Warning, guys: This chapter is smutty because I wrote it for my AO3 audience, so if that's not your thing just back away slowly 😅
___
Sherlock added a final little scuff of graphite to the paper before him, then raked it over one last time with his eyes. A smile curved his lips; he never thought he'd get to see this image completed.
Plus, that's Y/N's body he's staring at, and that flusters him like a schoolboy. His body still hasn't acclimated to Y/N's nudity. Yes, it had settled slightly after the effect of her touch wore off, but now, with the knowledge of what's to come, that buzzing sensation between his legs had returned with full force.
"Oh, you can move now."
She grinned, pushing herself up into a sitting position. "It's finished?"
"Yes." Slowly, as though approaching something forbidden and dangerous, he crawled up the bed, taking a seat by Y/N's side. Shyly, Sherlock transferred the paper over to her hands. "Here."
He knows the drawing is good---if it isn't good then it isn't complete---but handing it over to the person featured in it set moths fluttering about his abdomen. Big moths, elephant hawk moths, all massive, dusty wings tickling the inside of his ribs. What if, for some reason, Y/N doesn't like it?
Of course she likes it.
Letting her body lean against Sherlock's arm, Y/N's gaze slid over the drawing, over her own face, her own body, immortalised in gritty flecks of grey. Some of the flecks are densely clustered to form umbrae, others sparse and few between to give the illusion of light, the rest arranged in crisp, delicate lines. Detailed. Smooth. Perfect.
This picture is different from the others in Sherlock's collection of Y/N (that is what it is; a collection. He's accumulated snapshots of her expressions, her mannerisms, her features like a hoarder stock-pilling pretty bottle caps). It's in the same style as most of them, shaped from the same material, and yet---even without colour---it is unmistakably an outlier.
The first in many outliers. It marks the start of a new era, a cornerstone of some sort. Something has obviously changed in the way the artist views his subject. His work has taken a new direction.
Hunger, that's what's new. Unbridled, unrestrained desire. Everything about the sketch is moody, almost dark, Y/N's body laid out what can only be described as provocatively. The very way he'd pressed the pencil to the paper is different; all long, languid strokes and generously shaded shadows.
Before, he'd sketched Y/N with guilty bashfulness, each picture innocent and tasteful; his restraint and respect betraying his love-sick heart.
But he doesn't have to chain up his lust anymore like a savage wolf, keep it concealed as though it's an unsightly disease. No, now he can set his ardour free, and it has manifested itself in every stroke, Sherlock's emotional state having leaked down the pencil and laced itself into his drawing.
If this is how Sherlock sees her, then Y/N likes it very much. Never before had she felt like such a woman, so wanted, so needed.
"It's beautiful," She muttered, and Sherlock preened.
"You think so?"
"Yes. It's..breathtaking. Gorgeous.."
Smiling bashfully, dipping his head to hide under his fringe. Meekly: "Yes, you are."
This made Y/N laugh and she gave him a nudge from where she was still nestled up against his side.
He swayed, utterly pliant.
"Haha, very smooth," she teased delicately, causing his blush to deepen by a few shades.
It was making him dizzy, his blood rushing up to his face, and then pouring downstairs, only to clamber exhaustedly back up to his cheeks again. "Sorry. I don't know how to...be sexy. Or do any of that stuff."
Y/N's shoulders rose and fell in a shrug, her bare skin sliding against the sleek material of Sherlock's shirt-covered arm. She mentally cursed the fabric, that stupid little barrier between his firm knots of muscles and her prickling nerve endings. How long had she laid there daydreaming about those arms looped tight about her body? Too long. "You're already sexy. You don't need to know how to do any of that stuff. I love you for you, Sherlock."
Eyes widening: "...Love?" He choked it out, a shocked little cough rather than a question, and he felt Y/N stiffen beside him.
She loves him? Someone is in love with---? With him?
