your cherry kisser

Your heart melted. This was your Billy. The man who could tear a Supe apart with his bare hands (or, well, threatened to, at least), yet was terrified of ruining your dinner. You walked over, wrapped your arms around his waist from behind, and rested your cheek against his broad back. He smelled like gun oil and cheap whiskey.

“It’s perfect,” you murmured into his shirt.

He scoffed. “It’s a bloody mess is what it is.”

But he leaned back into your embrace for a moment, just a moment, a silent admission of how much he needed this. He turned off the stove, the chicken abandoned. He turned in your arms, cupping your face with his large, calloused hands. His thumbs traced your cheekbones.

“You’re a right mess too, you know,” he whispered, his voice a low rumble. “All covered in… well, you.” He dipped his head, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to your forehead. Then another to the tip of your nose, a gesture so gentle it made your knees weak.

“Y’know,” he murmured against your lips, “I was thinkin’ about you all day.”

“Yeah?” you breathed, your hands sliding up his chest.

He nodded, his eyes dark with an emotion that was more than just hunger. “Every time I looked at a bloody phone, all I could see was your face. Every time I heard a loud noise, I thought it was you laughin’. It’s distractin’.” He punctuated the last word with a soft, lingering kiss.

“Is that your way of saying you missed me?” you teased, pulling back slightly.

“It’s my way of sayin’ you’ve got me wrapped around your little finger and I don’t give a damn,” he rumbled, his hands sliding down to your hips. He pulled you flush against him, and you squealed.

"Billy!"

"Sorry, love!"

Dinner was a burnt, glorious failure. You ended up eating takeaway on the floor of the living room, leaning against the sofa. Terror snored between you. Billy told you a story about a failed mission involving a pigeon and a laser-eyed Supe, his animated gestures making you snort with laughter. When you choked on a fry, he thumped your back, then used the same hand to gently brush a strand of hair from your face.

“You’ve got some ketchup,” you said, pointing to the corner of your mouth. “Right there.”

Before he could wipe it, you leaned in, tongue flicking out to catch it. The gesture was innocent, but the look in your eyes was anything but. The switch was instant.

“Mm,” you hummed, his voice dropping an octave. “De-licious.”

"You're a menace, you know that?"

You tilted your head back, meeting his gaze.

"And you love it, Billy."

"Love it? I'm bloody miserable." he scoffed, although his eyes told a different story.

"Liar."

Butcher grunted, setting the glass on the coffee table with a sharp clink. He slid his hands upward, bunching the fabric of their clothes. "Right then. Let's see if you can actually handle it today."

He surged forward, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was anything but soft. It was hungry, demanding, tasting of salt and chips and the faint, smoky burn of whiskey. His hands, which had been so gentle, were now possessive, one tangling in your hair to tilt your head back, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.

This was the other Billy. The one who operated on instinct, who took what he wanted. And right now, he wanted you.

“Get up,” he growled against your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point. “Now.”

"I-"

"Less talking, more doing." He didn't need a second invitation. Butcher flipped you over, pinning your wrists against the cushions. The smell of old tobacco and expensive musk clung to him. He tore at your clothes, exposing Y/S/C skin to the cool air before his mouth crashed against yours. It wasn't a gentle kiss; it was a claim. Your tongues clashed, swapping thick strings of saliva that smeared across their lips.

"Still think I'm a liar?" he growled against your skin.

"Prove it."

Butcher stripped his trousers, his thick, heavy cock springing free, already glistening with a bead of pre-cum. He guided himself to your entrance, the head of his member rubbing against your drenched folds. You arched your back, a sharp moan escaping as he pressed forward. The first thrust was deep, and you could've sworn you felt it inside your cervix. A wet, squelching sound echoed through the quiet room as he sank fully inside. "Bloody hell, you're tight."

"Oh, BUTCH, don't stop!" You moaned out.

He began to move, his hips slamming into them with a rhythmic, punishing force. Every thrust produced a loud, shlicking noise, the sound of friction and excess lubrication. His balls slapped hard against your ass, a wet thud that punctuated each drive. You gripped the sofa cushions, fingers digging into the fabric as he hit your cervix. The sensation was an electric shock, sending waves of heat crashing through your lower belly. Butcher's breathing turned into ragged heaves, his chest heaving against your back.

