Joan assumed Sherlock would freeze, push her away, call her an idiot. She assumed it would last five seconds before the entire mass of her useless sentiment was thrown back in her face.
Which completely explained how stunned she was when Sherlock released a little grunt of disbelief and wrapped his hand around the back of her neck to pull her further into the kiss. His lips parted just enough for her probing tongue to push forward; at the touch of his tongue to hers, she felt her traitorous left leg wobble slightly, but there was no chance of falling while Sherlock tucked his arm around her waist, anchoring her against his mouth.
Suddenly the long skirt she’d worn no longer felt ridiculously too young, but rather brilliant as Sherlock tugged until he’d dragged the front of it over his wrist until it was bunched just at her waist. The access to the practical but rather flimsy cut of her knickers was not wasted: Sherlock pulled aside the thin fabric to trace a (shaking) finger just against her labia majora and god-fucking-damn, who knew that she could keen so sharply, or that Sherlock could muffle her so well against his shoulder?
Time became a non-issue, in that there was not nearly enough of it to allow them time to hesitate. Joan brought her hands from where they had dug into Sherlock’s upper arms to his overly-posh belt, tugging at the link that wasn’t quite a belt but wasn’t quite a puzzle. She huffed in frustration until Sherlock brought down a hand to easily flick open the ridiculous clasp, only to move directly back to her lower back as his other hand pulled again at the fabric of her knickers. Joan huffed again, reached under the bunch of fabric that Sherlock had gathered, wrapping three fingers under the lace edging to pull the whole thing down as quickly as possible, until she could wiggle it past her knees to her ankles and kick it away.
Sherlock curled his fingers foward, catching the warmth of her lips, groaning as she panted into their kiss. Joan tucked her hips forward, drawing him closer even as the angle caused her back to cramp. Seeming to catch the edge of pain to her breathing, Sherlock turned them around until her back was at the wall, pushing hard until she felt the edges of rough brick press into her back. Just as she thought to protest, he dropped both arms from her neck and skirt to push at her thighs until she found herself lifting off the ground. Instinctively, she wrapped her legs around his waist, which brought the evidence of his interest in the proceedings flush against the freshly re-skirted and throbbing hollow between her legs.
Suddenly, Joan couldn’t even gather a hint of dignity around herself; she braced her body against the brick with her hips and right hand, while her left hand scrabbled at the bunched fabric of her skirt. Dragging it upwards, she pivoted towards Sherlock, relishing the press of his erection against her until she finally had pulled the skirt sufficiently high enough to readmit him.
“Joan, please, Joan, I can’t,” he panted against her neck, rolling his hips forward until the insistent press of his hardness against her was unignorable. She threw her arms around his neck, sucking at his bottom lip as she swallowed his pleas.
“Yes, yes, please, yes, Sherlock,” she urged, and it seemed to spur him on, because suddenly he was snaking a hand between them to grab himself, to guide himself to her, where she was wet and desperate. When he first breached, she cut of a plea with splutter, one hand still around his neck, the other pushing against the brick wall as a both a support and a brace as he slid home. It was overwhelming and overdue, and Joan could barely breathe around the desperate gasping of her lungs as Sherlock rolled his hips again, but this time buried in her as if he’d always belonged.
Fill: Give Your All to Me 3/5
Which completely explained how stunned she was when Sherlock released a little grunt of disbelief and wrapped his hand around the back of her neck to pull her further into the kiss. His lips parted just enough for her probing tongue to push forward; at the touch of his tongue to hers, she felt her traitorous left leg wobble slightly, but there was no chance of falling while Sherlock tucked his arm around her waist, anchoring her against his mouth.
Suddenly the long skirt she’d worn no longer felt ridiculously too young, but rather brilliant as Sherlock tugged until he’d dragged the front of it over his wrist until it was bunched just at her waist. The access to the practical but rather flimsy cut of her knickers was not wasted: Sherlock pulled aside the thin fabric to trace a (shaking) finger just against her labia majora and god-fucking-damn, who knew that she could keen so sharply, or that Sherlock could muffle her so well against his shoulder?
Time became a non-issue, in that there was not nearly enough of it to allow them time to hesitate. Joan brought her hands from where they had dug into Sherlock’s upper arms to his overly-posh belt, tugging at the link that wasn’t quite a belt but wasn’t quite a puzzle. She huffed in frustration until Sherlock brought down a hand to easily flick open the ridiculous clasp, only to move directly back to her lower back as his other hand pulled again at the fabric of her knickers. Joan huffed again, reached under the bunch of fabric that Sherlock had gathered, wrapping three fingers under the lace edging to pull the whole thing down as quickly as possible, until she could wiggle it past her knees to her ankles and kick it away.
Sherlock curled his fingers foward, catching the warmth of her lips, groaning as she panted into their kiss. Joan tucked her hips forward, drawing him closer even as the angle caused her back to cramp. Seeming to catch the edge of pain to her breathing, Sherlock turned them around until her back was at the wall, pushing hard until she felt the edges of rough brick press into her back. Just as she thought to protest, he dropped both arms from her neck and skirt to push at her thighs until she found herself lifting off the ground. Instinctively, she wrapped her legs around his waist, which brought the evidence of his interest in the proceedings flush against the freshly re-skirted and throbbing hollow between her legs.
Suddenly, Joan couldn’t even gather a hint of dignity around herself; she braced her body against the brick with her hips and right hand, while her left hand scrabbled at the bunched fabric of her skirt. Dragging it upwards, she pivoted towards Sherlock, relishing the press of his erection against her until she finally had pulled the skirt sufficiently high enough to readmit him.
“Joan, please, Joan, I can’t,” he panted against her neck, rolling his hips forward until the insistent press of his hardness against her was unignorable. She threw her arms around his neck, sucking at his bottom lip as she swallowed his pleas.
“Yes, yes, please, yes, Sherlock,” she urged, and it seemed to spur him on, because suddenly he was snaking a hand between them to grab himself, to guide himself to her, where she was wet and desperate. When he first breached, she cut of a plea with splutter, one hand still around his neck, the other pushing against the brick wall as a both a support and a brace as he slid home. It was overwhelming and overdue, and Joan could barely breathe around the desperate gasping of her lungs as Sherlock rolled his hips again, but this time buried in her as if he’d always belonged.