Sherlock had turned to meet Y/N's eyes searchingly. The effect was startling, so crystalline, so pure, so transparent, it was almost as if she was staring right at Sherlock's open, unprotected soul.
Heating under his inquisitive gaze. "...I mean..." What's the use in denying it? Of course, there is the horrible chance that her forwardness might utterly startle the poor man, and subsequently blown her chances at any kind of romantic relationship with him---
But he hasn't run away yet. He hadn't even run away when she'd found his pictures. He's just looking at her, pupils all swelled up, two large wells of ink, his long legs tucked almost to his chin.
How many people have told him they love him?
"Of course I love you." She'd said it purposefully, firmly, as though she's pressing it hard onto his memory to make it stick.
When Y/N had kissed him earlier, she hadn't really said anything, she's just...kissed him. At the time, afterwards, and even now, Sherlock hadn't actually thought about what it meant. This is down to one simple reason: fear.
Because Y/N kissing him could have meant anything. She could have wanted him for the night, for the month, forever, or not at all. She might have just...pitied him, so gifted him with his first kiss just so she didn't have to live with the depressing knowledge that he'd never had one.
Preferring to live in ignorance, Sherlock just allowed it to happen, for once just going with the flow. He let life guide him along like a leaf adrift a lazy river and skirted around any doubts and questions that popped up along the way. Because even if Y/N only wants him for his body, for a fling, for the night, at least that's something.
But she doesn't want it for a fling. She...
"You love me?" He just muttered again stupidly. Not because he hadn't heard her, but because he was testing out how the syllables felt rolling off his tongue.
They felt good. His face split open into a radiant smile.
Y/N mirrored it unsteadily. "Couldn't you tell? I'd swoon every time you stood too close to me."
"...No."
Y/N gave him another nudge, teasing him gently. "Told you you're not a detective."
Sherlock nudged her back, both of them swaying like a misshapen newton's cradle. "...Sometimes it's hard to tell. Like, I'd put your widened pupils down to low light, or your gentle touches as just...something you do to be friendly. You smile at everyone, you're kind to everyone, I just assumed you were just being those things with me too."
"You saw but you did not believe."
He made a humming noise in his throat. "And to be fair, you also didn't notice I'd fallen for you either."
"You've fallen for me?"
Sherlock tipped his head to the side inquisitively. He'd thought she knew. Everyone knew. Lestrade knew, Mycroft knew, Mrs Hudson knew. Even the person who'd moved in next door asked Sherlock how his wife is when he'd got the paper, and, after several confused moments, he'd realised she'd assumed he and Y/N were married. It was like 'I LOVE Y/N' was printed in HAUS Sans Extra Bold over the front of his shirt. Or someone had written it across his forehead in lipstick.
"Yes. I love you, Y/N. As much as someone like me is capable of loving another person."
Sherlock hadn't said this in the hope that he'd get some kind of reward. He'd said it because...well, because everyone else seems to know it, apart from Y/N, and she's the one that should know it most of all. His secret can't live in the dark forever, just manifesting quietly away in the shadows. And he hoped it might make her happy. When Y/N had told Sherlock she loves him, his torso had swelled with something warm and exciting. Like a sun being born in his chest cavity. He hoped Y/N would feel at least a fraction of that when he told her that he loves her back.
Because he hadn't said it in search of a reward, he hadn't been expecting the kiss Y/N pressed to his lips.
He hadn't been expecting it, but that---by no means---meant it wasn't welcome. He melted against her, every bone in his body dissolving.
When she eased back from his soft, searching mouth, she took his jawline, tilting his head to caress a little circle around the bruise on his cheek.
Somehow, Sherlock had forgotten it was even there. Y/N had numbed him.
"'Someone like you'?" Y/N breathed, her words more tactile than audible. "You always talk like you're incapable of love, of caring, of appreciating sentimental things, and I don't understand why. I mean, look at these." Her hand still holding Sherlock's sketch turned it to face him, but he barely noticed.
