Not Safe for Work (NC-17)
Title: Not Safe for Work
Characters: Molly, Fem!Sherlock
Rating: NC-17 (warnings for foot fetish and mentions of toe-licking/saliva, if that squicks you)
Length: 2100 words
Beta: the wonderful percygranger
Summary: Molly was captivated by Sherlock’s feet. Which was weird. And Sherlock probably knew, which was weirder. Femslash, Fem!Sherlock.
Notes: Where did this random foot-fetish femslash come from? I really have no idea. Endless thanks to percygranger for her encouragement and patience in betaing this.
“You did your nails.”
“Yes.”
Molly waited, but Sherlock was fixated on the microscope and didn’t elaborate. She tried again. “You only did the first two toes though.”
“Obviously.”
Molly waited again. Nothing. She heaved an irritated sigh and gave up. Why did she even bother? Conversation had never been Sherlock’s strong suit.
Technically, Sherlock shouldn’t be allowed to work in the lab with open-toed shoes-it was against hospital policy. But enforcing hospital policy had never been Molly’s strong suit, especially when it came to Sherlock.
Molly was aware that she let Sherlock take advantage of her. Yet the fierce, feral look of satisfaction that flashed momentarily through Sherlock’s eyes whenever Molly rolled out a fresh corpse, or helped the detective smuggle out body parts, was so captivating, that she couldn’t stop herself from doing whatever it took to see it again.
What she wouldn’t do to have that look aimed in her direction.
She looked back down at the detective’s toes, coated in a challenging shade of metallic blue polish. It was the kind of colour Molly would never dare to wear herself-dark, bold and attention-seeking. It fit Sherlock perfectly. Even the way she’d left the last three toes on each foot unpainted seemed somehow right, though Molly couldn’t guess the reason why. Was it a deliberate stylistic choice? One of Sherlock’s myriad experiments? Or was Sherlock doing it on purpose, just to bait Molly? It hardly mattered.
Molly was captivated by Sherlock’s feet. Which was weird. And Sherlock probably knew, which was weirder. They were nice feet, long, pale and slender, like the rest of Sherlock. The tendons and bones stood out starkly under the skin, creating sharp peaks and valleys, threaded through with delicate blue veins. Molly’s favorite part was the second toe, which was longer than the first. She had always liked feet with longer second toes. It made them look aristocratic.
Sherlock’s ankles were unusually pretty too-her lightly muscled calves tapering to an impossibly narrow point, where the fibula and tibia joined in an elegant blend of sinew, flesh and bone. The skin there was pale as snow, like it never saw the light. No tan lines. Sherlock rarely wore sandals.
Molly wasn’t sure how long she’d been staring at Sherlock’s feet when Sherlock suddenly moved, and she blinked and looked up. Sherlock was watching her with a calculating expression. She pursed her full lips at Molly, head cocked to the side.
“What?” Molly asked, just to fill the awkward silence.
Sherlock didn’t reply. Instead, a slow smile spread across her lips, and she pushed the microscope back from the edge of the counter. Swiveling to face Molly directly, she shucked off her shoes and lifted one foot onto the now-vacated surface.
Molly tried to swallow, but her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth. Was that an invitation? Oh, god, let it please be an invitation. Sherlock must have noticed the look of desperation on Molly’s face, because her smile widened and she leaned back in her seat, hands resting lightly on her trouser-clad thighs. Slowly, her eyes never wavering from Molly’s, she pinched the fine material between her fingers and hitched it up a bit, revealing several more inches of creamy leg. God.
Molly took a step forward. Her hand hovered over Sherlock’s foot for just a moment, before she let it fall.
Her skin was warm and the slightest bit damp. Molly wasn’t sure why she was surprised at that-all people were warm. Perhaps it was because she so rarely had the opportunity to touch a living person without the obscuring presence of clothes; perhaps it was because she’d always considered Sherlock someone distant and untouchable, a statue on her pedestal, a goddess on her Mount Olympus. Someone above the everyday human concerns of heat and sweat.
