❛Maria Magdalena❜ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
treks) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
bakerstreet2012-02-19 08:55 am
treks) wrote in bakerstreet2012-02-19 08:55 am
The First Time Meme
| THE ❝FIRST TIME❞ MEME |
RULES! ♥ Leave a comment with your character's name and fandom. ♥ When replying, RNG for a number between 1 and 7. The number you get corresponds with the kind of "first time" sex you're having ♥ Go from there! The sky's the limit. |
| THE LIST! 01] Romantic | You waited and waited and waited for the right moment to take this final step with your partner, and it really paid off; neither of you can imagine this night (or day!) to be any better than it is right now. 02] The Only Time | You know somewhere in your heart that you won't be getting a second chance for this. The relationship is forbidden, or they're moving away, or you're moving away, or something is tearing this relationship apart, and that may be the last thing you want. 03] Set-Up | ... Oh. Well. Someone nudged you and this other person together, the one that you may have loved or hated or been friends with your entire life. It isn't completely by choice, but it doesn't sound like that bad of an idea... Or maybe it does. Who knows? 04] Experience Difference | One of you knows exactly what to do, and the other doesn't! Maybe they're just a natural at this kind of thing... or maybe there's a thing or two they haven't told you yet. 05] Hesitant | One (or both) of you aren't quite sure if you're ready for this next big step... at the same time, you want this to happen, though the thought makes butterflies flutter around in the pit of your stomach. 06] Awkward | It feels like everything that can go wrong does go wrong. Relax? You can't relax! This is s-s-s-s-sex-- oh, boy, there's another mistake. 07] Wildcard | This is the "other" option. Choose any of the above or create your own! [credit goes to connikebox] |
pfft don't worry about it
Because here's the thing: She wasn't lying or exaggerating that day when she told John she was gay. It's how she's always identified, seeing as, apart from acknowledging some men as superficially attractive, she's never been terribly interested. A bout of experimentation in her teenage years had seemed to shut the door pretty conclusively on that and, though she's become very comfortable viewing and handling male bodies in certain contexts through her work as a pro domme, it was never sexual for her. The domination itself was at times arousing, wielding that much power and control—and stealing secrets had been doubly so—but it had nothing to do with the men in question. Meanwhile, she has loved women and fucked women (and loved fucking women, God, does she ever) for years without the slightest uncertainty. To her, the question of her sexuality was cut and dried. At least, until somewhere in the middle of her long game with Sherlock Holmes.
How alien it had felt then, when the lie meant to serve as nothing more than a means to an end had become, in part, her truth. Respect, admiration, fascination, all still there, but tangled with desire and what Sherlock himself had so scathingly referred to as 'sentiment,' though she would never define it as love. And even after she had reconciled those feelings with her previous understanding of herself, accepted the exception for what it was as best she could, there was a part of her that doubted.
As is probably obvious by now, that part of her was wrong. Proven so by that very first tease of a kiss meant to rile her up, clumsy as it was, and proven again by the way she isn't thinking about any of these things at the moment. She is focused entirely on the desperate, bruising kisses—someone learned well—and the feel of muscle under skin as she runs her hands over his body, and the way he can't help but grind against her—knowing what she does to him is unbelievably sexy—and how, if she lifts her hips at just the right time, she can prolong the sensations. How it almost feels like there's nothing between them at all with how damp that lace is getting. It's all positively delicious.]
totally cribbing wording from a moffat interview here, lol
Though he rarely cares--or at least had learned not to care--altogether too much that he's something different, something other than most people in the world, it still rankles on occasion. Despite the efforts he's undertaken most of his life to be living proof to the contrary, a man can't be an island. Meeting John Watson had made him realize that, but John is still exceedingly normal and while some of the loneliness-he-hadn't-realized-was-there had abated after they'd become friends, he still hadn't had someone he'd felt was if not his equal (John is more than his equal in many ways) at least like him.
