theonewhocounted | (no subject)

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)

Molly smirks as she hears that noise. She carefully pulls down the zip on his trousers and is surprised to find he's not wearing pants.

"Sherlock Holmes..." she says to start to tease him about it as she slides her hand between the parted fabric and palms his erection. His name is as far as she gets though before his own hand is sliding through her wetness and the thought is cut off by a whine.

All this time, he'd thought it wouldn't be any different to have someone else's hand on him. Why would it, when he could just do it himself? But Molly's hand finding his cock makes his heart pound and his skin burn. Because that's a hand he's seen make neat incisions; it's a hand that's slapped his face and covered his own to comfort him.

He makes a high, breathy sound.

And somehow through the fog he finds there's something else he needs, something more than her hand. His fingers slide back and forth, learning the textures that match the anatomical names.

Outer labia, parting easily as he spreads his fingers. He moves them higher, purposeful. Prepuce.

Clitoris.

"Molly," he whispers, craning his neck to kiss her.

His hand between her legs is a serious distraction (of the very best kind) but she's still got enough of a brain or maybe just caveman instincts to wrap her hand around his cock and...

Fuck.

His fingers slide over her extremely engorged clit and she grunts, her hips jerking towards his hand.

"Sherlock," she whimpers in return before she crashes her lips into his, her hand still tight around his cock.

Her grip on him tightens, stealing the breath from his lungs, and when she kisses him he feels like he's drowning for a moment, drunk on the way they're reacting to each other. Even as his own hips rock towards her, slightly, he uses the pads of his index and middle fingers to stroke her clit. Back and forth, back and forth, with a violinist's practiced ease.

Molly kisses him all teeth and tongue and breathless noises, but her knickers at her thighs are constricting her from opening her legs the way she wants. She tears herself away from the kiss to pull them down the rest of the way.

"Trousers, off," she commands to him breathlessly and then realizes his shirt is still on too. "And shirt."

She wants Sherlock naked. She has waited too long to get her hands on him. Also, they can't mess up that pair of trousers too.

"Fuck. Yes."

He's not sure how he manages to struggle out of the trousers--every second they're not touching is a blur to him--and the shirt definitely ends up somewhere across the room with her camisole from last night. At least one of the cuff buttons might have popped and rolled under the bed. He has exactly zero fucks to give about how rumpled he's going to look when he eventually staggers back to John's place.

And as soon as all that heavy, unnecessary fabric is out of the way, he's shifting towards her on the bed, hand reaching between her thighs again. He needs to feel her clit pulse and slide under his fingertips like he needs to kiss her, like he needs her hand on him again.

Edited 2017-02-09 03:20 (UTC)

It only takes seconds for Molly to kick off her knickers (also into some corner somewhere) and she's just as eager for him to get out of his clothes and back over to her. When he finally does, she reaches for him and brings their mouths together again. One of her legs slides over his so her thighs are open wide for him. The hand not hooked behind his neck slides down his body and wraps around his cock again, thumb sliding over the leaking tip before she gives him a slow stroke.

He moans into their kiss--oh god, this is nothing like how he'd do it himself and that's brilliant. Again his hips rock, a shiver of pleasure sweeping up his spine. And somehow the feeling of her thumb dragging over the wet tip of his cock... inspires him, in a way. Sherlock turns his wrist slightly, adjusting so he can fit his thumb against her clit and the tip of his index finger at her entrance.

Molly likes that noise, that reaction to what she's doing. So she does it again, squeezing the tip of his cock at the top and then stroking down and back up.

Her own breath hitches as she feels his finger at her entrance and she holds her breath as she waits for him to press inside. His fingers are larger and more calloused than hers and, god, it's been way too long since anyone has touched her there besides herself. If she had known during all those lonely nights that the person she was thinking of then would be the person who was touching her now, she would have come even quicker than she already did when thinking about him.

He feels her breath catch, and between that and her hand moving slowly on his cock his capacity to be patient begins to go up in flames. They're at each other's mercy right now, and if Molly doesn't have the patience to tease then neither does Sherlock.

His finger slides inside her easily.

It's nothing like he could have imagined. She's soft and tight and strong, inner muscles urging him deeper, until he's sunk in almost up to the knuckle. And while it takes an ungodly amount of concentration to curl and move that finger in time with the slow movement of Molly's hand on him, it's worth it to bring them into some kind of rhythm with one another.

There will be times for teasing and exploring each other thoroughly. Today is not that time. At this rate, it may not be tomorrow either. Her desire for this man feels like a bottomless pool right now.

When his finger slides into her, the breath she was holding comes out in a loud, stuttering rush. She's stopped kissing him and just rests her face against his, eyes closed as she just takes in the moment. It's not that his one finger has brought her so much pleasure, it's more about the fact that Sherlock Holmes is inside of her. No, it's not in the traditional intercourse sense, but a part of him is inside of her body, in the most intimate place. It feels momentous.

When his hand starts moving in time with her own, she's sharply brought back to the physical. Her hips join in the dance. Her breath comes out in puffs against his cheek.

She may be slightly blurry so close to him, but Sherlock finds he has to watch what Molly's face does when his finger presses up and in. It's a sight that makes it difficult for him to breathe. There's something close to genuine ecstasy in her expression for a second, there and gone, a glimpse of pleasure an order of magnitude greater than he's seen on another human being. And the sound she makes is gorgeously unrestrained, yet another surprise.

He had no idea anyone could do this to Molly.

He's glad he gets to find out how wrong he was.

(And he had no idea having sex could be this fascinating. He's glad she's showing him how wrong he was about that, too. Never let it be said Sherlock Holmes doesn't learn from his mistakes.)

Her hips push forward, into his hand. It's not easy following her movements while her hand is still on his cock, but he manages, thumb flicking over her clit, forefinger sinking deep.