bakerstreet | The First Time Meme

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]

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[Sherlock has no idea that he has a bit of her lipstick smudged on his own lips, and his hair is sticking up a bit and slightly mussed from laying down in bed. It's the sort of thing some would find endearing.]

[He doles out the ice cream--two scoops for each of them--puts the ice cream away, and hands her a bowl of it with the spoon sticking out of it.]

Edited 2012-02-25 10:33 (UTC)

[It feels almost like they're playing at being a couple and the thought makes her press her lips into a thin line to keep from laughing aloud. The roles are so far removed from who they are.

She carves out the first spoonful carefully and puts it in her mouth, allowing it to melt against her tongue. Although she enjoys ice cream, it's not one of her more frequent indulgences. The last time she'd eaten any, she was alone in a hotel in Nice experiencing one of her melancholy moods. This is altogether more pleasant.

After licking a dab of chocolate that had escaped her from the back of the spoon, she replaces it in the bowl.]

Let's eat in bed. [then, with an air of mischief] ...Unless you're fussy about sheets, in which case, let's eat in John's bed.

[It really is almost comical at this point, how unlike themselves they're acting, how normal they're pretending to be, but it's a bit difficult to end the game when neither side will concede.]

[As for eating in John's bed, John would kill him. John would murder him.]

[But he doesn't want to get ice cream on his sheets, either...]

[But John would murder him.]

[But those are 1020 thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets in Sherlock's bed, and he never eats in bed specifically because he doesn't want to mess his bed up. Those are absolutely pristine 1020-count Egyptian cotton sheets...]

[No no. John would murder him--and after all the cases Sherlock's taken him along on, by now he's possibly learned enough to hide the body and avoid getting caught.]

My bed will do.

[And off he stalks back to his room with his ice cream, dressing gown flaring dramatically again, and he hops back into bed on his side, leaning back against his pillows with his legs sprawled out and crossed, to eat his ice cream.]

[He still has no idea about the lipstick smudge. Or the mussy hair.]

[He may or may not have caught her smirk before turning away — as is often the case, she was alluding to more than just ice cream. The good Dr. Watson would murder him indeed.

Sauntering just a few steps behind, she climbs into bed beside him and curls her legs under herself. It's impossible to look at him without noticing the lipstick. To her, it's as bright as a neon sign. Her mark on him. Part of her wants to wait and see if he ever notices—from the way her gaze keeps flicking to his lips, if nothing else—but ultimately she decides to do something about the distraction.]

You have a little something. Just there. [Here, let her get that. She licks a finger and leans over to wipe away the smudge.]

[Sherlock freezes in place, staring at her, his spoon halfway between his bowl and his mouth as she wipes the smudge away. It's very much like the deer-in-headlights look he'd had when they first met, when she'd walked in to meet him wearing nothing at all.]

[Oh, she likes him speechless. One carefully plucked brow arches in response.]

...mm, what? Shall I put it back?

[The ice cream on his spoon slides off right off it and drops into his lap and he jumps a bit when he realizes it, flustered. He puts his bowl and spoon down on the beside table and reaches for a box of tissues to clean it up.]

[Score one point for Irene Adler. Sherlock 1, Irene 1.]

Edited 2012-02-26 07:42 (UTC)

[In addition to the point, she should be awarded a medal for valiance in the battle not to simply burst out laughing. It's just so darling, how flustered he gets. And with only minimal effort.

Perhaps pushing her luck, she plucks one of the tissues from the box and "helps."]

[That startles him so much it nearly makes him fall out of bed.]

[Score another point for Irene. Sherlock 1, Irene 2, now.]

[His jolt nearly unseats her own bowl of ice cream from where it's balanced on her knee, but luckily she's able to catch it with no more than a clatter of spoon against bowl.

Smirking like the cat that got the cream, she settles it more firmly in her lap and eats a slow, deliberate spoonful.]

Well?

[Tossing the tissues on the bedside table, he wraps his dressing gown around himself--somewhat strategically, a result of her pawing at his crotch--and then he sits there looking thoughtful, like he's going through some sort of internal conflict.]

[That's because he is.]

[When he finally speaks, his voice is very quiet.]

[And more than anything else, it's honest.]

I don't know how to deal with it, you know. I've never had to before.

[He looks up, his eyes locking with hers.]

I always considered it nothing more than a distraction. It was one I thought was immune from, but I was wrong.

[The corners of his mouth quirk into one of those tense, false smiles he does that doesn't reach his eyes.]