She stroked the dainty anklebones, letting her fingers trail down along the tendons to Sherlock’s toes. She paused there, admiring the detail the close view afforded her. She could see the flecks of mica in Sherlock’s nail polish, the fine hairs on the knuckle of her big toe.
“Lick it.”
Molly startled at the sound of Sherlock’s voice. “What?”
“Lick it,” Sherlock repeated, commanding.
Molly frowned. The doctor in her protested: licking was definitely not sanitary. Sherlock had been walking around London in sandals; her feet must have picked up dust and dirt from the street, even if they looked clean. Still, she couldn’t stop her mouth from watering at the very thought of running her tongue along those ivory toes, and her hand tightened unconsciously on Sherlock’s foot. She glanced back up at Sherlock. The detective’s eyes were blazing in her face, a melting furnace of green and blue and grey. They watched Molly with unrivaled intensity, cataloguing every movement, every expression. Molly shivered. It was unbearable, and hot.
She leaned down, until her lips were barely a centimetre from the surface of Sherlock’s skin. Then she closed her eyes, and licked.
Sherlock tasted salty, like skin was supposed to. Molly explored the back of Sherlock’s foot with her tongue. Skin dragged against her teeth, and she nibbled cautiously and then with more confidence, when the first bite elicited a sharp intake of breath. She felt an answering tingle of moist warmth between her legs, and she shifted slightly, craving friction. Eyes still closed, she moved on to Sherlock’s toes, licking the big toe first, then down between and finally drawing her tongue up the second. She sucked on the second toe, swirling her tongue around it. She could feel the edge of the nail, the slick texture of the polish, the ridges of Sherlock’s skin. She nipped lightly at the pad of the toe, pleased when the gasp she had been hoping for arrived, but she was unprepared for the hand that slid up the back of her thigh.
Molly opened her eyes and glanced back. Sherlock’s lips were pink and puffy, as though she’d been biting them, and her pupils were dilated. Her hand moved higher, cupping Molly’s bum and giving it a firm squeeze. Molly had to muffle a groan.
Seemingly emboldened by Molly’s reaction, Sherlock leaned forward and pulled Molly’s hips closer, until Molly was standing bent over between the detective’s legs. Once Molly was within reach, Sherlock’s fingers nimbly undid her flies, pulling her trousers down to make room. Molly’s mouth fell open slackly, releasing Sherlock’s spit-slicked toes as the detective’s finger pushing inside her knickers and brushed against her.
“Ah,” she gasped, barely able to stop herself from pressing down into Sherlock’s hand. “Sherlock-”
“Shh,” Sherlock murmured soothingly, rubbing Molly’s hip with her free hand. The other hand burrowed deeper into Molly’s underwear, teasing. She circled her clit, coming oh-so-close and then shifting away again and again, until Molly was ready to sob with frustration. Then Sherlock moved down farther, sliding over her entrance.
Molly groaned as Sherlock’s finger pressed inside her, and she bore down until she had taken it in up to the second knuckle.
Behind her, Sherlock chuckled. “Greedy,” she said, pushing another finger inside. “You’re so wet already.” She began to fuck Molly with her fingers. Molly trembled, hands gripping the edge of the counter for support. She bit her lip hard to stifle the moans that threatened to spill from her lips.
When Sherlock’s thumb brushed her clit again, she cried out and came. Her vision flickered, and her muscles quivered and clenched as waves of pleasure convulsed her body. Her legs felt weak and rubbery once the sensation subsided, and she slid to her knees in front of Sherlock in a hazy, boneless glow of contentment.
“That was amazing,” Molly sighed. Turning her head, she looked up to find the detective observing her handiwork with a satisfied smirk upon her lips. Sherlock looked beautiful, achingly beautiful, but Molly longed to wipe the smug look off her face and undo her. To make her pant and moan and forget her own name. To make her Molly’s. “I could…if you like, you know…” She rotated her body fully, so she was kneeling between Sherlock’s legs.
The smile disappeared from Sherlock’s face. “You don’t need to,” she said, eyes narrowed.
