theonewhocounted | (no subject)

Molly doesn't consciously make the decision to move her hips like that, but when he reacts that way, she happily does it again. Her hips then slow for a moment as she sits up more and leans her hands on his chest. She then starts to ride him at this angle, her hair falling on either side of her face as she looks down at him. She likes being able to watch him watch her. It's also a good angle for her clit to hit his pubic bone with every hard down stroke of her hips.

His lips are parted and wet, pupils blown wide, the flush across his pale skin evident even in the low light. For some reason he can't help but realize, when she begins to ride him, that there's an extremely descriptive phrase for this.

Molly Hooper is having her way with him, and he loves it.

There will definitely be red marks on her afterwards, where he's gripping her now. Each exhale gains more sound.

(And bit by bit, somewhere in his brain, Molly riding his cock wearing nothing but her stockings and a heated look is blurring and burning away the memory of the first time he met Irene Adler face-to-not-her-face.)

The way he looks up at her and the sounds he's making increase her pleasure tenfold and her own whimpers join with his. She bites her lip and concentrates on what's making her feel good and what's hopefully making him feel good. Quite purposely she squeezes her internal muscles around him and moans as it causes a sharp jolt of pleasure to her core.

"Sherlock," she whispers as her hips grind against his. She's chasing another orgasm, can feel the ache become urgent.

And finally, finally his patience starts to unravel and burn out as she squeezes him tight, as he feels those building shudders from inside her for the first time.

"Yes," he breathes, knowing on some deep level what this means, what they're both quickly spiraling towards. His hips snap upwards, and he hangs on to her like she's keeping him from drowning. He has to know what it feels like for her to come around his cock before he can let himself go.

While it means she won't have as much leverage to press him quite as deep into her, Molly needs to capture his lips with hers again. She needs to feel him. She leans down and kisses him hard as her whole body starts to slide against his. There is little grace in it but it's doing the trick and her moans come quick and short against into his mouth.

"You feel...incredible..." she manages to breathe out. "Close...so close. Oh god...talk to me...please."

His voice. She wants to hear his voice.

That soft please, so warm and so vulnerable, finally causes some delicate thread inside him to snap. The words tumble out of him, breathless and unstoppable, giving greater heat to their kisses.

"Don't stop," he whispers. "Don't stop, Molly, whatever you do, don't stop, I need... ah... to watch, you're beautiful..."

The last word spills from his tongue onto hers, arching between them like an electric current.

She whimpers in return with each statement. His voice hits an auditory erogenous zone in her brain that's only activated by him and him alone. And by the time he gets to "beautiful" she is there and that just pushes her so far over the edge it's just one last tilt of her hips and she cries out his name as she comes. She sees stars as her body tightens and pulses around him, the feel of him inside her when she comes, intensifies her orgasm that much more and her hips continue to rock against him as it washes over her.

The sound of his name on her lips, desperate and sweet, starts the reaction; the hard rhythmic pulses that ripple mercilessly up and down the length of his cock overwhelm him. But it's the brief glimpse he gets of her face as she soars into climax that shuts off his brain completely.

He lets out a long, wordless cry as he comes, shuddering and arching, utterly uncontrolled and helpless beneath her.

It takes Molly by surprise that he comes so soon after her and she moans as she feels his cock twitching inside her. It's enough to send another muted climax rippling through her sensitized body. Her breath comes out in hard puffs against his cheek as she clings to him. She can feel his heart racing in his chest and the whole quick rise and fall of his own breaths.

Once those initial hard shivers subside, once the last pulse in his cock fades and relief begins to sweep through him, he starts to become aware of her trembling on top of him. His heartbeat is wild, his breath unsteady, and her heartbeat and breath form a ragged counterpoint to his.

There's absolutely nothing hidden or held back in his expression; he's too wrung out, too overcome by pleasure, to be able to filter or conceal anything. Right now Sherlock's blinking like he's just been struck, gasping for air, all the tension in him bleeding away to leave him weak and loose and warm.

Molly's own body starts to relax against his and she gets her breathing somewhat under control.

"Jesus," she manages to breathe out before she lifts her head to look down at him, her hands smoothing his unruly hair back from his face. He looks well and truly fucked and she feels a sense of pride at having done that to him. More than that, though, she feels love, pure and intense.

He can't hide from her like this. There's awe on his face, and something like adoration, vulnerable and real. His hands relax slowly (and she's definitely going to have bruises in the morning), falling to her thighs, his fingers warm and trembling.

This might be the single most intimate moment of his life. Not just physically, but emotionally--he's holding nothing back, and neither is she, and they're looking straight at one another.

It should be frightening, even to her, to feel so strongly and intensely what she feels for this man, but it's not. It's exhilarating in its way. To see and be seen and loved and adored by him is everything she had hoped. She swallows thickly as she looks at him, at how open and intently he's looking back at her. She can't say anything, for fear that she might get choked up. So instead, she leans in and kisses him tenderly.