"Look at you, taking it all," he whispered, his voice a gravelly rasp. He reached around, his thumb finding your clit and grinding into it with precise, agonizing pressure. You screamed into the pillow, your walls pulsing and clamping tight around him. The friction intensified, the internal heat building to a breaking point.

"I'm close, love. Right there." Butcher accelerated, his thrusts becoming shorter and more frantic. The sound of your bodies colliding became a messy, wet cacophony. With one final, deep surge, he groaned, his body stiffening as he pumped a hot, thick load of cum deep inside you. Y/N shuddered, your own orgasm ripping through you in violent, rhythmic contractions.

For a long time, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing and the frantic beat of your hearts. He collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms, his body a warm, heavy blanket. He pressed a kiss to your damp hair.

“You alright, love?” he murmured, his voice back to being soft. His hand stroked your back in soothing, circular motions.

You nodded against his chest, feeling safe and utterly wrecked. “Mmhm.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through you. “Good. Because I’m gonna need about ten minutes, and then we’re goin’ for round two.” He tightened his grip on you. “But first, you just stay right here. You were perfect. My perfect girl.”

His hand continued its gentle caress, his breathing slowly evening out. In the quiet of the room, with the scent of sex and Billy all around you, you drifted in a hazy bliss.

You lay there for a long time, chests heaving in unison, the air smelling of sex and sweat. "Still miserable?" You whispered.

Butcher kissed the back of their neck, his voice soft for once. "Utterly diabolical."

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Part 1 of Celebration Fics (masterlist here)

Check pinned post on my page if you're a good human being and believe in free human rights.

"You're going to wear a hole in the carpet," John said from his armchair, not looking up from his newspaper. "And then Mrs. Hudson will be cross, and you'll have to buy her a new one, and you'll complain about the expense, and the whole cycle will start again."

"The carpet is fine. Mrs. Hudson is fine. I am decidedly not fine, John, in case that had escaped your notice."

"Nothing escapes my notice when you're being this theatrical about it." John folded his paper with deliberate calm. "It's one appointment. One hour. You sit, you talk, you say whatever you need to say to make Mycroft happy, and then it's over."

"One hour of my life that I will never get back. One hour of being poked and prodded by some hired professional with a clipboard and a degree in stating the bloody obvious."

"She's not a hired professional. She's a consultant. There's a difference."

"There is no difference. There is merely a scale of how much money changes hands before someone tells me I'm broken and need fixing."

John sighed, the long-suffering sigh of a man who had become intimately familiar with Sherlock's particular brand of stubbornness. "She's not going to tell you you're broken. She's going to help you process—"

"Process. There's a word I despise. Process implies that there's a procedure, a system, a method for dealing with things that are fundamentally un-dealable. You cannot process a trauma like a piece of paperwork. You cannot file away grief in a cabinet marked 'resolved' and move on with your life."

"Sherlock—"

"You cannot process watching someone die, John. You cannot process the weight of a body in your arms, the heat of blood on your hands, the knowledge that you could have done something differently if only you'd been clever enough, quick enough, good enough—"

He stopped himself, aware that he'd said too much, revealed too much, let the mask slip in a way that was dangerously close to vulnerability.

John was watching him with that expression he got sometimes, the one that made Sherlock want to crawl out of his own skin. It was the expression John wore when he was about to be kind, and Sherlock had never quite learned how to accept kindness without feeling like it was a trap.

"The appointment is in ten minutes," John said quietly. "Maybe you should sit down. Try to relax."

"Relax. Yes. I'll just relax while a complete stranger dissects my psyche and presents the findings to my brother like a particularly gruesome autopsy report. How relaxing."

"You know Mycroft only wants what's best for you."

"Mycroft wants what's convenient for Mycroft. I am a problem to be solved, not a person to be understood. There's a difference, John. I know because I've spent my entire life being the problem that people try to solve."

He turned away, staring out the window at the grey London skyline. Below, a woman in a sensible coat was approaching the front door. She carried a leather satchel—the kind that bespoke professionalism and a certain modest ambition—and walked with the purposeful stride of someone who had appointments to keep and places to be.

