AUTHOR'S NOTE: Back by popular demand! Sorry it's been literally years since I updated this one ð I just didn't know where I wanted to go with it and I'd rather not post at all than post something I'm not happy with. Anyway, here it is, I'm just gonna chuck you straight back in where we left off ð
I marked this 'explicit' coz, man, I really do throw you into the deep end here. You should probably go back and re-read the last chapter so this at least has context ð
___
Y/N nods and takes his wrist in one hand, pushing it straight down insistently, burrowing it below the fabric of her pyjamas.
Sherlock groans softly as the tips of his fingers touch to her waiting wetness. Gently, he gives an experimental rub, and, as if he'd pressed a button, Y/N's back curves into a delicate arch.
Sherlock watches, fascinated.
In that moment, he decides to spend the rest of his life trying to make her do that again.
"Sherlock," she gasps the word, a feeble breath, her hips rutting pleadingly.
Gritting his teeth, Sherlock lets his forehead drop down to rest on Y/N's shoulder. Drowning in her scent, her warmth, he draws a slow circle.
She mutters his name again, the first syllable shuddering off her tongue.
It brings a smirk to his lips. His own arousal aches, straining against his pyjamas, but he isn't thinking about that right now. All he can think about is the way she gasps his name, her fingers clutching him, wanting him, needing him closer.
People have needed him before; to prove their innocence, catch a thief, solve a murder.
But not like this.
No one has ever needed him like this.
No one has ever wanted him.
"Thank God I came up here," he mutters thickly against the flushed skin of Y/N's chest. He's kissing it, drawing an invisible pendant about her neck.
Y/N giggles, and it's breathy and overwhelmed and amazing. "You're an atheist."
He shakes his head. "That noise you make could change any man's religion." He draws that circle again with the wide, slightly rough pads of his fingers, and Y/N makes that noise again, no doubt amplifying it because she knows it drives him crazy.
Intoxicated, he tries something else. Gently, curiously, he dips a finger into her opening.
She mewls, trying to ride his hand, and he grins at her, writhing and whimpering below him on the bed.
'I've had dreams like this,' he muses, pressing another wet kiss to the sensitive column of her throat. "Good?" He asks, letting his teeth graze a rapidly flurrying pulse point.
Y/N's hair tickles his cheek as she nods, one hand anchored in his hair, the other gripping frantically at his shoulder blades. She balls the cotton up in a tightly clenched fist as Sherlock's index finger continues its slow, purposeful thrusts. "So good."
The sight of her below him, her flushed cheeks, the curve of her waist, her softness, the sounds she's making---
His hand working almost instinctively, Sherlock's lips roam over the shell of her ear, giving it little sucks and nips. He wants to drown her in sensations like she'd drowned him last night. He wants to be good at this.
He wants her to think he's good at this.
Y/N's fingers in his hair guide him along her jaw and over her cheek. When she catches his mouth, her kiss is sloppy and distracted, hitching with a small noise every time Sherlock teases the aching bundle of nerves between her thighs.
His own arousal doubling with each twitch, each of Y/N's broken intakes of air, he plunges deeper, devouring her sounds.
It doesn't take long to feel her begin to tighten around him, narrowing with each stroke.
It makes a smug, distracted smile play over his mouth. The corners of it are pointy against the plush curves of Y/N's kiss-bruised cupid's bow.
His wrist carries on its relentless movement, in and out, Y/N's grip on his curls tightening as she thrusts helplessly against him.
Sweeping the point of his tongue against the roof of her mouth one last time, Sherlock breaks the kiss and draws his hand out from the warmth of her pyjamas simultaneouslyâ
âmuch to Y/N's obvious dismay.
She makes it known, crying a plaintive whine, stretching his name out into a desperate:
"Sherlock!"
Chuckling, he brings his hand to his face, Y/N's wetness glistening right up to the knuckles of his fingers.
She watches as he puts them in his mouth and sucks.
He knew she'd taste sweet.
He tells her so, and she grasps for him, trying to grab his shoulder, his wrist, his hand. "Sherlock, keep going," she pleads, attempting to guide it back to the ache it had expertly cultivated between her legs. "I hadn'tâ"
"I know," he interrupts, kissing her frowny mouth. "I've just never seen you like this before." He's grinning, and presses a kiss to her neck. His hand, now free, starts sliding her pyjama t-shirt up, inch by inch. He grins down at her, her exposed skin prickling with goosebumps. "I'm quite obsessed with it."