If their first kiss was a window opening, this one is a door. It's one that's been sealed a long time, and it terrifies and exhilarates him that she slips in so easily.

He meets her with equal tenderness, something he didn't think he could ever feel but that isn't the least bit wrong. One of his shaking hands tangles gently in her hair, just for the pleasure of its soft texture between his fingers.

She sighs into his mouth. It's incredible to have her own feelings mirrored to her in the way he returns her kiss. And she doubts it needs to be said, but she's compelled to anyway.

"I love you," she breathes against his lips like a prayer.

He inhales those words, takes them deep into his lungs to fill his blood with oxygen, lighting up something in him he'd once thought too long dead to function.

And he breathes those same words back into her--"I love you," quiet and faintly surprised at how true it's been every time he's said it.

Her lips quirk against his mouth because those words will never fail to make her happy. She gives him a final kiss before she rolls off of him and he slips out of her. Thankfully the condom is still in tact even though he is softening. She's on birth control anyway, but best not to chance these things. She removes the condom from him and ties it off before throwing it into the trash bin next to her bed. She's back at his side a moment later. He looks like he's still recovering and she wonders if he's off in his mind palace somewhere.

The second she's next to him again he rolls to curl around her, fitting her body close against his. Everything that's just happened is now in storage, so to speak, to be analyzed and processed later. Right now he simply needs her here with him, to keep him anchored while he's at the mercy of emotions he's kept bottled up for years.

She's there and not going anywhere. She feels his need to keep her close and it's certainly what she wants too. Her chest is aching with her love for him and it hits her then that as close as they are now and as close as they were only minutes ago, it still somehow doesn't feel close enough. She wants to crawl inside his skin n a very un-creepy sort of way. Instead, she reaches down to bring her duvet up over them.

A similar thought, wordless and warm, is floating through his own mind. He wishes he could actually bring her into his mind palace, throw open doors and show her the things he's seen and learned over the years and had no one to share with. He wants to show her the extraordinary things that he's witnessed or wanted to try or imagined.

When she tugs at the duvet, he bends a little with her, just to pluck at the fabric and help her tug it up over them. His heart is still beating quickly, but between the afterglow and this intense emotional thing that's happening between them that speed isn't driven by fear.

"Oh...I'm still in my stockings," she says then, realizing it's probably not good (or comfortable) for her to have them on all night. "Hold on."

She push the duvet down again and sits up to roll them down her legs.

He watches her, a faint smile on his face.

"They were a good choice," he points out, the faintest edge of a laugh warming his tone. Sherlock does mean it, too--thanks to tonight, he's got what might be called a fondness for Molly in stockings.

She smiles and looks over her shoulder at him as she rolls the other stocking down.

"Yeah?" she asks. "I'm glad you liked them."

Sherlock is different than most men she's been with. Other men she at least has an idea of the sorts of things they'll react favourably to - sexy lingerie, a somewhat lowcut top or dress, a darker shade of lipstick, high heels. Of course, each is different, but she has a baseline to start from. Sherlock has spent most of his life either ignoring or seeming completely unfazed by those sort of things. She couldn't really expect he'd react the same. Although, so far he's proved not all that different from most men.

Once both are off, she pulls the duvet up again and rests on her side looking at him, a small smile on her lips.

He doesn't let her go far. One arm curls around her--he needs to touch her, to feel the afterglow of her orgasm thrumming in her skin in time with his own.

She keeps surprising him, over and over. And he knows she's not going to stop, that he's going to end up discovering more than he'd thought possible about sex and about what he himself really likes. The prospect of diving into all that messy stuff has always been a bit daunting, but that's because he faced it alone--or, in one case, was offered a chance with someone he didn't and couldn't trust.

He begins to trace the Greek alphabet, letter by letter, against her bare shoulderblade with a fingertip. Not to tease her, just because he can, because he's present in the moment and likes the feel of her warm skin.

(And speaking of surprises, though neither of them will know it for hours yet, Molly's coworker has the night shift tonight. During her "lunch" break, in the wee hours, she decides to check Tatler, like she always does.

To: Molly
From: Sophie (Work)

3:17 AM: CAMERA_0108.JPG

The photo is a screenshot from the Tatler website. Which has a picture of Sherlock and Molly holding hands in the foyer of the Royal Opera House. No one was quick enough to get a picture of them kissing later in the evening, but someone clearly had the opportunity to grab this shot before the show.

3:17 AM: MOLLY

3:17 AM: YOUR NEW BLOKE IS SHERLOCK????)

Molly happily fits her body in next to his and sighs contentedly as his hand traces patterns on her skin. She wants to say so many things to him, wants to hear what he thought about his first time, wants to tell him how he makes her feel, wants to thank him for the evening, for trusting her with this. But the warmth of his body, the beat of his heart, and the feel of his hand on her lulls her quickly and soon she is drifting off to sleep. There will be time for talking in the morning.

Molly's mobile is tucked in her clutch still which is somewhere in her flat between the entryway and her bedroom. She won't discover it again until she gets up the next day.