She's naked and she's on his bed and she loves him and she's kissing him. He's just trying not to jump with a triumphant little whoop of joy.
"Look at how you see the world." Y/N tangled her fingers in his hair, bringing his head down so she could catch the curved shell of his ear between the rocky edge of her teeth. "Beautiful." She gave it a little nip and Sherlock groaned pitifully, seeking out her mouth again, scrambling for her hips with his hands.
He found them, his innocent fingertips meeting the heat of Y/N's bare skin, sending his own blazing like a freshly stoked fire. His body seemed to like his hand being there very much; that dip of Y/N's waist followed by the feminine swell of bone and softness. He'd like to touch her breasts as well, touch all of her, but their position is too awkward, sitting up and kind of leaning into each other. Sherlock's trying to get closer, tugging Y/N's curves insistently up against his own as if she's the first taste of food he's had in months.
As if reading what little thoughts he had, Y/N reached back to put the picture on the bedside table, blessing him with both her hands knotted tight in his curls. It made his jaw fall open, like a button had been pressed, and he felt the vague arch of Y/N's smile against his open mouth.
"Interesting." She smirked.
Unsteadily, because Y/N's nails were running over his scalp and sending prickling sensations right down to his toes: "What is?"
"I was going to ask if this is okay." Another kiss to Sherlock's ear, catching the lobe between her lips and a moan ran through him. "But I think I just answered my own question."
He chuckled, a low rumbling purr. It touched parts of Y/N so deep she'd thought they were inaccessible to anyone but herself; her soul, her essence, the very energy that deems her a living being. Secret things, non-material things, things no one should physically have the power to touch---
And yet Sherlock's laugh dances over each of them like fingers simply strumming guitar strings. How? Does he know he's doing it? Is he doing it on purpose? Can he actually feel Y/N's soul, is he just playing with it, dipping his hand in and swirling it around just because it feels pleasant slipping between his fingers?
Y/N doesn't know it, but Sherlock is wondering the exact same thing about her.
"Yes, it's ok," he said, his head tilting automatically to grant Y/N more access to his neck. She's at that stretch of muscle that runs down from the base of his ear and into the dip between his collarbones. "I like it." It's a simple touch, and yet arousal is already thick in his blood. "More please."
Through a smirk, Y/N continues her trail, taking her time to suck faint rosettes of colour up into his pearly white skin. Like raspberries in a bowl of milk, just below the surface, that creamy ghost of pink just about visible. He doesn't taste sweet, though, he tastes of salt.
When Y/N touches on a tender spot, Sherlock makes a desperate kind of whimpering noise and drags her down onto the mattress. His body is between her thighs, now---or at least it will be. He's propping himself up enough to stare down at her all spread out below him, his pupils wide and dark and glinting. They feasted on her, swept her face, deliberately pausing at her kiss-bruised mouth and the alluring column of her throat. And then her chest---
Y/N grinned up at him, curiosity the only thing preventing her from tugging his reassuring weight insistently down on top of her. "What?" She's never seen him look like that. Hungry. His lips are tugged into a smile, but its a new smile, and she doesn't really know what it means.
"You look nice." His gaze slid languidly over Y/N's breasts, then back up to meet her eyes. "Laying there." A little huff of through his nose, technically a chuckle, but he couldn't get the air for it. "I can't believe."
That isn't a typographical error or a grammatical blunder. His sentence just...ended there. There wasn't supposed to be anything taped to the rear of it. He just...
Can't believe.
Y/N's legs snaked around his narrow waist and brought his trouser-clad hips down to settle against the warmth between her bare thighs, the contact making a breathy moan tumble from both their open mouths. Curiously, Sherlock moved against that building point of warmth, breaking the kiss so his head could fall forwards against Y/N's forehead while he caught his breath.