Y/N's lips part, probably to protest the way he's toying with herâ
âbut the complaint dies in her throat, transforming into a soft little gasp as he kisses her breast.
Sucking the pert little nipple into his mouth, he groans against it, setting it humming:
"These are perfect."
Releasing it, his caresses fall lower, to the softness of her bare stomach.
She can feel his grin, the point of his nose as he kisses her navel.
"This is perfect."
Amongst his nips and licks, his hands edge the waistband of Y/N's pyjamas down too, and she lets him until she's naked before him. In a state of quiet awe, Sherlock takes a self-indulgent moment to marvel at the beautiful, fascinating shape of her.
"This is perfect."
She is.
The way she smells.
The way she makes him feel.
The way she looks, laying there.
The way she is, just her, so wonderfully, perfectly Y/N.
Unable to help it, he lets his head fall between her legs, and a hand catches his shoulder.
He stops.
Y/N is gazing down at him, her colour high, her breath fast. It's obvious it's taking all her strength to say gently:
"You don't have to do that. If you're not ready yet; if you don't want to."
In disbelief, Sherlock raises his head, giving her a wicked smile. His eyes are sparkling and hungry, a bright, glittering colour somewhere between green and blue. "Y/N," he asks, shaking his head as he dips back down. His breath hot again the soft inside of her thigh:
"How could I not want to?"
When his tongue touches to the sweet centre of her, Y/N's back buckles with a sob.
"Sherlockâ" Her fingers grab wildly until they find root in his hair, clinging to him with his curls squeezed tight between her fingers.
He groans at the feeling of it, the sound buzzing into her folds and she whimpers. It distracts him for a momentâ
âbut only a moment.
The strength of his tongue drags over her in a slow, languish lick.
It only takes a few for Y/N's back to arch, a shuddering gasp falling from her parted lips.
Squeezing her thighs in his hands as she wriggles under his assault, Sherlock's tongue doesn't ease to a stop until Y/N's hold loosens in his hair.
Her body spent, she falls limply back onto the pillows. She watches him with heavy-lidded eyes as he climbs back up to where she lays, grinning up at him sloppily from the pillows. She chuckles giddily, her hand reaching up to cup his face.
He leans into it, the air warm and humid and comfortable.
He could live here, he thinks, in this moment, in her arms.
Propping himself up over her with one elbow to gaze at her adoringly, his hand sweeps lightly over the plain of her stomach. He laughs at himself as he asks, mimicking something he'd heard on television a few times:
"So...how was it for you?"
Y/N giggles, the sound bright like the sun. "Amazing. Brilliant." Her eyes narrow playfully. "Are you sure you've never done that before?"
Sherlock's cheekbones flush with a pastel pink. "Oh, Y/N, I'd remember doing that. It's just basic biology. Female anatomy---"
Y/N's soft, smooth finger press to his lips, but she's smiling. "Shh, you'll ruin the mood."
"Sorry," Sherlock chuckles, his eyes flicking to his hand playing absently over Y/N's middle. He's obsessed with it. He likes how invitingly soft it is, how tantalisingly feminine, how warm. When they switch out the light to sleep, will she let him rest his head there? Her hands petting his hair?
He meets her eyes, full of emotion, letting his palm climb a little higher. He's still as hard as stone against her, and he feels himself twitch against the inviting softness of her thigh as he dances his fingers just below the curve of her breast.
"...Is the mood ruined? Or could we...?" He feels rather than sees Y/N smirk.
Cradling the line of his jaw, she draws him down for a slow kiss, biting his bottom lip between her teeth in that way he has quickly become addicted to.
It gets her a low moan.
Purposefully, her hand at his shoulder slides down, along his waist, sending prickling sensations wriggling all the way into his belly.
He's breathless when she breaks the kiss.
"Of course we can. I can't be the only one who gets a good sleep tonight."
Y/N's hand has carried on wandering, and swerves over to cup the impressive length of him through his pajama trousers.
It drags a rough groan from deep in his throat.
Her hand remains still and his tightly squeezed eyes peel open to peek at her. Where she had been sleepy and sated before she is now awakened, her color running high once more. "I really love the sounds you make."
He feels himself flush. "Tighten your grip and you'll get to hear more of them."
