Once upon a time, this ESL author stumbled upon a prompt entitled "Lestrade gives Sherlock a pearl necklace" and thought "Oh, how too too romantic". She then proceeded to fill it accordingly but, thank god, was shown the error of her ways before she was done and posting.
Much later on, I sent the draft to grassle for laughs, telling her I was now tempted to write a "mispûrned medley". She said, why not make it a collective romp? And thus, children, was the Not-Porn Porn Challenge born. Oh, and you still get the story at the end of the post.
2. The Challenge
It's quite simple. I'm letting it run for, say, a month - and then, if there have been answers, I'll set up a Masterpost.
a) Chose a kink's name. (Or ask me for ideas. I'm quite enlightened by now.)
b) Write a G- or PG-rated fic for it. Gen or any pairing welcome. Fanartists welcome too! Fics should be at least 100-word drabbles but can be as long as you please. So "red wings" can be magical AU or wee!Jim chasing butterflies, "figging" Sherlock giving Mycroft his share of figgy pudding at the Christmas dinners, etc. etc.
c) Post the result on your LJ and link here, or post directly as a comment to this entry. Anonymous comments are accepted.
e) Feel free to use a kink even if someone else did before (I know I have at least three distinct ideas for "golden shower")...
f) ... and feel free to crosspost this meme anywhere you like.
g) If anyone French among my f-list feels tempted, I'll be happy to translate their fic.
3. Launching the Boat
1. Pearl Necklace
Pairing : Lestrade/Sherlock
Rating : PG (warning for the word "nudity")
Word count : 722
As always, all my thanks to grassle for her quick and efficient betaing.
"There’s something," Lestrade said at last, looking into the warm haze of the fire.
He felt before he heard Sherlock’s hum of breath still against his thigh and added quickly: "Something I want you to have."
"Oh," Sherlock said, prudent yet not unpleased. He rolled over from Lestrade’s lap onto the rug, raising himself on his elbows to meet this new riddle eye to eye. Creature of the night, Lestrade thought with a fond nod at the bygone eighties, letting his eyes loiter with unabashed intent over the sight. For a self-proclaimed spartan, Sherlock fitted his nudity like a glove, and didn’t half know it.
"It’s not a ring, is it?" the spartan was asking in almost plaintive tones. "Gold itches. I’d have to hang it on a chain, and that’s a liability in my line of work. Think ..."
"Hush" – and Lestrade placed a finger on the buxom underlip. "No; it’s not gold. Or new." He fumbled in the shadow for his discarded trousers. "Or blue, or borrowed," he went on with a nervous swipe at levity.
"Isn’t it?" Sherlock’s voice had gone low.
Lestrade found his gaze and raised it, literally raised it, tilting up Sherlock’s chin with a finger while he kept his other hand behind his back. "Borrowed? Nope. No longer, so have another guess."
His to hold and give, even against the odds that time would one day double back again and deal him another pang, another bruised memory, the next day he’d find the little rope and wonder why he, she, hadn’t gone the whole sodding symbolic hog and broken it, just broken the damn thing, instead of leaving it coiled at the bottom of his bedside table drawer. His first real gift to Debbie back when they were absolute beginners, and he still on a novice pay, too. Squeezing it in the hollow of his hand, he’d tried to remember – what had she looked like, receiving his gift? Had she laughed, or gasped? Seen it for the sign it was, the pledge, or only the money gone to waste? He’d laughed, that he remembered, and said "Who waits thirty years these days?", fastening it round her neck.
The drawer had jammed in the early morning grey.
"Three years," Lestrade said, pushing the waste to the back of his heart. He stretched his hand open so that Sherlock would see the grain-like pearls shadowed by the flames. Debbie had worn them every night in the first year, under her boiled wool sweaters. "They die if you don’t," her words, and even though he’d joked about pearl-clutching, there had been pride and lust in his heart, in their feel against his cheek when he sucked at the soft dip of her throat.
He couldn’t have said when she’d begun to take them off for choir practice, and Tai Chi, and swimming, and finally her new tone-up programme, but that was then and now Sherlock was taking them from his hand. The string was too short to let the necklace hang from his neck; rather, the pearls seemed to target it, encircle it, white upon white, a trophy that stayed and gleamed and changed. As Lestrade watched, he saw how they gathered a sharp dew of clarity, drawing the fire to them until they were matching Sherlock’s own pellucid eyes – until they breathed the same quiet unquiet light.
Lust and pride no longer covered it.
His hand was being taken and wrapped around the slender neck, Sherlock’s hand tightening the clasp until Lestrade could feel the pearls’ sleek hardness against his flesh. There was nothing soft here, or bland, no reassurance for a domestic man, nothing that came close to Debbie’s promise of yielding milkiness. But the recent years had been a string of nights tied by loss. Sherlock’s hand was still wrapped over his, pressing it hard enough for the pearls to leave their imprint on both of them.
Three years, the gesture said as Sherlock at last lowered their hands to his lap. He tilted his head all the way back, the string taut enough at his neck to hurt. And Lestrade felt his own heart tauten in response to the primal sight, the sign, pledge, and the beauty of it, decadent and all-decisive.
He leant forward until his lips touched flesh, and let the fourth year begin.
EDIT: The challenge is now closed and a Masterlist has been posted. Thank you, everyone, for cooperating so brilliantly!