Minutes of exploration heated the brisk air around them, Y/N drawing muffled whimpers and soft moans from Sherlock's throat. They'd switched positions a few times, rolling about on the bed in a euphoric state of play. When Y/N had pinned him to the mattress for the first time, the closeness, the press of another body against his, had made Sherlock gasp in surprise, his mouth dropping open at the foreign, sweet-hard pressure bearing down steadily against his hips. His body is so responsive, so sensitive, his reactions so unguarded, Y/N had to remind herself to be gentle. He's new to it all so she must go slowly, but the way he hisses and arches up when she's on top---and grinds down onto her when she's on bottom---makes her want to do nothing but ravish his pretty body until they're both dizzy.
Although he has never been in a relationship before, Sherlock is not inexperienced at love. After all, he's been in love with Y/N for---well, for ages. He has all the places he wants to touch planned out. He'd sketched a lot of them many times, and mimicked the strokes of his pencil now with his lips, grazing Y/N's jaw, chin, stomach as if marking her with his touch. These places, these tender actions, are not noted down---because he doesn't need to remember them---they're more...muscle memories, his body knowing what it wants to do and how it wants to do it.
Most of them are utterly selfish, and yet Y/N seems to enjoy them immensely.
Like dipping his head to catch her nipple between his lips, rubbing wetly over the pert bud until its glistening and shining. He hadn't known that would feel good for her. He'd done it because...well, because he knew it would definitely feel good for him. He'd been shocked, his movements hitching in almost comical surprise when Y/N arched up in answer, a moan rising from her lungs.
That sound pooled in the pit of Sherlock's belly, and he whined in helpless agitation. Why is he still wearing trousers?
With one hand, he scrambled desperately at the buckle of his belt, Y/N mouthing at his jawline in a way that was distracting as it was encouraging.
"Sure?" Y/N asked from below him, and he nodded, feeling the soft warmth of her fingers nudging his own out the way. She took over with calm competence, and, as soon as he was free, Sherlock shimmied off his trousers and shirt in a quick shuffling of fabric.
And then Y/N's bare body was up against his own.
Well, most of it. His underwear was all that remained, that annoying slip of material between him and what he could only assume was the highest pleasure available to mankind.
And then he stopped.
Y/N noticed, one of her hands had found its way to Sherlock's chest and she held it there, splayed over the hard ridge of his sternum. His heartbeat flurried below her touch. "What's wrong?"
Bashfully: "I don't know what I have to do."
The glow of the bedside light gave Y/N's kind smile a tender edge, and she felt him loosen a little against her. "You don't have to do anything," she said simply, giving him a little push.
He seemed to understand what she wanted, because he went slack, letting her manoeuvre his back down onto the mattress. He shifted a bit, getting comfortable, looking up at Y/N with eyes wide and compliant. Both of his large hands came up to hold Y/N's waist, and---when he gave them a little tug---she let her herself rest on him. He whimpered, and Y/N pressed a reassuring kiss to his chin, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. As if marking the points of a triangle that's now faintly tingling. "You can stop me if you want."
"I don't want you to stop," Sherlock said quickly, craving the slick wetness of her tongue, the taste of her, he curled one finger delicately under Y/N's chin and connected their lips once more. He's getting the hang of it now, seemingly noting what sets his own nerves alight and trying to spark the same in Y/N. He's obviously doing a good job of it because she leaned into it, humming into his mouth.
He ate it up with eagerness. The sounds she makes are so saccharine he could probably survive off of them alone.
When Y/N broke the kiss he gave her a malcontent frown.
"Sherlock," She said. His arousal had been nudging her insistently since their second kiss, and every moan he made only strengthened her desire to tend to it. There would be time for hours of learning every inch of each other's body later, but for now, he's waited long enough. "You don't have any protection, do you?"
He shook his head. "No," he said it to Y/N's parted lips rather than her eyes. He's sort of....transfixed by them; by how his kisses have affected them. They've gone all lush and shiny. Her teeth caught the bottom one, and she bit it.