Then he met Moriarty and he hadn't been standing alone on his island any longer. That of course, is what makes his antagonistic relationship with his archenemy so complicated--completely admiring the mind of a man and the elegance of everything it does, while utterly despising him for choosing to do what he does with it, for being Sherlock's own dark reflection. Moriarty is the man he could have been--and the man he could possibly be if he took a darker turn.
What he and Irene have is no less complicated but there is one wrinkle that isn't in the way of all that sentiment--which is the fact that though she's conniving and ruthless, she isn't a complete psychotic. Her interest in him somehow didn't lead to mutually-assured destruction, it's instead led to mutual admiration. They had both entered a room and found another strange creature like themselves, and realized, "At last, there's another of me."
The two of them being alike--and in being so, different from the rest of the world--means that it's all the more significant they've made such exceptions for each other, and at the same time explains why they have.
He wants to be owned by her, dominated, consumed, driven to discomfort and made to want it. He wants to thrill in her arousal and pleasure and for her to thrill in his. The drive for that is overwhelming and he is quite certain that, at least for himself, that it would have been there regardless of her sex or gender. In the face of not actually being sexually compatible in their orientations, their bodies are both just transport, tools to cause other pleasure.
And he does want to cause her pleasure. This isn't just about seeking his own, because while he can be utterly selfish at times, this is a shared experience, this is something where reciprocation leads to a better experience for both parties involved. While he doesn't exactly know the best ways to please her because of his inexperience, there's a great deal that can be surmised through logic alone and through her body's reactions to what he does. He knows, for instance, that there are erogenous zones on the body, and though he doesn't know altogether too much about them (not really relevant information when the only naked bodies you see are corpses) he's been discovering them on his own. He knows that the clitoris is the primary cause of female sexual pleasure, and that his tongue would be particularly effective at stimulating it. And he knows that she's a domme, that she derives pleasure from having power and control over others, and that she enjoys it even more so when it's him.
Pulling all of that knowledge together makes him realize there is something in particular that he can do for her.
This is why he breaks away from practically being attached to her mouth and starts to kiss his way down her body, briefly taking her nipple into his mouth as he creeps his way south. The flick of his tongue against it is a preview and a promise of what's to come. Pressing several kisses to the skin of her inner thighs leaves him feeling as if his lips have been burned after.
When he retreats to kneel there between her legs, he doesn't make a move for her knickers, even though his current intentions are likely somewhat clear given his body language. Instead he crawls away from her and gets off the bed. For a moment, it looks like he may have suddenly withdrawn, that it may have all been too much, that he has to stop, but then he kneels next to the bed and tugs on the leg closest to him to get her to follow him.
While he knows his legs are going to get sore before long from kneeling there, he figures this will put him at an easier angle for what he plans to do than laying on his stomach on the bed where his neck will probably get sore, but that's not the primary reason for it. The primary reason for it is that he knows she'll enjoy having driven him to his knees.]
haha, nicely done
It comes almost as a shock then when his lips leave her body entirely, and so, by the time he makes his purpose known, she's already halfway to sitting up. The sight of him kneeling there before her sends a searing sensation through the pit of her stomach and she is quick to comply with his unspoken request, stockings whispering against the sheets as she slides to the edge of the bed and comes to rest there with ample space between her legs. It's necessary to lean back to keep from falling off the bed entirely, but she doesn't want to lay down and miss the show. The compromise between the two is that she uses one arm to brace herself, leaving the other free so she can reach out and cup his cheek. She strokes it with the pads of her fingers, nails dragging lightly, then, pressing firmly under his chin, tilts his face up to be sure he looks her in the eye. Before he begins, she wants him to read in her face just how much it does please her to have him like this.]
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[But his hands move with certainty as he reaches up to tug on her knickers. It's time for them to come off. The stockings he leaves alone. Something about them still being on makes it feel like there's hook in his gut, in the most pleasant way possible.]
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The hint of fear in his eyes does not escape her notice and, seeking to alleviate it, she takes her hand from his face and drags a finger through that wetness, eyes half-lidding as she does so. Then she extends it to him, offering him a taste from a less intimidating source.]
