been a case in a while. Because at any moment Sherlock could suddenly have a burst of ennui and need to sprawl across the largest piece of furniture to properly sulk. On the other hand, the desk light was burnt out, of course there were no extra light bulbs in the flat, and John couldn’t be arsed to go out and buy some after just getting settled after a long day. So he dared the couch and the attendant functional lamp.

And just about the time when he thought he might get away with it, Sherlock burst into the room, kicked the door shut behind him, flung his coat one direction and himself in another. Only good reflexes managed to let John get his computer out of the way before the back of Sherlock’s head landed in his lap.

“This has been an intolerable day,” he announced.

John looked down at Sherlock, laid across the couch in boneless grace, his shoes dropping from his feet to the floor and his arm flung above his head. John put his computer on the side table, as Sherlock showed no signs up either getting up or letting John use him as a desk.

“How so?” John asked finally, when nothing else was forthcoming.

“There was not a single suitable fresh corpse at Burt’s for experimentation, Lestrade has not had anything forthcoming for a week despite my insistence-.”

“You’re insisting someone die in a horrible and mysterious manner?” John asked with a straight face.

“You know very well what I mean,” Sherlock said haughtily. “At any rate, the Thai restaurant at the end of the street has a sick cook, so I was not able to eat, there was a great dearth of cabs after my walk across town, and it’s Tuesday.”

“Terrible thing, Tuesdays,” John said.

“Mockery doesn’t suit you, John,” Sherlock said sternly. He rolled his head back to look at John more closely, inadvertently (oh, of course it was inadvertently) rubbing across the front of John’s trousers.

“Then what would suit you?” John asked. He kept one hand on the arm of the sofa, but let the other rest on Sherlock’s stomach.

“Something going as anticipated, for once in this entire day,” Sherlock snapped.

John could feel Sherlock’s breathing get more agitated under his hand, and deftly parted two buttons so he could run his hand over the skin of Sherlock’s stomach. Sherlock took a shuddering breath and arched his back slightly, pressing himself into John’s touch.

“Yes?” John asked softly, bringing his other hand up to slowly card through Sherlock’s curls.

“Please…” Sherlock whispered, the barest thread of sound, a very quiet surrender.

John smiled, interrupted blogging session forgotten, and slowly worked Sherlock’s shirt open so he could caress down the lean line of his torso. He traced every line of muscle and bone, mapping Sherlock like an anatomy lesson, and lit up every nerve as he let his touch become maddening light. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, but John could still see them moving, trying to anticipate where John’s hand would fall next. John could see the effect he was having on him, the hard ridge of his arousal outlined beautifully by the cut of Sherlock’s trousers, but still waited.

He brought his hand back up to pinch gently at the hard peaks of Sherlock’s nipples, actually getting a gasp out of him. His hips thrust up at the empty air, making the muscles of his stomach tense and show themselves, and John flowed his hand back down to touch the revealed hardness. Not where Sherlock wanted it, of course, and John could feel him begin to tremble with holding back.

John kept up his caress of Sherlock’s head, burrowing deep into his curls to grip hard at his hair, making him arc his body like a bow as John finally cupped his cock, one finger tracing him maddeningly through the fabric.

“Sherlock?” John asked sternly.

In response, Sherlock opened his eyes, dilated and dark, their pale color still spearing John through. “John… please.”

John swore softly when he felt himself harden from Sherlock’s single breathy plea, and deftly undid Sherlock’s trousers to slip his hand inside. Sherlock’s nearly-smothered moan from the feel of John’s hand on his cock, satisfying, hard contact, almost made John had to stop from the surge that went through him.

Almost.

John tugged hard on Sherlock’s hair as he stroked him, just a few times, just a few, firm, full, base-to-tip strokes, reveling in every inch of him, and Sherlock was gone with a gasp, actually turning his face into John’s body so the embarrassing play of emotion wouldn’t be so painfully plain. John bit his lip, fighting hard for control as he felt Sherlock’s frantic breathing calm against his own body.

“You definitely were ready for that,” John said finally, when Sherlock had regained composure and could look at him again.

“As I said before,” Sherlock said haughtily, seemingly ignoring John’s hand still down his trousers. “I had a bad day.”

Bleeeee! I love John's long-sufferingness at the beginning, but he's still willing to give Sherlock what he needs (as long as he asks nicely, of course).

This line was especially lovely: Sherlock was gone with a gasp, actually turning his face into John’s body so the embarrassing play of emotion wouldn’t be so painfully plain.

Thank you my dear! This was a lovely catharsis!

I loved that line too! Glad you liked it, sweet pea!

(Catharsis is available on demand!)

Wonderful! And v. hot.