Sherlock catalogued her in an instant. Mid-twenties. Left-handed—the satchel was on her left shoulder, the strap adjusted accordingly. Northern accent, barely detectable but present in the way she held herself, the slight tension in her shoulders that suggested she'd been told to soften her vowels and hadn't quite succeeded. Her shoes were practical, not fashionable, which meant she valued comfort over appearance, or perhaps couldn't afford better. No rings on her fingers, but the faint tan line on her left hand told him she'd recently removed one. Divorced, then, or recently engaged. The way she walked suggested divorced—there was a freedom in her stride, a certain relief, that didn't align with the grief of a broken engagement.

Interesting. Potentially useful.

She looked up at the window, and for a moment, their eyes met. Sherlock didn't flinch, didn't look away. He wanted her to know that he'd seen her, that he was watching, that this was his territory and she was merely an intruder.

She smiled.

It was a small smile, barely there, but it was warm in a way that made something in Sherlock's chest tighten unpleasantly. He stepped back from the window, disturbed by the reaction.

"Your guest is here," he said flatly. "I suppose you'd better let her in before she knocks the door down with sheer professional enthusiasm."

John rose, giving Sherlock a long look. "Try to be nice."

"Nice is for people who have nothing useful to say. I am never nice, John. It's one of my defining characteristics."

"You could try just for today."

"I could try, but then I'd fail, and we'd both be disappointed. Better to maintain expectations at their proper level."

He heard Mrs. Hudson's footsteps on the stairs, heard her warm voice welcoming the visitor, heard the crisp professionalism of the reply. Then the door opened, and she was there, and Sherlock found himself studying her in greater detail than the brief glimpse from the window had allowed.

She was taller than he'd estimated, with sharp cheekbones and dark eyes that missed nothing. Her hair was pulled back in a practical knot, and she wore no makeup except a slash of lipstick that was slightly too bold for her otherwise understated appearance. A small act of rebellion, then. Or perhaps a deliberate choice to assert her individuality in a profession that demanded conformity.

Either way, it was interesting.

"Dr. YN," John said, stepping forward to shake her hand. "So good to meet you. I'm John Watson."

"Dr. Watson. I've read your blog. It's very—" she paused, searching for the right word, "—accessible."

"That's a diplomatic way of saying it's not very literary."

"I'm a psychologist. Diplomacy is part of the job description."

John laughed, and Sherlock felt a flicker of irritation. John wasn't supposed to laugh at the interloper's jokes. John was supposed to be on his side.

"And this," John said, gesturing toward Sherlock, "is my partner, Sherlock Holmes."

"Your flatmate," Sherlock corrected. "We are flatmates. Partners implies a level of cooperation that does not exist."

"Sherlock—"

"It's fine, Dr. Watson. I've read his file. I know what to expect."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose. "My file? What file?"

"The one your brother provided. It's quite comprehensive. I know your educational history, your professional accomplishments, your various run-ins with the law, and—" she paused, her eyes meeting his with a directness that was almost challenging, "—the exact nature of your relationship with your mother."

The room went very still.

John glanced between them, clearly sensing the shift in atmosphere. "I'll just—make tea, shall I? Yes. Tea. Good idea."

He retreated to the kitchen, leaving Sherlock alone with the woman who had somehow, in the space of thirty seconds, managed to unbalance him completely.

"I don't have a mother," Sherlock said coldly. "I have a biological predecessor who provided the necessary genetic material and then departed. That's not a mother. That's a placeholder."

"You see her every Christmas," Dr. YN said calmly. "You send her a card on her birthday. You've never missed a call, even when you were in the middle of a case. That doesn't sound like someone who's indifferent. That sounds like someone who's still hoping."

"I don't hope. Hope is a commodity for fools and optimists, and I am neither."

"On the contrary, you're the biggest optimist I've ever encountered. You just don't know it yet."

He stared at her, genuinely thrown. In all his years of dealing with people—suspects, clients, colleagues, adversaries—no one had ever called him an optimist. It was such a patently absurd assessment that he couldn't even muster a proper response.

"You're joking," he managed.

"I never joke about my assessments. It's unprofessional."

"Unprofessional. Yes. Because that's clearly your primary concern." He began to pace again, unable to stay still in her presence. "Tell me, Dr. YN, what other nuggets of wisdom did Mycroft's file provide? Did he tell you about my drug use? My complete lack of social skills? My tendency to treat people as puzzles rather than persons?"