Her eyes are sparkling with mischief, her hand still holding the bulge in his pyjamas that's still hard as wood. She gives his sensitive tip a tiny stroke with the pad of her thumb.
The fabric slides over his skin and he makes a broken sound.
She grins. "They're like a cougar growling into a cello."
Barley listing, he gasps, clutching her:
"...Whatever you're going to do, can you do it quickly?"
"Alright, Mr needy."
"That's some big talk, considering the sounds I just got out of you," he quips, but shuts up as she drags his pajamas down in an overwhelming rush of friction.
"Shhhh." Wriggling from the possessive cage of his arms, (getting a little sad sound from Sherlock), Y/N presses a hand to his chest.
Sensation spreads out below her splayed fingers and she pushes him down onto the bed.
"It's my turn to treat you special."
He bites his lip, his cheeks reddening.
She notices, and smirks "Hello. Have we learnt something about you?"
"No."
That smile hasn't left her lips. In fact, it's grown by half a size. "I'm gonna make you feel so good."
He blinks eagerly up at her, his curls mussed over the pillow. "What are you going to do to me?"
Y/N kisses him. It wasn't particularly deep, or particularly sloppy. It was almost chaste, and tender, and somehow it made his stomach flutter more than anything else. "I'm going to ride you. Nice and slow. That is...if you want me to be on top, again?"
Sherlock is usually astutely aware of his shortcomings---so that he may improve upon them---but for once his mind is not on his lack of practice when it comes to lovemaking.
Instead, he is thinking about Y/N being on top of him because the image is, for some reason, particularly arousing. So much so he's finding it hard to think about much else.
"Yes, please," he feels his face suffuse with a blush.
He wishes it would stop doing that.
He'd been doing so well, making Y/N cry his name, being all in control and dominant.
How long had that lasted?
Now look at him.
And yet, when she kneels over him, lining up their hips, her smile ravenous as she looks down at him, he feels himself undeniably twitch with excitement.
She slides her fingers between his on the bed sheets, to soothe him because his chest is rising and falling like he can't catch his breathâ
It makes his eyes go wide and his cheeks heat, and he stops breathing altogether.
Y/N smirks, understanding suddenly clicking into place. "You like this?" She asks, even though she knows the answer. It's written all over his face which is gazing up at her with wide, exhilarated eyes.
"Yes. The view isâ" his sentence cracking in two as she stretches his arms up further, pinning them beside his head. He gasps, grinning up at her mouth, and then down to where her breasts hang tantalizingly close to his face. Meeting her eyes again, his own sharp and blue and bright. "Very nice."
When she lowers herself onto him, his back arches with a breathy gasp, his toes curling.
Even though they've done this before, he still finds himself marvelling with a curious satisfaction that he fits inside her perfectly.
As if he were made for her.
...
When they topple over the edge of their climax, Y/N rocks her hips gently, and they ride the sensation together, Sherlock's hands clasping hers tightly amongst the covers.
The last ripples of pleasure pittering out, Y/N remains where she is for a long, leisurely moment. Spent and grinning, Sherlock lets his head fall back comfortably on the pillow.
Vaguely, through his pleasure-filled haze, he feels Y/N lean down and slowly, sleepily kiss his lips.
When she's climbed off him, he peels his eyes open to watch her. His eyes are pastel now, an awestruck, love-drunk sea-foam.
She notices and smiles down at him. Her eyes are glittering, her face tinted pink. "What?"
He's never seen something so beautiful in all his life.
He shakes his head, reaching for her.
She settles into his arms, letting him turn over, curling about her back. He tucks her close, enveloping her little body against his chest, tugging the duvet up cosily about them protectively. A new feeling has overcome himâor perhaps an old feeling grown strongerâa possessive feeling, his arms winding about her with an air of ownership.
"How do you do it?" he asks sleepily into her ear. The words fall onto her hair, warm and gravely as a bear's growl.
He feels Y/N drag the weight of his arms even tighter about her middle.
She takes one of his hands, linking their fingers. Yawning, she drags it up under her chin, his wrist pressed to her breasts. "Do what?"
He kisses the back of her neck, the wispt little hairs at the nape of it tickling his lips. "Make me feel like this."
She giggles, the vibration of it humming against his naked body. "It was amazing, wasn't it?"
He presses his lips together, nuzzling into her hair.
He wasn't talking about tonight.