Oh wonderful~

So glad you liked it! :)

Oh, Sherlock, you kittycat you. *delights in this*

Um, I believe you mentioned the old horrible-alternative-is-worse-I'm-doing-this-for-your-own-good-even-if-you'll-hate-me-forever scenario?

Also, I totally fail at comment fic, this is 2.5K....

++

(pre-series)

While Lestrade was working his way up through the ranks he pulled a few hard years in Narcotics. That time had included three stints undercover. He hadn’t liked them much, but he’d gotten the job done all the same. He’d grown his hair out a bit, worn clothes that let his muscles and his service tattoo show, ratcheted up his accent and kept his eyes dead. Only once did anyone ever come close to making him as a copper.

Lestrade wondered if Sherlock had ever told John about it.

+++

He was working for a mid-level dealer named Joe Wren. Joe had a bird tattooed on the left side of his neck, a bird that looked even less like a wren than Joe did. So people mostly called him Hawk. More like a vulture, Lestrade thought. Hawk had a wrestler’s build, an accountant’s mind, and a sadist’s energy. A few weeks into the job, Lestrade had begged his superiors to let him bring Wren up on assault charges. He’d been refused: they were after Hawk’s higher ups, they said, everything else would come out in court, Lestrade shouldn’t get ahead of himself.

So here he was on another enforcement of payment expedition, with Hawk and a concrete slab of a man he knew only as Georgie, kicking down the door of a grubby bed-sit in Lambeth.

“No point in salutations, boys,” Hawk had said. “Best not to give him a chance to do a runner.”

The flat was a wreck. It smelt of dust, and unwashed clothes and something sharp and chemical. A chaos of books and papers and half-full test tubes and beakers littered every available surface. A threadbare dun-colored sofa was the only significant piece of furniture. At the sound of the door banging on its hinges, the lanky figure sprawled across it lifted its head and blinked dully at them.

“Up and at ‘em, Sunshine,” Hawk said, like this was his favorite thing in the world. Probably was. “We’ve come for what’s owed us.”

Lestrade had to dig his fingernails into his palm to keep from saying anything. He knew this man. It was Houghton’s wonder boy from the Yard, the one he’d been going on about for months.

“He just turned up one day,” Houghton had said. “Offering to consult. Straight out of university, looking like the worst kind of prat. You could smell the drugs on him, and other unsavory things besides. But damn if he didn’t solve the case by looking at the calluses on the vic’s right hand. Couldn’t say no to him after that.

Lestrade had seen him only once, coming out of Houghton’s office. Tall and thin, spectrally pale and weirdly elegant in his tight black clothes. Their eyes had caught—the youth’s a pale feline green, not the blue or hazel Lestrade had been expecting—and he’d smiled at Lestrade, just the slightest curl of his lips, before Lestrade tore his gaze away. There were certain aspects of his personal life he refused to indulge at work.

He held his breath now, waiting for the man to blow his cover. A hundred contingencies and fallbacks rushed through his mind. But the man gave no sign of having recognized him. Too strung out, perhaps—or else not quite as strung out as he seemed, already sussing out the situation.

“Now then, Mr. Holmes,” Hawk said, with a bookkeeper’s precision. “What form of payment will you be making today?”

Holmes—Lestrade struggled to remember his first name, something unusual, faintly comic—poured himself off the couch, stood and straightened his clothes. He didn’t look particularly scared, or even upset that his dealer and two thugs had just forced entry into his flat. Nor did he give any sign of recognizing Lestrade, thank goodness. He looked miffed—in a supercilious kind of way.

“Ah. Mr. Wren. I’m afraid you find me a bit short of ready cash,” Holmes said, in a deep drawl that seemed too resonant for his slight frame.

“Well, it don’t have to be money, Sherlock, do it?” Sherlock, that was it—how could Lestrade have forgotten a name like that? “Toss the place, lads.”

“Nothing here but trash, boss,” Georgie proclaimed, a fine leather-bound volume dangling from each hand, after they’d done the obligatory shake down of the flat.

“What about you, Lou?” That was the name by which they knew Lestrade. “You find anything?” Lestrade shook his head. “No gold watch, Sherlock? No silver cufflinks?”

Sherlock looked down his nose at them. “I think you’ll find the first edition Lytton Strachey your colleague is mauling would fetch a pretty penny at the antiquarian book dealers. You’re welcome to it, if you like.”

“If you say so, Sunshine, but it won’t do.” Hawk’s happiness seemed to be expressing itself as an odd form of courtesy. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to take it out of you in kind. Grab a hold of him, would you, Lou?”

Lestrade stepped behind Sherlock and pulled his arms tight behind his back. Sherlock didn’t resist—indeed, he seemed somewhat limp, skin clammy through his shirt sleeves, perhaps finally realizing the gravity of the situation. Lestrade steeled himself to witness another beating, for another miserable hour of trying to make his own blows look as realistic as possible. But Hawk seemed to have something different in mind this time.