"Nor do I. If I would've known we'd be doing this I'd have bought some."
Before Sherlock could wilt with disappointment, she kissed him again, a deep kiss that only dumped more fuel onto the furiously burning fire between his legs. Shouldn't she be dousing it with cold water, seeing as they can't...?
When Y/N eased away from his mouth, she was grinning. "We'll do that another day. But for now..." Another kiss, shallow this time, like she's tracing the shape of his lips.
He made a pitiful little sound at the suspense, chasing her, wanting to deepen it, but she pulled away completely.
"How about I do this instead?" Smoothly, she shifted her body to Sherlock's side, one hand still submerged in his hair. He blinked up at her curiously, wondering what exactly it was that she'd---
Then he felt her palm press to his bare chest again. It was hot, not warm but hot, sending each nerve into a euphoric little frenzy as she dragged it down by a few inches. The pad of her finger rubbed a soft circle onto the tender aureole of his nipple and his violently sensitive skin ached in answer, his muscles taught with the strangeness of being so intimately touched.
"That's---" He'd meant to say something along the lines of 'That's good,' but the words tripped and rolled over each other somewhere in his throat so just came out as a happy groan.
She laughed at him. "I haven't even started yet."
And she hadn't. Y/N's hand keeps getting lower, leaving a trail of prickly goosebumps in its wake, and Sherlock's breath hitched as it reaches the plane of his stomach.
He'd gone from looking at her with total absorption---fascinated curiosity written all over his alert features---to his head pushed back against the pillow, jaw slack, eyes having fluttered closed.
All those months he'd spent clutching his secrets to his chest as if they were perverse, offputting, unacceptable burdens...they could have been doing this? He'd kept them stuffed deep in his pockets like a lottery ticket he's ashamed he'd bought, not knowing that he'd won the jackpot.
Y/N is hunting out, stimulating, his nerves with loving precision, her touch so light it almost tickles, just brushing the very surface of Sherlock's desire with tantalising skill. He's unashamedly moaning with need at everything, and it's making it very difficult to concentrate. Her hand is still getting lower and he wonders---drunkenly---if she'll stop when she reaches his pants and draw her hand back up to begin the circuit again. Maybe she's just appreciating him; giving him some kind of strange, wonderful massage.
That was his last coherent thought.
She didn't stop. Where Sherlock saw the band of his underwear as a sort of finish line---because she wouldn't go there, would she? Without protection, surely they would have no use for---
But Y/N saw it as a starting line, a beginning. Her hand just carried on going and slipped underneath that band of elastic, down further until she's cupping him.
Sherlock's whole body went rigid.
The tip of Y/N's nose nuzzled at the stretch of his neck, soothing him, and he relaxed into the touch. "Okay?" she asked, which was unnecessary. Of course it's 'okay'. It's better than 'okay'.
Sherlock nodded fervently, unable to help wriggling against the reassuring weight of Y/N's hand experimentally, a low, strangled groan rising from somewhere deep inside his lungs.
It took him a little while to find his voice, and when he did it was embarrassingly uneven. "But what about...what about you?"
Yes, what about Y/N? Why should he get to have all the fun? After all, hadn't each of his countless daydreams about their first night together involved Y/N being doted on just as much, if not more than himself? Had he not spent almost every night thinking up dozens of imaginative ways to try and show her just how much he loves her? All those plans...
Washed away, because one touch, one brush if his hip, his stomach, down lower and he'd melted all over the mattress.
He could never hope to give her any kind of pleasure in this state. He probably couldn't even stand up if he tried. He's enjoying this way more than he thought he would, if that's possible.
"Don't worry about me." Y/N kissed him again, finding his mouth already open, wide and desperate and ravenous. "There will be plenty of time for me."
There will be. They're dating now, some distant part of Sherlock's brain realises, dulled and vague, like he's watching his thoughts happen through a fogged-up window. The corner of his lip quirked.