"He told me about the fall. About what happened at Reichenbach. About the things you're not saying that are eating you alive."

The words hit him like a physical blow. He stopped pacing, his back to her, his hands clenched at his sides.

"That's not in any file," he said quietly. "That's not something Mycroft would put in a file."

"No. It's not. I read between the lines."

"People who read between the lines usually find things that aren't there."

"Or they find the truth that everyone else is too afraid to see." Her voice was soft, almost gentle, and it made something in his chest twist uncomfortably. "I know what it's like to fall, Mr. Holmes. I know what it's like to hit the ground and have to get back up again. I know what it's like to pretend you're fine when every part of you is screaming that you're not."

He turned slowly, regarding her with new eyes. There was something in her expression—a flicker of genuine understanding—that made him reconsider his initial assessment. She wasn't just a hired professional with a clipboard and a degree. She was someone who had seen things, lived through things, survived things.

It didn't make him like her any more. But it did make her slightly more interesting than he'd anticipated.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said flatly.

"Yes, you do. You just don't want to admit it. That's fine. We have time."

"We have forty-five minutes, by my count. And I don't intend to spend them discussing my supposed traumas with a stranger."

"Then what do you intend to discuss?"

"Nothing. I intend to sit here and wait for the clock to run out, and then I intend to never see you again."

She settled into the armchair opposite him—John's armchair, the one he always sat in when they were having one of their ridiculous conversations about morality and ethics and the importance of human connection—and crossed her legs with the easy grace of someone who was used to waiting.

"That's fine," she said. "We can sit in silence. It's quite revealing, actually. The things people do with their hands, their eyes, their posture—it all tells a story. Your story, for instance, says that you're terrified of being ordinary. You've spent your entire life proving you're exceptional because somewhere along the way, you learned that being average meant being abandoned."

"I'm not terrified of being ordinary. I find ordinary people tedious and uninteresting. There's a difference."

"Is there? You've made a career of being extraordinary because you couldn't bear to be anything less. Your brother is the only person who's ever stayed, and even he's not consistent. So you push people away before they can leave you, and you call it being rational when really it's the most irrational thing you could possibly do."

"That's a theory. A very tired, very clichéd theory. I'm surprised someone with your credentials would resort to such psychological banality."

"Psychological banality?" She laughed, and it was warmer than he'd expected. "That's a new one. I'll have to use that in my next paper."

"Your next paper? What do you write about? The emotional deficiencies of consulting detectives?"

"Among other things. My current research is actually on the relationship between genius and neurosis. It's quite fascinating. You'd be a perfect case study."

"I'm not a case study. I'm a person."

"You just told me you weren't a person. You said you were a problem to be solved."

"I said that to John. It's different."

"Is it? You talk about yourself as if you're a machine that's gone slightly wrong. As if there's a version of you that's functioning properly, and this is merely a glitch. But that's not how it works, Mr. Holmes. There's no version of you that's fixed. There's just you, making choices every day about who you want to be."

"Motivational speeches. How delightful. I suppose the next thing you'll tell me is that I need to learn to love myself."

"No. I think you need to learn to tolerate yourself. Love is a process. Tolerance is a decision. And right now, you've decided that you're intolerable. That's not healthy."

"Healthy is for people who have the luxury of ignoring the world's problems. I don't have that luxury. I see things that other people miss. I understand things that other people can't comprehend. That comes at a cost. It always does."

"What's the cost, Mr. Holmes?"

The question hung in the air between them, weighty and uncomfortable. Sherlock felt himself wanting to answer, wanting to tell her the truth, wanting to unburden himself in a way he'd never done with anyone, not even John.

He clamped down on the impulse ruthlessly.

"The cost is irrelevant," he said. "What matters is the result. I solve crimes. I help people. I make the world a slightly less chaotic place. My personal feelings are irrelevant."

"Your personal feelings are the engine that drives you. Without them, you'd just be a very clever man with nothing to do. Your anger, your grief, your fear—they're not weaknesses. They're the things that make you care."

"I don't care. I'm not sentimental."

"You're the most sentimental person I've ever met. You just don't like to admit it."