“Now, ordinarily I’d do a pretty young thing like you myself,” he said, drawing a deliberate finger up Sherlock’s ribs, “but you’re a bit scrawny for me—need something to dig my hands into, I do. Georgie, would you care to do the honors?”

Georgie smiled, slow and mean, and the back of Lestrade’s throat went cold. He’d seen plenty of Georgie’s forms of persuasion: they were all thorough, efficient, and unremittingly brutal. His methods of sexual coercion were bound to be worse. Sherlock’s arms stiffened under Lestrade’s hands, as if he had deduced the same thing.

“Aw, boss,” Lestrade heard himself say, though he had no real plan in mind. “How come Georgie gets all the fun?”
Hawk squinted at him, leered. “So the new boy wants a piece of the action, eh? Took you for more of the retiring type, Lou. But if you fancy him, be my guest. Provided Georgie here don’t mind.”

“No problem, boss,” Georgie grumbled.

Lestrade felt Sherlock’s muscles relax infinitesimally. He wondered why. Maybe simply because Lestrade looked less rough than Georgie. Maybe because Sherlock really had made him for a copper, and thought Lestrade had a way out of this for them.

Which he didn’t. There was no other room to take Sherlock into, and Lestrade very much doubted that Hawk would respond to a plea for privacy in any case. The point of this was Sherlock’s humiliation, not anyone’s pleasure. And so Lestrade probably hadn’t made anything better by volunteering for the job. In fact, he was starting to feel ill at the prospect.

“Alright, then,” said Hawk, all business. “Get his trousers down. We don’t have all day. I’d do it over the end of the sofa if I were you, but suit yourself.”

“Hey boss,” Lestrade said, grasping at straws. “Wouldn’t mind a bit of cigar rolling, if you know what I mean. Been jonesing for it all week.”

He didn’t know if it would be any better that way. But at least Sherlock could keep his clothes on—and there’d be less chance of him getting hurt. And maybe, just maybe, Lestrade could think of a way for them to fake it.

“Yeah?” Hawk looked interested. “I like the way you think, Lou my boy. He does have a very pretty mouth. Very pretty indeed.” He ran the pad of his thumb over Sherlock’s lips, played with sticking it between them, laughed nastily when Sherlock jerked his head away. “Right. On your knees, you junkie cunt.”

He kicked Sherlock’s legs out from under him with a vicious, well-placed blow, and wrenched his head around so that Sherlock was facing Lestrade. “All yours, mate,” he said, and settled into one of the room’s spindly chairs as if he were watching a game of darts at the pub.

Sherlock gathered himself from the ungainly heap Hawk had left him in. If the kick had hurt him, he didn’t show it. He looked up at Lestrade, his pale eyes gone even paler, almost translucent. Something bubbled to the surface in them, some shard of lucidity.

“I know you,” he said, very distinctly.

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.

Finally, Sherlock let him slip out and sat back on his heels, looking wrecked, mouth unnaturally red in his pale face. Lestrade felt drained. He couldn’t tell if he were more relieved or horrified that he had pulled this off—that they had pulled it off, he corrected, suddenly sure that Sherlock had been helping, there at the end. He heard his own breath ragged in his ears as if it belonged to somebody else.

“That’s the spirit, Lou,” Hawk said, coming over and slapping him on the back. He looked a little flushed and glassy-eyed himself. “It’s like you popped your cherry today, mate. Zip up and let me buy you a pint.”

Hawk raised his foot again, and pushed at Sherlock’s shoulder until he toppled over, an untidy pile of limbs, unnervingly still. “And you. Don’t think this means you don’t still owe us money. This is just a taste of what’s going to happen to you if you don’t pay up. Come on, Lou—stop gaping.”

“Yeah,” said Lestrade, “just a minute.” He crouched over Sherlock—near enough to whisper and devil take the consequences. “Are you alright? Do you need a hospital?”

“Mmmn.” Sherlock’s voice was very faint, but steady. He didn’t lift his head from the floor. “No. I’m fine. It’s only transport, after all.”

Lestrade had no idea what he meant. “I’m sorry,” he said, feeling shamed and ridiculous. “Thank you.”

+++

Lestrade’s undercover work wrapped up pretty quickly after that. He was reasonably sure that the events in Lambeth were what led Joe Wren to bring him into his inner circle, to finally introduce him to the big suppliers who had been the target all along. But it made him hot and sick to think about it, so he tried not to, most of the time.

