Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

A Picture Speaks A Thousand Words (Part 7)

Sherlock's eyes slipped shut.

The world fell away beneath him, his thoughts grinding to a sluggish, drugged halt. Like a busy train station during a power cut. Everything just...

stopped.

Y/N had claimed his mouth almost possessively---to smother his self-deprecating ramblings, to soothe his churning thoughts, to shut him up.

He's shut up now.

Y/N's mouth is warm. One of her hands is splayed at his chest, to steady herself, and that is warm too. All of it's warm, and kind of wet, and it's stirring a sensation deep within his stomach and it feels good.

Softly, Y/N sucked the full curve of Sherlock's lower lip, soft, helpless, and achingly innocent. She did it until he moaned weakly, a bolt of sensation shooting right down to his core. Every muscle in his sinewy body melted at once.

He is so full of things, of frayed nerves, of heightened, acute senses, of thoughts and emotions all entwined so nothing is simple.

Almost nothing. This is simple. Each subtle nudge of Y/N's mouth is hitting a refresh button on Sherlock's brain. He needed this. For so long he's needed this.

Needed Y/N.

...

When Y/N broke the kiss, she didn't pull away, not completely. She stayed leaning over him, resting her forehead against his, Sherlock's breathy, humid gasps pooling at her chin.

"You think too much," she muttered, sort of explaining why she'd leapt on him so suddenly. It got her a chuckle, just a single, tumbling syllable, and one of Sherlock's hands slid up to curl into her hair, tugging her back down again.

He can't stop kissing her. He's not even shy anymore, just needy, just desperate, and utterly, completely addicted.

Despite being the one to initiate the kiss, he automatically awarded leadership to Y/N. Yes, sweeping her off her feet would have been nice...

But he's not really thinking about that right now. He's not really thinking about anything. He's very content just laying there, letting Y/N do what she wants with him. She seems to know what she's doing. Even if she didn't, would Sherlock even care? He's just happy she's touching him.

Y/N didn't need to coax his jaw open to deepen the kiss. It just fell open on its own, pliant, curious, hungry. Y/N pushed into his mouth, finding the slick, powerful heat of his tongue. This got a very ungentlemanly groan, the hand in Y/N's hair tightening.

That noise.

It's like a mountain crumbling to the ground. Him, moaning, deep, unchained, rumblings purrs. They ripple through his body and into Y/N's, into the floor, the walls, shaking the whole flat. A series of vibrations more than a sound, tugging at parts of her she'd forgotten about.

Everything she did got that noise.

Her hand moving down the plane of his exposed torso to grip at his side.

Lightly flicking the roof of his mouth.

Easing it open a little further with her thumb at his chin.

Kissing Sherlock is different from kissing most men, Y/N thought. For a start, most men's mouths are narrow and slightly hardened; a thin dash of lip framed by a strong, squared-off chin. Rugged. Masculine.