He stared at her, utterly wrong-footed. In the space of twenty minutes, she'd dismantled every wall he'd built, every defence he'd constructed, every carefully crafted mask he wore.

She saw him.

That was the terrifying part. She actually saw him.

"I don't like you," he said finally.

"I know."

"I don't trust you. I don't want to be here. I don't want to talk to you or look at you or acknowledge your existence in any way."

"I know."

"And you're going to keep coming back anyway, aren't you? Because Mycroft pays you."

"He doesn't pay me. I do this pro bono. I believe in the work."

"Pro bono? Why would you do this for free?"

"Because I think you're worth saving, Mr. Holmes. Even if you don't agree."

The words hit him like a physical blow. He opened his mouth to respond, to say something cutting and dismissive, but nothing came out. For the first time in his adult life, Sherlock Holmes was completely speechless.

She smiled again—that maddeningly warm smile that made something in his chest twist uncomfortably—and stood. "Our time's up for today. I'll see you next Thursday."

"Next Thursday? I have—"

"You have nothing. I've seen your calendar. It's three pages of 'boring' and 'pointless' and 'absolute waste of cranial capacity.' You'll be here."

"I won't."

"Yes, you will. You're too curious not to be." She paused in the doorway, her hand on the frame. "You want to know why I do this. You want to know what makes someone care enough to give their time to a complete stranger. You want to know if I'm genuine or if it's all just a performance."

"And what's the answer?"

"The answer is that I'm genuine. And that scares you more than anything else."

She left, and Sherlock stood in the centre of the room, his mind racing. He could hear her footsteps on the stairs, hear her polite farewell to Mrs. Hudson, hear the front door open and close.

And then there was silence.

John emerged from the kitchen, two mugs of tea in his hands. "Well? How did it go?"

"Terribly."

"Terribly good, or terribly bad?"

"Terribly everything." Sherlock sank into his armchair, suddenly exhausted. "She saw through me, John. All the way through. It was like she'd read my entire life in a file and then decided she knew me better than I knew myself."

"That's her job, Sherlock. She's supposed to see through people."

"She's supposed to be professional. She's supposed to be detached. She's supposed to nod and make notes and then go back to her office and forget about me until the next appointment." He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration. "Instead, she—she told me I was worth saving. She looked at me like I was—like I was something other than a problem to be solved."

"And you didn't like that?"

"I didn't trust it. No one looks at me like that without wanting something."

"Maybe she just wants to help."

"Help. Yes. Everyone wants to help. No one wants to understand."

John was quiet for a moment, sipping his tea. "Maybe understanding is what helps," he said finally. "Maybe that's exactly what you need."

"I don't need anything. I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You haven't been fine since you fell off that roof. Everyone can see it except you."

"I didn't fall. I jumped. There's a difference."

"Was there? Did it feel like a choice when you did it?"

The question hung in the air between them, heavy and uncomfortable. Sherlock thought about the roof, about the cold concrete, about the moment he'd let go and let gravity take him.

It hadn't felt like a choice. It had felt like the only option.

"I don't want to talk about this anymore," he said flatly.

"Fine. But you're going to have to talk to her about it. That's the deal, Sherlock. That's the transaction."

"I know what the transaction is, John. I'm not stupid."

"Then stop acting like it. Let her in. Let her help. You deserve to be happy, even if you don't think you do."

Sherlock didn't respond. He simply stared out the window, watching the grey London sky, and tried to forget the way Dr. YN had looked at him like he was something other than a monster.

He failed.

He would keep failing.

And next Thursday, when she returned, he would be waiting.

Because for all his protestations, all his dismissals, all his carefully constructed walls, Sherlock Holmes was, despite everything, deeply and hopelessly curious.

And somewhere, deep in the recesses of his mind, a small voice whispered that perhaps—just perhaps—she might be right.

Perhaps he was worth saving.

Perhaps he deserved to be happy.

Perhaps he was something other than a problem to be solved.

But he pushed the thought away, burying it under layers of cynicism and distance, and told himself it didn't matter.

It didn't matter what she thought.

It didn't matter what anyone thought.

He was Sherlock Holmes, and he was fine.

He was fine.

He was absolutely, completely, entirely fine.

He just wished he believed it.

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