“I know,” Molly replied. Her voice sounded husky and rough from her recent orgasm, even to her own ears. “But I want to.” She placed one hand on Sherlock’s upper thigh, slowly moving higher. She could feel the detective’s body heat burning through the thin woollen fabric.
When she reached Sherlock’s flies, the detective made a choked-off sound and her leg twitched almost convulsively. Molly paused. “Are you-”
“I’m fine.” Sherlock sounded harsh. “Go on.”
Molly unzipped Sherlock’s trousers, and her breath caught in her throat. Beneath the staid, business-like slacks, Sherlock was completely bare. The detective raised her hips obligingly, allowing Molly to drag the trousers down to her knees, leaving her sitting bare-bottomed in the lab chair. There were a few barely-visible stretch marks, likely the result of a sudden teenage growth spurt, and what looked to Molly’s professional eyes like an old knife scar disappeared upwards beneath her button-down shirt. Molly felt a flutter of something beyond lust in her stomach, and she thought of her own scars: the surgical scar from when she’d had her appendix removed, the messy mark on her knee from falling off her bike. She’d never expected to find Sherlock’s imperfections so breathtaking.
The detective’s skin was milk white, delicate, almost transparent where it stretched over the curve of her hips. It looked silky soft, and, on an impulse, Molly leaned forward and pressed her lips to Sherlock’s stomach. Sherlock gasped.
“You’re so beautiful,” Molly murmured, trailing kisses from Sherlock’s navel to her public bone. “Everything. Beautiful.”
Sherlock hummed. Her hand found its way to the back of Molly’s head, tangling in her hair and pushing her gently forward. Molly allowed Sherlock to guide her. She licked and kissed her way down, burying her nose in the soft dark curls at the base of Sherlock’s belly. She was aroused, telltale wetness glistening on her inner thighs. When the detective spread her legs wider, Molly licked at her entrance, dragging her tongue along the labia, then pressing into the hot smoothness between. Sherlock tasted like salt and musk, the heady flavour of sex, and Molly nearly moaned, aroused again. She lapped Sherlock’s clit, and Sherlock gave a sudden, keening moan. Unable to resist, Molly reached down to touch herself as she continued, fucking Sherlock with her tongue until the detective was panting and her grip on Molly’s hair had become almost painful.
It was over all too fast. Sherlock arched with a cry, nearly breaking Molly’s nose in the process, and came. Molly buried her face in Sherlock’s thigh, her hand working furiously inside herself until the pleasure built to a crescendo. She shuddered through her second orgasm, slower than the first but no less intense. She collapsed back onto the floor, panting, her eyes still fixed on Sherlock.
The detective was relaxed for once-her eyes heavy-lidded, her lips and legs parted in wanton abandonment. It didn’t last for long. Soon she was pulling up her trousers and tucking her shirt back in, covering up the flushed skin. Within minutes, she looked as flawless as if nothing happened, save for a light sheen of sweat on her upper lip.
Molly stood to zip up her own trousers, but as soon as she was dressed, the doubts returned. What had she done? And at work no less! Molly’s cheeks flushed belatedly, glancing at the unlocked door. She didn’t dare look at Sherlock. What if this changed things between them? She knew part of her, the silly part, had hoped that sex would change things-bring them closer, make her someone Sherlock depended on. Someone Sherlock needed. She bit her lip. As if. No one needed her.
“I got bored,” Sherlock said, breaking the silence.
Molly frowned in confusion, turning to look at the detective. “What?”
“I always get bored, doing my nails. So I make sure that I start with the first toes on both feet, then the second, et cetera. That way, when I get bored, at least they’re still symmetrical.”
Molly stared at the detective in astonishment, her mouth hanging open. Then a bubble of nearly hysterical laughter rose to her lips, and she was doubled over, laughing so hard that her eyes teared up and her abdominal muscles began to ache.
When she finally managed to calm herself down, she looked back at Sherlock. “Well, if you ever feel the urge for a pedicure again, give me a call. I’ll do it for you.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, a smile hovering on her lips. “How much do you charge?”
Molly smiled. “I’m sure we can work out something.”