Apparently, I'm just as defenseless against desire as anyone else, at least where you're concerned.

[He looks away again.]

Now that I'm at your mercy, I suppose it's time to ask the simple question of what you plan to do with me.

[Her gloating expression softens somewhat as she listens.

What to do with him. What indeed? Though she can't make any promises regarding future encounters, there are no ulterior motives tonight. Or, at least, none beyond her usual inclination toward control and even that isn't at the forefront of her thoughts now that she has his attention. There's real attraction underlying this game they play and, though she can think of a dozen scenarios with and without props she'd love to put him through, right now she wants to indulge in that.

Coming to a decision, she gets up from the bed and walks around the side to place her bowl of ice cream next to his on the nightstand. She remains standing, facing him.]

I'd like to start by kissing you again.

[It may be the tamest suggestion she's ever made, but she can sense this needs a slow build.]

[The future is always nebulous. That's how the future works. What he needs to figure out is how they're handling tonight.]

[When she makes her proposal, he sits for a moment, thinking about it, and then he nods.]

[She takes a step so she's flush with the side of the bed and leans in, one hand snaking round the back of his neck to gently pull him toward her. Only at the last second does she close her eyes. Just as their lips touch.

It's a simple, close-mouthed kiss that manages to be undemanding but not hesitant in the slightest. Part of a game she's now playing with herself, testing her restraint. Remembering how to be soft.]

[It's different this time. It isn't a tease, it isn't a carefully calculated move to try to rile her up like she's done to him so many times.]

[It's something soft and genuine. Inexperienced, yes, very much so, but genuine.]

[And then it gets more...demanding, and he's tugging on her arm to try to get her back in the bed with him.]

[That tug unbalances her, so it's less than graceful when she complies and tumbles into his lap. All of this is rather clumsy, really. But it's sweet and she finds that she doesn't entirely mind.

Her fingers curl and uncurl in his hair as she adjusts her position. There, that's a little less knees-and-elbows. Her other hand comes to rest for the moment on his shoulder.]

[There's a reason he'd wrapped his robe around himself a bit more tightly and now that she's in his lap she can likely feel it. Shame that he's an awful kisser, though. His tongue darts in tentatively as he tries to work out how the whole thing...works, and with how clumsily he does it, it's abundantly clear that he has no idea what he's doing and is trying to feel it out as he goes. Observation only gets you so far.]

[He breaks off to look at her, looking oddly self-conscious.]

If I'm doing this wrong, just...

[Just tell him? Shove him away because he's awful at it? Show him how to do it right? He leaves that sentence unfinished because he's too embarrassed to finish it.]

I've picked up countless useless skills for the sake of disguises, but kissing was never one one of them because of the physical contact involved.

[He drops the next bit very casually.]

Stripping, on the other hand...

[It is not the very worst kiss she's ever had — that dubious honor belongs to a middle-aged man in a pub when she was 16 who had more or less slobbered on her before she stomped on his foot. In stiletto-heeled boots, natch. But it is awkward and not all that enjoyable, and it reminds her somewhat of secondary school fumblings. Endearing, perhaps, but not sexy.

He definitely needs a lesson or two and she's relieved when he pulls away first because that means she doesn't have to come up with a tactful way to suggest it. The laugh his throwaway comment about stripping produces is really more of a quiet snort.]

Stripping.

[She sounds a touch incredulous.]

You'll have to show me your moves.

[Her snort had been the whole point of mentioning it. He likes to surprise her and he likes to amuse her.]

It was for a case. I needed unfettered access to the dressing room of a male strip club that was being used as a front for the illegal operations of a crime syndicate.

[So he learned how to strip from instructional videos on the internet, picked out some costumes from his vast closet of disguises (he'd already had the fireman, policeman, and doctor thing covered), picked some songs, auditioned, and got himself a job there. One night of snooping around the dressing room in between sets had allowed him to solve two murders and put several members of the syndicate in prison.]

[And he'd walked away with £213 in tips.]

[John must never know.]

[He considers her request. He really, actually considers it. On the one hand, he felt ridiculous when he'd done it, and he's fairly certain he'll feel ridiculous doing it now. On the other hand, he can hear the incredulity in her voice, and he has an almost compulsive need to prove he can do everything he says he can do. Always. It's difficult to turn down a challenge.]

But how can I be certain that you'll still respect me afterward?

[The corner of his mouth twitches.]

