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bakerstreethound · 10 months

Text

Strawberry Delight

Relationship: Strawberry!Sherlock x afab!reader

Warnings: 18+ smut, virgin sherlock, swearing, biting & marking, begging, lots of emotions, and dash of fluff - lots of kisses

Summary: Quiet early mornings on Baker Street are a rarity, especially with Sherlock clinging to you and asking for more than kisses. One thing leads to another and you oblige his wishes.

All writings belong to me @bakerstreethound (Do NOT copy, repost, claim, or translate my works to other sites. I only publish here and on A03 under the same username)

Word Count: 2.0k+

A/N: I hope you enjoy the story and my beloved strawberry boy. If you've been around for awhile, you probably can deduce how precious he is to me and his significance. I truly am lucky to be part of a community who accepted him with love. Special thanks to @strangelockd for beta reading! Graphic by @firefly-graphics. As always, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated. Thank you for your support!

The early morning sun peaks through the curtains, pulling you gently from your abyss of sleep. You snuggle closer to the man entrapped in your arms, smiling to yourself, as you stroke his back, looking out at the scattered remnants of loathing and piles of unwashed sheets.

You sigh partly in defeat, the other half of you smug remembering the night before, and the attempt at doing copious amounts of laundry not exactly going as planned.

His face is nuzzled into the pillow, soft noises escaping him lost to a world beyond yours. You can’t help but admire his back, pale, muscular, littered with an assortment of bruises, and a few scratches. Your fingers stroke along them, tracing shapes into his skin.

He murmurs imperceptibly, some gibberish about a snake threatening him with a knife. You chuckle to yourself before pressing gentle kisses along his back, and up to his exposed shoulder, making way to gently nip his neck as you tug his curls.

You haven't gotten far with him beyond kisses but you kiss him deeper more instantly and his eyes fly open and he's already gasping in short breaths, shifting to face you, reaching out for you, blinking back the lingering sleep in his eyes.

He finds himself pulling you closer and closer still, you're intoxicating all he can breathe and feel in the moment and something in him stirs. He grips you impossibly tighter, pupils wide, almost frantic yet mixed with an emotion beyond your comprehension.

"Sherlock, talk to me," you're concerned, worried you've pushed too far. You didn't want to ruin the moment. You stroke his jaw softly, desperate to provide him with a comforting presence afraid you’d given the wrong impression.

You swore you’d take your time with him and not rush anything and you were more than content to wait, until both you and him were ready, particularly him.

He swallows, burying his face in your neck, murmuring, his breath warm, tickling your skin you can’t focus on what he said and you cup his face gently. "Didn't quite catch that."

"I don't exactly have…don’t want to hurt you…" his voice treads on unsure and he mentally slaps himself for telling you. He wants to be enough for you but he'd never allowed himself to be in such a state with anyone. Sure, he knew how it worked, the science of it all, but he never had the desire to do so, well, until you came along.

You made him curious, after all, awakening something within him that needed you impossibly closer and craved your touch. Oh, how he loved your touch, falling into your arms after an arduous night. It was one of the rarest things he could rely on, knowing for certain he could fall asleep in your arms, or next to you when you desired the space.

“I’ll take my time with you, Sherlock I’ll be right here with you, alright?” His shoulders slump as he presses his forehead against yours, inhaling deeply. You inhale his scent, running your fingers through his curls, assuring him, silently pleading with your eyes letting him know it’s okay and all that matters is him and his comfort.

“Thank you…” his voice is soft, hand cupping your cheek as he continues falling into you and your touch, your hands his comfort. He watches you through parted lips while you nuzzle into his hand gazing at him in adoration.

It takes all his resolve not to shudder, but his mind reels, thinking about what on earth he has done to deserve your touch, your kindness, your love. He groans when you tug his curls harder and when your lips meet he tugs you impossibly closer by your waist, feeling his heartbeat racing in tandem with yours.

“Take your time, I’m here,” you murmur softly in his ear, his hand snaking around your waist squeezing tightly as he kisses you again, more self-assured. “That’s it, feels good my boy.”

His hands trail lower, slow and deliberate in their exploration. It’s a delicious agony all its own, the widening of his eyes how they darken when a whimper falls from your lips telling him how you like it.

Oh, how he likes it when your lips form his name, gasping at the touch of his hands trailing along your back, fingers drawing soft circles memorizing the feel of you, searing it into his mind.

You nod in encouragement, pulling yourself closer, needing more. You’ve never felt this before; it's insatiable, driving you absolutely mad. But you let him take his time, relishing in his growing confidence, each touch along your body mingles with the hot kindling of his body.

“Sherlock, please,” you hate how desperate you sound, but when a hand falls to your waist, the other trailing along the apex of your thigh, you know you’re done for. His mischievous glance is more than enough to let you know of his intentions.

You let yourself fall, thinking of nothing but him as two of his fingers slowly work themselves inside you drawing groans and praises from your lips. With your encouragement, he finds himself growing bolder, his tongue mingling in the complex dance of his fingers, learning the rhythm of your body.

He moans, relishing your taste and how you fell under an enchantment.

His enchantment.

He did this to you.