Once he was back in his own clothes, hair newly shorn and tattoo safely hidden away, he made a trip to that shabby block in Lambeth, trudged up the stairs to the third floor bed-sit, heart in his mouth. He wasn’t sure what he intended to do if he found Sherlock. Apologize? That seemed laughably inadequate. Maybe just reassure himself that he still existed.

The flat was deserted. No one had bothered to fix the door, and he could see that the whole place had been swept clean, as if no one had ever lived there at all. He banged on all the other doors on the floor, showing his badge, but no one knew anything. One day he was here, the next day he was gone. No one knew anything.

Lestrade tried Houghton next.

“Ever hear from that bright young thing of yours?” he asked, trying to sound offhand. “The consultant?”

“It’s the damnedest thing,” Houghton said, and Lestrade tensed. Sherlock’s name had never appeared in any of the depositions, he’d made sure of that, but there were other, much worse things, that might have befallen him.

“What is?”

“Seems our boy was better connected than I thought. Friends—family—very high up. One day a very quiet gentleman indeed came along and told me to forget all about him. Swept him off for a long rest in the country. Very posh. Very private.” Houghton touched a finger to the side of his nose. “Can’t say he didn’t need it, though.”

Lestrade let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. So not dead, then. Not in a gutter someplace. Well looked after. “I hope it does him good,” he said, with more feeling than he’d meant to.

“So do I, mate, so do I. London could use a mind like that.”

end

Oh my stars! Sherlock's checkered past provides so many enticing possibilities, and you've certainly made the most of them! I love the idea that Lestrade can't bear to see the other thugs take him, despite the risk. And the extra added angst of Lestrade really fancying Sherlock ratchets everything up a notch. And poor Sherlock. His “No. I’m fine. It’s only transport, after all.” broke my little heart. I appreciate that Lestrade tried to find him and fix it afterwords.

Thank you for this! I will surely be re-reading it often!

Yay! I'm so glad you enjoyed it! I'm so intrigued by strung-out!youthful!Sherlock it's a little creepy ;) And yeah, it may have gotten it a little angsty there....

Thanks for giving me the opportunity to explore one of my secret fav scenarios!

One -- I had to tell you that I adore your username.
Two -- as a fan of consent-issues stories, I had to tell you that this one is utterly brilliant. *applauds, quite impressed*

Thank you so much on both counts!

I have a not-so-secret-anymore thing for this particular kind of consent issue story--so I'm very glad you felt it worked!

thanks for reading and commenting!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Five by Five, with extra kink

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Kirk/Castiel : power issues and offering

Re: Kirk/Castiel : power issues and offering

Re: Kirk/Castiel : power issues and offering

Re: Kirk/Castiel : power issues and offering

Re: Kirk/Castiel : power issues and offering

Re: Kirk/Castiel : power issues and offering

Re: Kirk/Castiel : power issues and offering

Re: Kirk/Castiel : power issues and offering

Re: Kirk/Castiel : power issues and offering

Re: Kirk/Castiel : power issues and offering

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Sherlock (BBC), Sherlock/John, NC-17 - Begging, hints of animalistic behavior 1/2

Sherlock (BBC), Sherlock/John, NC-17 - Begging, hints of animalistic behavior 2/2

Re: Sherlock (BBC), Sherlock/John, NC-17 - Begging, hints of animalistic behavior 2/2

Re: Sherlock (BBC), Sherlock/John, NC-17 - Begging, hints of animalistic behavior 2/2

Re: Sherlock (BBC), Sherlock/John, NC-17 - Begging, hints of animalistic behavior 2/2

Re: Sherlock (BBC), Sherlock/John, NC-17 - Begging, hints of animalistic behavior 2/2

Re: Sherlock (BBC), Sherlock/John, NC-17 - Begging, hints of animalistic behavior 2/2

Re: Sherlock (BBC), Sherlock/John, NC-17 - Begging, hints of animalistic behavior 2/2

Certain Events in Lambeth, Lestrade/Sherlock, non-con, (nc-17), 1/5

Re: Certain Events in Lambeth, Lestrade/Sherlock, non-con, (nc-17), 2/5

Re: Certain Events in Lambeth, Lestrade/Sherlock, non-con, (nc-17), 3/5

Re: Certain Events in Lambeth, Lestrade/Sherlock, non-con, (nc-17), 4/5

Re: Certain Events in Lambeth, Lestrade/Sherlock, non-con, (nc-17), 5/5

Re: Certain Events in Lambeth, Lestrade/Sherlock, non-con, (nc-17), 5/5

Re: Certain Events in Lambeth, Lestrade/Sherlock, non-con, (nc-17), 5/5

Re: Certain Events in Lambeth, Lestrade/Sherlock, non-con, (nc-17), 5/5

Re: Certain Events in Lambeth, Lestrade/Sherlock, non-con, (nc-17), 5/5