Edited 2012-02-28 06:01 (UTC)

[The thought of Sherlock gyrating stiffly on a stage somewhere while drunk women having a hen's night hoot and holler and stuff banknotes in his waistband is almost too much, and she laughs again, a real one this time, shaking a little with the force of it.

Head tilted, clearly teasing,]

I respected you after that terrible vicar impression, didn't I?

[There's the laugh he really wanted. He files the memory of it under the little file folder labeled the /TheWoman in his mental hard drive, along with the scent of her perfume and the shade of her lipstick and every other little detail he's gathered up in there like a squirrel protectively hoarding nuts for winter.]

Up. I can't do this with you in my lap.

[Technically, he's supposed to do it in hers, but he doesn't plan on it going that far.]

No, that would be the other way around.

[Grinning with anticipation, she disentangles herself and scoots sideways to sit with her legs hanging over the side of the bed and her hands folded primly in her lap. The very picture of an attentive audience.]

Go on, then.

[Sherlock gets up off the bed, one hand briefly pressing down on the bed next to her and finds out that after everything they've been through together, after all their games and dances around each other, he's actually hardly self-conscious about this at all. Showing up in Karachi had left him completely naked before her, even though he'd been covered head to toe. In comparison to that, this is nothing.]

[This is just idle amusement, actually, this is showing off, because yes he is that good. Yes, he can be anyone he needs to be to get wherever he needs to go to figure out anything he needs--or wants--to figure out. After she saw right through the vicar disguise, it's almost a point of pride to try to convince her he's not always so transparent.]

[Standing there in front of her in the space in front of his bed, he adjusts his dressing gown.]

Before I do this, I do want to make a minor note of the fact that not all disguises are self-portraits.

[Then he becomes a different person, just like that, and this one he does a fair amount better than he did the vicar. One moment he's Sherlock Holmes and the very next moment he's Richard Brimble, outgoing, sensitive, friendly Richard Brimble, who's trying to work his way through college to become a math teacher, stripping under the stage name "Rip Hardrocket."]

[What's impressive is that apparently, even years after having done this case, he still remembers the song, beat for beat, like he's playing it in his head. ("Sex Bomb" by Tom Jones for reference.)]

[What's even more impressive is he still apparently remembers the choreography. Years later. There's no way he's improvising this, so apparently, he hadn't deleted it. His reasoning had been that after taking the time to learn it, he may as well keep it so if he ever had to fake being a stripper again, he'd have something already prepared. It's always good, as far as he's concerned, to keep little bits of knowledge about various professions in case he ever has to fake that he's working them.]

[What's most impressive is that, far from being gawky or stiff, he actually has rhythm when he feels like it, but then he's a very coordinated man. It's the only reason he'd managed to get the gig because even though he'd been a bit more fit back then (he'd been a few years younger) he'd still been a little on the skinny side. But he'd made an impression with his dancing and showmanship.]

[So yes, enjoy your well-choreographed, well-coordinated striptease, Miss Adler, complete with him pretending that he's some well-meaning, friendly guy who is turn pretending to be a hunk-covered hunk with hunky filling. Apparently, he isn't just blowing smoke about this stuff.]

[He is just. That. Dedicated.]

[It's amusing to watch, just not for the reason she thought it would be. Because he's not bad at all. Not awkward, or clumsy, or—near as she can tell without actually hearing the music—off-beat. No, quite the opposite. He's good.

Sexy, even, if you're into that sort of thing.

Which, as a general rule, she isn't, but it's Sherlock and he gets to be the exception for a lot of those. Anyway, it isn't the moves themselves she's turned on by, but rather the proof that he is just as capable as he says he is and, extrapolating from that, the implication that he could turn out to be quite good at the physical stuff. With a little coaching, of course, but the potential is there. He isn't hopeless.

If he's paying attention to her face at all, he can probably see the shift from amused-but-not-expecting-much to surprise and finally settling on something akin to delight. Also, she starts jokingly cat-calling him midway through. So there's that.

When he's finished, she holds up her hands in mock surrender,]

All right, all right. You've made a believer of me.

[Just like that, it's over. He picks up his dressing gown and slips it back on over his naked body like absolutely nothing happened, wrapping himself up in it, and sits down next to her on the bed in his usual restrained manner, looking for all the world like he's still entirely in possession of his dignity.]

I am, for the most part, able to impersonate individuals of most professions, at least temporarily.

[There came a certain point with impersonation where you needed the specialized knowledge to keep up the ruse, but he rarely ever had to go that far.]

Edited 2012-02-29 04:38 (UTC)

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