theonewhocounted | (no subject)

What was it she'd said earlier? The first time is never the best time? He absolutely gets what she means, now, because she's tugging him back into the bedroom and it's so different it's almost dizzying.

Once they're across the threshold he kicks the door shut behind them, pulls her in close again, slides one hand up and under the hem of her jumper to rest at the small of her back. And even though it's still relatively chaste as far as touching goes, it makes him almost uncomfortably hard.

Molly hums against his lips when he pulls her close and presses her body into the hardness she can feel straining his trousers again. Maybe she'll even get to take them off this time, she thinks. She aches to see him naked, to watch his face as she wraps her hand around him for the first time.

The thought leads her to begin unbuttoning his shirt, starting from the top.

The little noises she makes are so expressive. Even in this unsteady state he can't help but catalogue each one, taking them in almost greedily.

She's started on the front of his shirt again, and before he can think twice about it he's tugging the hem of her jumper upwards with both hands. They're both a bit slower with one another this time, touches lingering instead of frantic.

And this time Sherlock knows what he wants, has some idea of what this can be like. The conviction makes him lean down and almost purr in her ear once he's peeled her jumper off.

"Hands, this time."

Molly removes her hands from his shirt long enough for him to get the jumper over her head and off. Underneath is a pink, lace, demi-cup bra. She may have been banking on him getting to see it. She's glad she had the forethought.

Her hands return to the ends of his shirt to undo the final couple of buttons, but pause as he purrs in her ear.

"No question," she agrees breathily as she looks up at him and her fingers pop the final button open. She's thought about her touching him, but her brain finally registers that he will also be touching her. Those beautiful, large hands on her heated skin, between her legs. Her clit throbs painfully just thinking about it.

(Huh. Either this one is newer, more accurately fitted for her, or the shirts and bras she wears when he usually sees her have really thrown off his assumptions. The lace suits her, and there's something weirdly endearing about the fact that it's pink--that's a very Molly thing to do, he thinks, and that's exactly why he likes it.)

She makes quick work of his remaining buttons, slides her hands over his bare skin, and he nearly shivers. The few times other people have explored him in any way, as an adult, it's either been with piercing glances or with words and tools meant to leave scars. It's beyond new to be the one under the spotlight, being examined as thoroughly as a fascinating piece of evidence. It's dangerous and thrilling.

She turns dark, searching eyes up at him, and he has to kiss her again, breathing a quiet moan into her mouth.

She moans in return, her hands sliding up his back as she presses herself close to him again. They then slide back down and into the very top band of his trousers, just sitting there in the dip of his lower back as they kiss. The warm skin under her hands makes her want more skin to touch and taste.

"Tell me what you want," she says into his mouth.

Edited 2017-02-07 18:40 (UTC)

For half a second his thoughts run together, separate ideas colliding and fusing under the heat of her hands and her kiss. There are at least six different and correct ways he could answer this question. And though a deep breath does precious little to steady him--especially since it fills his lungs with Molly--it does simplify all those potential answers down to one.

"As much as possible."

(The simplest answer is, of course, you, but that encompasses more than just sex. And there's a more reckless answer in the mix, too, but he doubts she'll be wholeheartedly enthusiastic about him going down on her before he's tested. Especially since his research into the topic has been, up until now, incredibly limited.)

Molly huffs out a laugh at his answer. It's so very Sherlock in some ways. He's always all in, full speed ahead. But in the fact that they're talking about sex, it's also very not him. Or at least, not him prior to 4 hours ago.

"I think we can work on that," she says before she starts to push him back towards her bed. When the backs of his knees hit the mattress, she removes her hands from the back of his pants and gently pushes on his chest so he'll take a seat. She would love to go down on him right now, but that might skip a couple steps since she hasn't even laid eyes on his penis yet. Also, she remembers his rules and she won't break them.

Once he sits, she stands between his legs. It's nice to finally have the height advantage, as slight as it even is. She leans down and captures his lips again, her hands tangling in his hair.

He lets her direct him, lets her push him down. How long, he wonders, has she been so assertive with her lovers? Is this something she's kept hidden from him the whole time, or is this a Molly who's been dormant, who's only coming to life now that they're together? The more he sees of it, the more drawn he is to her, a beautiful and constantly evolving puzzle.