At that moment, Y/N released him, and he whimpered plaintively in protest, his eyes snapping open to blink at her pleadingly. Y/N just smirked wickedly. "Lift your hips." Her mouth is so close to Sherlock's ear he can feel her words slip into it and slide about his brain. They're winding around each neuron, gumming them up in sweet syrup---
And he doesn't even care.
He obeyed, as best he could with every muscle as soft as jam, allowing Y/N to drag his underwear free of his waist. Heat prickled over her skin, and he groaned at that slight brush of friction, the emphatic statement of his erection springing free.
Sherlock felt rather than saw Y/N grin. "How the fuck were you still single?" She asked, a low lover's purr, and he preened.
'Were', single. 'Were'. He's not single anymore, he's Y/N's.
She took the impressive length of him in one hand again, the other by his head still running the ridges of her nails over his scalp. He's never had to concentrate on respiration before, but he is now, sucking fresh oxygen into his lungs, having to remind himself to expel the old.
Y/N just held him for a bit, letting him get used to it (or teasing him---probably both) and he felt himself filling her hand. The firm, sweet pressure is torturous, and he tried to shift his hips, to push further into Y/N's grip, but it just rose and fell with him, her mouth silencing his little tormented whine.
Can one die of lust?
She asked something like 'Okay?' again, but got no response, besides a few breathy gasps. They answered her question all the same, and, sensing his need (or wanting to hear more of those sounds he makes so beautifully) Y/N finally gave him a brush of friction. Just a simple stroke, down to the base of his cock and then back up again, right to the painfully sensitive tip.
Sherlock gave a breathless little sob.
"Nice?" Y/N asked, and now he knew she was playing with him. She has the power to turn the great Sherlock Holmes into a quivering mess---he's so new to it all---obviously she's going to play with him. He's like a toy she'd just taken out of the wrapping.
"You know it's nice." He swallowed heavily, voice so guttural Y/N barely recognised it. It's like his throat is a road that's just been repaved with gravel. "Do it again."
She did, a long, tormentingly slow motion, pre-cum already making the movement slick and smooth. Sherlock's breaths became gasps, which Y/N swallowed, kissing him, delving so deep it stirred his blood. It's overwhelming, each brush of her tongue against the roof of his mouth, the firm pads of her lips, the hand in his curls, the other hand up and down and speeding up---
She broke the kiss, pulling away so she could enjoy his expression; halfway between agony and abandon. Each of Sherlock's unbridled groans sent vibrations throughout every single one of Y/N's atoms, his cheeks hot and body working up a sweat despite the fact that he's just laying there---kind of writhing as he squirmed under Y/N's (very welcomed) assault. No one's ever touched him like this, and it shows.
It's different when the hand is not his own, Sherlock would later contemplate. Nothing compares to that touch belonging to someone else, the firm, unpredictable intensity of Y/N's hand, uncontrollable and unanticipated. The sensation is almost too much, and he gives a frantic mewl as Y/N's hold tightens, her hand continuing its rhythm. She's caressing him with long, easy strokes, every sinewy muscle Sherlock owns tensing in anticipation as that familiar, sharp promise of orgasm coils about his belly, hovering just out of reach. He hunted it out, trying desperately to push himself further, faster, into Y/N's hand, his body moving entirely beyond his control as his eyes squeezed tight shut in pleasure.
...
Y/N brushing the pad of her thumb over the tip of him is what sent him over the edge.
His back bent into a lithe arch as he fell to pieces, rutting up into Y/N's grip with a cry so loud the whole of London shook.
...
Y/N cleaned up with a Kleenex plucked from the bedside table, then tossed it in the general direction of the waste paper basket, Sherlock watching her lazily with a soft, sated expression, his mouth spread wide in a floppy grin.
"So," Y/N asked through a smile as she flopped back onto the mattress. "Did you enjoy yourself?"
