theonewhocounted | (no subject)

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.

The feel of him between her legs is lovely, the stroke of his thumb over her clit sending little shocks to her system, but she needs more. What her body really wants is the cock that's currently in her fist. She knows that's not an option so...

"Another," she requests instead in a breathy voice, as she opens her eyes. Molly usually uses at least three of her own fingers on herself (when she's not using one of the toys hiding in the back of her night stand), so she expects two of his will do the trick. "Ring and middle."

She knows what she likes.

It's little more than a whisper, but it makes his prick nearly jump in her hand. How is it, he thinks, that there are millions of people who are paid to have sex and none of them make it look anywhere near as powerful as Molly Hooper?

Unimportant, for now. She's all that matters. She holds his attention completely, captures his thoughts and rattles his heart.

Without breaking eye contact, he twists his wrist slightly, enough to let him work his middle finger into her as well. The change in angle also allows him to get both fingers in deeper, to press his thumb more firmly against her clit.

"Good," he rasps, an earnest question and a statement.

Molly bites her lip as he presses another finger into her, eyes closing for a moment at the feeling. The extra stretch and feeling of fullness is what she needed and she moans at the firmer press against her clit.

"Yeah...good," she says as she opens her eyes again to look at him. His face is earnest and inquiring. He is committed to making her feel good. It doesn't matter how inexperienced he is because that is the key to any fulfilling sexual encounter. Love doesn't hurt either.

Her lips crash into his again.

Her hand has slowed considerably on his cock and he doesn't care. Because Sherlock can tell from the unsteadiness in her voice and the way she kisses him hungrily that he's just done something very right, and when he's on the right track with anything and he knows it, he has to lean into it.

He settles into a slow rhythm, controlled at first, fingers curling slightly when they reach as deep as he can manage. (Technically he knows that the jury is still out on the existence of the G-spot, but every part of his brain that handles technical knowledge is dark right now, so the hell with it.) Her kiss is as hot and wet as her body is around his fingers, and he lets out a low, thoughtless groan as he squirms closer to get more of both.

As she kisses him, her hips find rhythm with his fingers and the leg hooked over his hip gives her a decent range of motion. It doesn't take long before the slow pace speeds up. She isn't sure who is driving it, but more than likely it's her. Under the power of his fingers, she's lost all coherent thought aside from "yes" and "good" and "more."

In fact, it's possible she's even saying those things out loud and doesn't even realize it.

HIs groan reverberates through her own body and she whimpers in return

She keeps breathing urgent praise into his mouth, and it's a rush that goes into him like pure oxygen, electrifying and hot. As she begins to speed up, he follows her lead, trying to tease more sound out of her. Molly uninhibited and chasing something she wants at full tilt is a creature he's never seen before, and the more he sees the more he wants.

Even as her hips rock into him faster, he can feel her clit stiffen and swell. His thumb is slippery by now, and he strokes her in small, hard bursts as if he's trying to coax a vibrato note from his violin.

"Sherlock...oh god," she breathes out and it sounds like a whine, almost like she's in pain but it's the best and most beautiful pain. She's not kissing him anymore, can't keep it up when she's so focused on his hands and her impending orgasm. The attention he's giving her clit pulls fervent moans from her that raise in pitch the closer her release gets.

"Close, close, close."

She whimpers it like a mantra until she finally grunts hard and her orgasm overtakes her. Her body freezes up and then spasms as a white light erases everything from her brain except the feeling rushing through her body.

This time watching her come knocks the breath out of him. Because she's also squeezing his fingers in throbbing pulses, shivering uncontrollably, her hand going loose and nerveless around his hard cock as she shakes apart. He tries to memorize as much of it as possible, to etch it into his mind somehow, because it's extraordinary and fucking gorgeous and he's doing that to her.

Again he slows as her orgasm ebbs, and when the pulsing stops he draws his fingers out of her gently. He kisses her once, brief and light, and then brings his hand to his own mouth so he can suck the wetness away from his own skin.

(The taste of her almost turns him mindless again. It's like sweat and bitter caramel. If his test results are back by Tuesday, he's absolutely having her for dessert after the ballet.)

Molly sighs as he pulls his fingers out. Her body starts to relax into the bed and she opens her eyes when he kisses her. She then lays there transfixed as she watches him lick his fingers clean of her juices.

"Christ," she says, her voice having a sort of awe quality about it. She's still catching her breath and she thinks it speeds back up again when he does that. She blushes and can't look away. He looks like he's enjoying her so much. Her clit throbs again as she imagines his mouth in other locations.

Sherlock relishes her stare, drinks it in. Because he suddenly understands something without having actually deduced it: she's feeling the exact same surprise and delight at discovering things about him she didn't expect that he feels about her.

Which is both an emotional lift and, somehow, a turn-on.

He licks the last slick taste of her off his thumb, lets his hand drop slowly so that his palm rests against her shoulder. They're probably both going to need another shower later.

"Amazing," he says quietly, and means it.

There is so much she's learning about Sherlock since he showed up at her door last night. An unbelieveable amount. He keeps continuing to take her breath away with his surprises.

"You are," she says, and means it. She leans in and kisses him deep and slow, tasting herself on his lips. Her hand slides over his hip and wraps itself around his cock again.

In the space of half a second he can feel something melting, something giving, the erotic thrill of her curiosity and assertiveness combining for a powerful moment with the emotional warmth that's been building in him at an accelerated rate over the past few years.

And then her mouth fits over his and her fingers curl around his cock, and that strange melting sends a hot sigh bubbling out of him. His hips twitch forwards involuntarily, a silent plea for more.

Molly hears that plea in the way he sighs, the way he moves, and she gives him what he wants. Her hand squeezes more precum out of his tip and spreads it over his cock before she starts to stroke him firmly and surely. She doesn't go too quickly at first so there's some build up, but her movements have more intent behind them than previously.

He is hot and hard in her hand and what she notices most is that he will fill her perfectly. She tries to tell him that in the way her kiss intensifies. I want you inside me, it says.

There's a message in that kiss and in those firm, steady movements, one his body interprets clearly even as his brain fuzzes and sparks. Somehow one of his hands tangles in her hair and the other curls around her hip, holding on as he begins to thrust up into her fist.

"That's it, Sherlock," she says into his mouth, not that she thinks he needs any encouragement. She just likes to talk during it sometimes (when she's able). Her hand strokes him in time with his thrusts, changing the tightness of her hand around him to see what he likes best.

Some fragment of his brain is still active enough to realize she's experimenting on him, which makes him whine into their kiss. It's just a brief burst of sound, one he's not even aware of making--just as he's not aware of the louder, more insistent noise she draws out of him a moment later.

She's just done something really inventive with her wrist, somehow, and she's gripping him exactly as hard as he needs it, and this time he can sense the imminent shutdown.

"Molly," he manages, because it's somehow important that she knows how close he is to the edge.

The noises he's making are incredible. She's never heard him sound like that - so needy and emotional and uninhibited. She could get addicted to those sounds.

It's the loudest ones though that catch her attention and tell her what he likes. She hears the difference and keeps doing exactly what he was responding to the most except that she speeds up even more, knowing he's close.

"Come Sherlock," she says in response to him. "Come for me. Right now."

Her eyes are open and watching his face. It's already got the most beautiful look of pleasure and pain on it.