When she kisses him again, her still-damp hair falling around his face in a dark curtain, and he flattens both hands against her back to pull her close. Even with her quick breaths pressing against his palms, he still wants more.

He's never actually undone a bra that was on a living woman before, and despite the slight tremor in his hands he manages to think, for a moment, I don't see why people complain about this part so much. It's easy.

It took Molly some time to be comfortable in herself enough to get what she wants in the bedroom, but her assertiveness started before Sherlock Holmes. Her appetite for sex is a healthy one and she's not shy about it. She's learned over the years that men of any worth are turned on, not intimidated by this.

She doesn't, however, mind assertiveness on the part of her partner either. Being a bit submissive can also be a turn on when you trust the person you're with. Some days you feel like being in control more and some days you're happy to let the other person drive. And sometimes it's a shifting dance the whole way through.

She can feel his hand move to undo her bra and she wonders if he's going to succeed on the first go.

Is it his imagination, or does Molly's mouth curve a little against his own when he starts to get the hooks undone? He both wishes he could tell what she was thinking and sort of loves that it's impossible to know.

It turns out that being an excellent violinist is an advantage here. His fingers are strong enough and accustomed enough to precise work that he can get it undone one-handed on the first try.

Sherlock is ridiculously proud of himself for a moment.

Molly is impressed as she feels the hooks release and the fabric loosen around her rib cage. And she can tell he's proud of himself by the curve of his own lips against hers.

"Bravo," she says, her own smile widening so they're no longer really kissing. She leans away so she can let the straps slide down her arms and toss the garment aside. She thought that she would be more self-conscious around Sherlock, considering the things he's said about her body in the past, but earlier had been so surprising and a bit frantic, that she hadn't even had time to feel that way. Now that they're taking more time, some of those little thoughts creep in but she knows it's silly. She doesn't think he's really going to care about the small pockets of cellulite on her arse and clearly the size of her breasts and mouth have yet to be a problem.

Again, he has to take a moment to reassess her bare breasts. Definitely improved by the absence of something covering them, he decides, and the fact that they're much closer to his eye level now is an even greater improvement. This close, he can also see much smaller details--freckles, dips, faint stretch marks--and it makes him dizzy again.

He resolves that he'll teach himself how to read her body and its history, more thoroughly and intimately than anyone who's ever been with her has done. Everything that makes her Molly Hooper is vitally important to him.

He trails a line of sucking kisses down her throat, over her collarbone, along the curve of one breast.

Her hands stay tangled in his hair as he starts kissing down her chest. A sigh leaves her mouth and the heat that had subsided a little starts to creep back in - her cheeks and neck getting pink. His hands on her breasts had been nice earlier. His mouth is even better.

She idly wonders if he's more of a breast or arse man. He hasn't really come into contact with the latter in a close way yet, nor has he ever made comment about it.

He's noticed both or either on other people, in passing, merely images filed away for later or discarded. But he's kept himself so separate from his own human wants for so long that any kind of preference is new.

Sherlock knows he wants to explore every inch of Molly before he makes up his mind which parts he likes best.

Her sigh lets him shift her a little--enough to lean her back slightly so he can fit his mouth around one hard nipple. One of his hands trails down her side and over her hip, down to the fly of her trousers.

Molly for sure knows that Sherlock's arse is a work of art. At least in his tight trousers anyway. She's had enough glimpses of it as he was bent over a body or microscope over the years. She should feel guilty about all the times she checked it out, but she doesn't. If he ever knew, she's sure he liked the attention. Sherlock likes attention.

When he takes her nipple into his mouth, her sigh becomes a whimper and her eyes slip shut at the sudden sharp feeling of pleasure that travels through her body. She wonders how he can possibly be doing this for the first time. How does he know? Her earliest and most inexperienced sexual partners had all been fumbling with seemingly no interest in what would make her feel good.

(He knows she's watched him before, has caught the tail end of a lot of lingering glances. It's never occurred to him that this is what she wanted, and he loves that he was wrong.)

The top button of her fly comes open easily; the zip parts in one smooth motion. He flicks his tongue over her nipple, sucks gently, his hand cupping the front of her trousers and beginning to slide them down. The sounds she's making are intoxicating, and he chases them, letting her gasps and sighs inform him of what she likes best.