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[Then he takes her finger in his mouth and sucks on it lightly, his eyes closing for just a moment as if he's savoring it. A shudder runs visibly through his entire body. Like Persephone was offered pomegranate seeds that doomed her to time in the underworld, he's had a taste of intimacy that makes it so he can't turn back.]
[Opening his eyes, he finally leans forward, positioning himself between her legs, his hands running up along the top of her thighs and then slipping underneath them so that he can wrap his arms around and hold onto them for leverage.]
[The first few flicks of his tongue are light and experimental, his eyes fixed on her face, as he watches it for the reactions he needs as cues to learn how to do this properly, the way she wants it.]
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She'll suggest as much, along with some light sucking, if he doesn't stumble across the idea on his own. Part of the fun though comes from letting him explore.]
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[Pupil dilation, skin temperature, the drumming of her heart, the flush of her skin, subtle changes in body language--uncanny what observation of the right details and the ability to practically apply what you learn from that observation can do. As she strains to press harder against him, his mouth moves to meet her, as if encouraging her to wrap her legs over his shoulders. His one hand goes back to her breast again, seeking to stimulate her by caressing her nipple, pinching it lightly between his fingertips.]
[His other hand slides down from gripping her other thigh so that he can stimulate himself.]
[Once a logical, reasoning thinking machine, he's now caught in the grips of sentiment and unfettered, utterly shameless lust. The ache in the very root of his gut, in that lariat of sensation secured tightly to his spine, is stoked by every one of her reactions. His furtive, exploratory strokes of his hand against his dick only serve to stoke his desire more rather than bring relief.]
[This is what she's done to him. This is what she's reduced him to; she's made him explore his own body the same time he's exploring hers, bringing to light a part of him, dark and earthy, that would never have been exposed to day otherwise and that would have probably been left to rot.]
[Even though he's stroking himself feverishly, he isn't just paying attention to himself and he certainly hasn't forgotten her. In fact, the movements of his lips and tongue only grow more fervent. Licking and laving away, sucking and kneading her with his tongue whenever appropriate, this has gone beyond the first tentative gestures of exploration and has progressed to him effectively fucking her with his mouth--furiously, unrelentingly, his tongue occasionally dipping deep inside her. It's quite reflective of how much he wants to fuck her with parts of himself other than his mouth, and as he realizes this himself, as he realizes that touching himself just isn't quite enough, his lips vibrate with a pitiable noise, half between a moan and whimper that is tugged out of his throat from somewhere deep inside him.]
[What a treat for her, a sight never before seen by living eyes: Sherlock Holmes kneeling in supplication, his face buried between her legs, his lips vibrating with pitiful noises, his eyes gazing up at her--admiring and adoring, weak and wanting--playing with his own dick as if he's only just discovered it for the first time. Gold star for you, Irene Adler. Enjoy the view.]
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And then there it is, her elegant features twisting up into something feral and almost pained, teeth bared, as she tenses and shudders against him.]
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[When it's over, when the shuddering stops, he stops touching himself and gently shrugs her leg off of his shoulder, wiping at his mouth with his forearm. Messy. It's all very messy.]
[But that's not enough to make him want to stop. He still kneels there in front of her, fingers playing with the edges of her stockings and starts to tug them down, exposing the skin of her legs, his fingers sliding over the skin there once it's exposed. At one point, he presses a soft, lingering kiss to her inner thigh and then the spot to the side of her knee. Then he briefly nuzzles against the inside of her leg with his cheek, as if testing how it feels against a more sensitive area of his own skin.]
[Some his usual attention to detail seems to be wound up in all this. Sherlock isn't the most sensual person, but he is someone who pays attention to sensory details, and right now he seems somewhat fixated on how her skin feels.]
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Before opening her eyes again, she finds him by touch, fingers brushing across his cheek in a caress that's damp with sweat. They move briefly to a pulse point and then curl around the back of his neck with a gentle squeeze. Satisfaction and gratitude expressed through possession.
When she speaks, she sounds just this side of breathless.]
Come here. I want to kiss you while you still taste like me.
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