A surge of pride rushes through him, intoxicating, utterly captivating him when you cup your breast squeezing it and sighing in bliss. He whimpers at the sight, coming up to kiss you, desperation full of need, sighing in bliss as you taste yourself on his tongue.

You let yourself fall, reaching up to tug his curls, whispering praises, his eyes softening full of hope and determination. When he finally rolls on top of you, pulling you flush against his chest, thrusting into you, swearing, whimpering, and moaning in tandem.

“That’s right, oh hell, good boy. You’re doing so well.” It’s almost enough to have him break much too early for his liking. Yet, when your nails dig in harder to the broad canvas of his back, sure to leave impressions, the endless stream of praises falling between broken moans awakens something primal within him.

He wants you.

He wants to make you his.

He wants you to be proud.

He wants you to fall over and over into the planes of bliss only you can succumb to by him and him alone.

“You look absolutely…ravishing,” he chokes out, his loving gaze locked upon you as you feel the fullness of him, and nothing has ever felt more right than this moment.

His fingers stroke the fire between you, teasing your clit as he begins a steady pace, your nails digging impossibly deeper into his back, determination to bring you to ruin flashing in his mind. Your grip on him is like a vice and he succumbs to you, moans filling the space between you.

“Sherlock I’m going to–” You choke back another moan, kissing him softly, and then, when you both release in tandem, you see nothing but him and the stars. You grip him impossibly tighter, kissing him softly, full of passion, the space between you warm and intoxicating with his scent.

“H-hell,” he whimpers and you continue kissing him, swallowing the moans relishing in the whimpers from his parted lips as you crash into him, overwhelmed by the emotions. He did this to you, put you under his spell and you wanted more, or rather to return it in kind.

With another lingering kiss, you carefully roll yourself on top of him with little protest, pinning his wrists to the bed as you slowly, grind against him, feeling him come to life again inside you, still riled from the minutes prior.

It’s sweet agony and torture all its own and he wants more. Hell, he wants more, the way you look down upon him strokes the fire burning brighter inside him and all he feels is you, all he wants now in the impossibility of it all is you.

For how could he ever have someone like you?

“Are you sure?” he whispers, brushing his hands along your sides before gripping your hips impossibly tighter, a delicious contrast to the tenderness permeating through his eyes, roaming along your body, stopping to gaze into your eyes, begging for a kiss.

“I’ve never been more certain, Sherlock. Let me do this for you, okay?” You brush your lips against his, as he swallows and you grip his bicep. “You did so well for me, so fucking good.”

His eyes widen at your paise, his cheeks flush and basking in the adoration of your praise. What the hell did he do to deserve this?

His hands fall to your hips, gripping them tight as they guide you along him, stretching you out again, bringing him back to life. Everything feels completely right at this moment. “You feel good hell please, just like that,” he begs as you work against him harder, burying his whimpers in kisses as you relish his moans, his nails digging into your back deliciously, encouraging you to use him at your will.

You kiss him gently, tugging his curls with your free hand, his whimpers and cries encouraging your endeavors. He welcomes you without question, trusting your movements. What’s left of his rational mind knows he can trust you fully, guiding him to pleasure he didn’t fathom before.

He thought it was a joke, saved for those silly bodice-ripper novels hiding between the sci-fi adventure books on your shelves.

He won’t admit it aloud, far too enthralled and enraptured by the sight of you above him, edging him, kissing him, giving yourself fully to him. You kiss along his neck before pressing your forehead against his, burying a hand in his curls.

"Please, fuck, I-" he whimpers, your synapses firing, at his pleading eyes, the softness and pure adoration encouraging you onward. You would do anything for him. His lips part half wonder, half ecstasy at your finger intertwining with his, bringing them to your lips and kissing the top of his with reverence.

Thank you for seeing me.

I’m here for you.

I always was and will be.

Why haven’t we done this sooner?

The time wasn’t right but here we are.

Together.

You gaze back in quiet conversation, letting your entangled bodies speak for themselves, a giggle pulled from you while he situated himself on top, growing confident with every movement, encouraged by your sighs, the blissful noises sending his mind into overdrive.

“Feels so good can I?” he inhales sharply along your neck, his fingers falling to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, hitting deeper inside you, your body and mind colliding in bliss, perceiving nothing beyond Sherlock’s skin and the bedsheets wound around you, holding you captive against him. It’s where you belong.

Your hand reaches into his curls, tugging them gently, enough to expose his neck - a neck you swore crafted by a Grecian god of old. He groans, leaning into your touch while you suck more marks, determined to claim him as yours for an insurmountable course of time through the morning.

You won’t have it another way, would never tire of the mornings waking up with him in your arms on the days a case didn't keep his brilliant mind running.

You’ve been the one to catch him, restrain him when the time called (John called you for backup), and in turn he provides you with a comfort you can’t put words to.

For the love you didn’t want to leave, bask in this bliss. Never had someone made you come undone the way he had, how attentive, his gaze never leaving yours studying your every action, eager to learn and please.

For him, you have all the time in the world.

“Can we stay like this a while longer?” He asks when he brings a towel for you, kissing your cheek before joining you back in bed, before peppering you with more kisses, soft and desperate, warm and soft along yours, desperation growing.

*****

You chuckle, ruffling his curls, “Easy there love, we have all the time in the world.”

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