His colour high, Sherlock moved closer and lifted his slightly limp body as best he could, ensconcing himself under Y/N's arm. "Immensely." The point of his nose nudged Y/N's jaw as he settled his head on her chest, one leg moving over to keep her tight against himself. He sighed, and it pooled on her chest, one hand finding the mound one of Y/N's breasts and it settled there, just because it could.
He's quite heavy, even with only half of his six-foot frame using Y/N as a body pillow. A good heavy, the best kind of heavy, reassuring and soft and alive. His skin is pale as marble and yet he is very warm. Hot, even, his heartbeat still flurrying happily against Y/N's skin. Some small part of her considered teasing him for his love of being held---
But she decided against it, and let her cheek lean against the crown instead, a curl brushing her bottom lip. Of course he likes to be held. It's a form of affection; something of which he has been horribly starved.
Several moments of contented silence drift by, warm like a blanket cocooning them in their own little world. Sherlock's room is so quiet, nestled snugly at the back of the building, the sound of cars crawling down Baker Street muted and distant. Simultaneously, Y/N and Sherlock's minds (her's content, his wonderfully spent) wondered whose bedroom they'd spend their nights for the foreseeable future, and if they'd have to get used to hearing or not hearing the bustling London traffic.
Sherlock liked the idea of crawling into Y/N's bed very much, surrounded by her scent and belongings and things that makes him think of her.
Y/N doesn't mind where they sleep, so long as Sherlock's hair is close enough to bury her hand in.
A siren went off somewhere in the distance---a concrete jungle's version of a bird call---and downstairs Mrs Hudson's phone rang. She still uses the landline, a decrepit old machine hanging from a hook on the wall, cracks in the cable exposing brittle wires. A dog barked. Someone honked a horn, no doubt a moody taxi driver chastising a clueless cyclist for failing to check for traffic before pulling away from a junction.
Isn't it interesting how life can just carry on, the world completely unaware that somewhere, two people's lives had changed in ways that will completely alter their entire existence?
Y/N was concentrating on stroking the pad of one finger over each bump of Sherlock's spine when he fidgeted experimentally against her body.
His head suddenly jerked up, and he propped himself on one elbow. "Could you do it again?"
Y/N blinked at him, still in shock from the sudden disturbance of the peace. "What? Right now?"
A small flush suffused the angular dash of his cheekbones, and a quick glance downwards gave away that---never having fully settled down to begin with----he was indeed already eager to be touched again. "If you don't mind."
"Of course I don't mind."
He gave a little pleased sound and Y/N moved to push him back onto the bed, but this time he beat her to it, nudging her legs apart with his knee and pinning her to the mattress. She looked into his face curiously, a smirk twitching the corner of her lips. "What are you doing?"
Sherlock dipped his head to give Y/N the kind of kiss she'd given him only minutes before, one that dove so deep it brushed the fringes of her soul.
Her toes curled, both legs sliding up to entwine about Sherlock's calves, and she felt the vibrations of his chuckle at her eagerness.
He likes the effect he has on her. It seems to excite him just as much as her touch; the curve of Y/N's cheeks a hot pink, her breath coming quick and fast through the exhilarated smile of scarlet, kiss-stained lips. "This time," he delivered the words right into her ear, his rumbling baritone drowning her in honey, "I want to participate."
Y/N swallowed, one hand finding his hair, not to pet, but to clutch onto (although it made him moan all the same) as his hand took her other one and slipped down the narrow, humid gap between their bare bodies.
Tentatively: "Show me how." The ridge of his teeth caught her ear, giving it a playful nip. "Show me what you like."
Moving her palm to rest atop his, Y/N kissed at the sensitive skin of his neck, her fingers tightening on his curls as he neared that bundle of nerves between her legs. They throbbed, every cell alive with a gnawing, fierce ache. It wouldn't take much. "You're an artist," she breathed.
Another kiss.
Another little moan on Sherlock's part.
"Get creative."