Her fingers are tugging on his curls as he continues paying such beautiful attention to her nipples. She doesn't even realize she's doing it because all her attention is on her breasts and on the fact that Sherlock is making her feel like this and pulling her trousers off at the same time.

She's not sure why it should surprise her that Sherlock is a quick learner, even at sex. He's so talented at taking in external input at a staggering rate, processing it and using it to inform decisions. He can do those things before most have finished taking in the data. Of course he can read her like a book and figure out what to do next. What is staggering still is that he's focusing that kind of energy on learning about her.

She helps him rid her of her trousers by shimmying her hips a bit to get them down her thighs. The awkward part will come when she's got to step out of them. They always get caught round her ankles.

Her wriggling makes him smile--just a bit, just briefly--before he moves that hand down further, nudging her thighs apart. His fingers brush over damp fabric--she's already wet, he realizes, and the revelation forces a shaky sigh out of him.

For a moment he pulls back, half inclined to say something or ask a question, but any words he might have summoned up dissolve against her soft skin. Sherlock trails more of those blind hungry kisses to her other breast, his index and middle finger tracing a slow line over her outer labia through her underwear, letting himself learn her by touch.

Molly sucks in a breath the first time his fingers brush over her knickers. Her legs part without having to be actively told by her brain.

She can feel that she is so wet it's embarrassing but Sherlock doesn't make a comment even though at first she thinks he might. Instead he goes back to her breasts and touching her through her knickers and she can't help the breathy moan that leaves her mouth. Her hands tighten in his hair, worried that she might fall over.

For about twelve seconds longer the situation seems nearly perfect: he's tasting her, touching her, and she's got her fingers firmly twined through his hair and the flood of sensation is incredible. But then he registers the tremors in her knees, the shift in her breathing, and he knows something is going to have to change.

Barely suppressing a noise of disappointment, he pulls his mouth from her breast, leans back and straightens slightly. Without looking away from her face, he slides those two fingers under the crotch of her knickers and uses the wet fabric to tug her forward, even as he shifts his own weight further back onto the mattress. It takes incredible restraint not to simply stroke through the short curls that brush his fingers, but watching her eyes helps him stay focused.

In those twelve seconds Molly's whole body is on fire and she's lost most coherent thought. So while she starts to protest when he moves away, when she realizes why, she's relieved. It suddenly registers that her legs are turning to quickly to jelly. She's also stunned when she realizes how he's chosen to get her to move where he wants her. She's not sure any of her lovers have thought to pull her by her knickers. It's ridiculously hot.

"Christ, Sherlock," she breathes out, body flushed from head to toe, as she moves forward and straddles his lap. "I'm starting to doubt your assertion that you've not done this before."

She knows the last thing he needs is to be cocky about something else, but he's earning the right at this point.

"If I had," he purrs against the underside of her jaw, "you wouldn't still be able to remember the word 'assertion', but thank you."

(It's only half a joke to him. From what incredibly little Sherlock knows firsthand about sex and the unfortunately larger amount he knows secondhand, he's reasonably sure that a practiced or singularly talented lover should be able to knock the vocabulary right out of their partner's head.)

His other hand moves down to the small of her back, fingertips sliding along the waistband of her knickers. Carefully he starts trying to guide her down next to him, so they can both sprawl out. So he can see her better and touch her more.

Molly huffs out a laugh.

"Fair point," she concedes as she lets him guide her down to the bed.

"I have no doubt that you'll get there and I'll be happy to be the one who gets there with you."

More than happy, in fact.

Once she's settled next to him on her side, her hands go for the button on his trousers. He's far too overdressed and in the state he's in he's going to pop the zip pretty soon if they don't come off.

The blurred noise that falls out of Sherlock's throat might be some variation of 'oh thank god', but it's too breathy and choked to tell. His hips twitch forward, straining for more than the few light touches he's getting now. (And, weirdly, he's glad he only kept a spare pair of trousers here and not pants. One less layer to deal with.)

She's definitely ahead of him in the whole vocabulary-erasing area, and that's totally fine, because he can always go back and dissect her lessons later.

None too gracefully, he manages to use both hands to push her knickers down slightly past her hips, just enough so it's easier to slide one of those hands down into the heat between her legs.

Edited 2017-02-09 01:46 (UTC)