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milknhonies · 3 months

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Wails of Wedded Bliss

Chapter 6 || Masterlist || Chapter 8

Chapter Summary: Upon meeting the Baroness you are enamoured by her devotion.

Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, (No Smut), typical historical misogyny and sexism, mentions and discussion on miscarriages. Implied domestic abuse and infidelity.

Word Count: 9k

Author Notes: This is an important but rather sad chapter. I beseech you all to read the warnings. The details of this chapter are important to the plot of the missing Baron Thaddeus Pennicott.

Inspiring Song: "Flightless Bird American Mouth" by Vitamin String Quartet

8:30am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England.

Sherlock tucked your arm into his side as you three entered the Groveland house foyer. The floor was made of fine marble tile and with ever step a light echo raced down the halls.

The inspector called upon a nearby dusting maid to fetch the head of the house. Who returned was a thin and tall man in a butler’s uniform with a sliver pocket watch hanging from his chest. His hair was the colour of autumn leaves and his face littered in freckles.

He bowed, “I am mister Edward Redmayne, head butler of the Groveland estate, how may I assist you?”

The inspector shook his hand and stated quickly, “We spoke on the telephone yesterday? A telegraph was sent.”

The butler smiled with a relieving gasp, “Detective Holmes?”

Lestrade sheepishly looked over his shoulder to you and your husband. He nodded. His expression wore a emotion of embarrassment mixed with annoyance. Perhaps he was jealous of your husband’s successful published case stories. You wished you could have told the constable not to fret as Sherlock was nothing short of a arrogant mule...yet again- the mark on his face...he probably already knew that.

8:42am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England.

Upon meeting the lady of the house, you stood frigid by your husband. You felt somewhat self conscious by her grey eyes that lingered over your dress. Perhaps you should’ve worn your Sunday best before meeting a woman of such a high status.

The baroness was unmistakably pregnant. Her belly was bold and rounded beneath her maternity gown. She had been sitting calmly on a resting chaise, knitting a small bonnet for her future child. Her hands were covered in fine burgundy velvet gloves to match her modest dress.

Her face was framed by a light brown curls, that appeared almost white in some places, twisted into a bum at the base of her neck. Her pale face was blotchy with pink flecks and slight acne.

“Lady Pennicott, I am Inspector Braydon Lestrade of Scotland Yard,” the British officer proclaimed as he bowed dramatically forward. You withheld a girlish giggle by how low the man had bent his head and presented himself foolishly, and from the corner of your eye you manage to catch the whisp of Sherlock’s smirk.

The inspector waved his arm behind him and moved aside, “-and with me is Detective Sherlock Holmes and his wife, Mrs Holmes.”

You produced the baroness a respectable curtsy, your eyes glued down to the beautifully patterned carpet. You wondered how the servants could keep it so clean and freshly unstained by dirty guests. It must have been new.

The baroness shuffled her knitting needles and ball of woollen yarn into a Whicker basket and disposed of it beside her.

A slow stretching smile graced her thin lips as she spoke to you, “Oh, are you the little dear who solved that factory match girl incident?”

You weren’t sure how to answer her question. You weren’t entirely sure what the baroness was referencing until Sherlock stepped closer with your arm still cradled in his.

“No dear Baroness,” Sherlock pat your hand gently, “That would have been my sister Enola Holmes, she has her own detective office at present moment. My wife is here on my invitation. I wished to gift her a sight of the grand park and estate while I was here upon duty.”

The Baroness cocked her head, from her ears hung pearls that swung and hung like rain drops.

“Come forth dear,” she lifted her hand and beckoned you, “I would like to have better view of you.”

You wondered if she could smell the sweat beginning to drop down the back of your neck. You bit your tongue and tried to refrain from trembling. You were nervous. Her eyes were cold but her smile warm, two conflating details that you couldn’t understand. The last thing you needed now on top of a terrible start to your marriage was to be scrutinized by a haughty pregnant baroness.

She flickered your fingers for you to bend down to her. As you leant down, you swore you could smell copper, a metalic scent. A vein on your scalp pulsed. She scanned your face of its details. You dared to wonder what she was searching for. And then it clicked...the smell...

‘Dear god, you prayed, please don’t let her smell my blood, please let this not be my blood...’

You should have sprits on some perfume before leaving baker street.

She glanced behind you and questioned angelically, “How does it feel having such a clever husband?”

Your lips opened and closed. You resembled a fish. You were stumped to answer quickly.

‘Miserable, infuriating, torturous, pleasurable mixed with a cup of agony...’

She lifted her brows until you hurriedly blurted, “He is...formidable and righteous...” you stood up tall and took a step back, adding with a monetarism of truth, “I am very lucky to have become his bride.”

‘Lucky, while incredibly resentful.’

You reached back, Sherlock adopted your arm back into his hold once more.

Lady Pennicott rubbed her belly, her eyes started to twinkle, “And soon you will have a plethora of children that will look like him I gather.”

Your eyes fluttered. Sherlock’s hand tightened around your glove and his throat bobbed. You felt hot in the face.

Yes that’s right, that’s what normal husband and wife did isn’t it? They have children. That was your role, to be the mother of Sherlock’s offspring...

You couldn’t answer.

And there. That dear girl is when you questioned for the first time. ‘Is this what I want?’ and ‘Do I want Sherlock’s children.’ Because having a knowing of his barbarism conflated a fear in your belly...would Sherlock hurt his own children if he could easily hurt you, his wife?

When you hesitated for too long to answer her again, Sherlock said with a strained tone that was masked in a hopeful joy, “One may only hope, Baroness.”

“Lady Pennicott,” Graydon interrupted, “We have come to ask you on the whereabouts of Lord Pennicott and the evening he was last sighted.”

Her eyes narrowed at the inspector and with an annoyed twinge she muttered and wiped her hands on a nearby blanket, “I already informed the police of what I was informed of by our butler Edward.”

She glanced up next her right. Mister Redmayne observed her, looking down. The pair smiled to each other. She reached out to him. She grabbed his hand and they squeezed.

The inspector laughed nervously, “Indeed but Detective Sherlock Holmes was not presently involved in the case until yesterday.”

Her eyes flickered quickly to your husband and her face flared with confusion quickly to be matched with a impressed smile, “Of course, please sit all of you as I am near a indisposition with my child,” she gestured to the mirroring chaise and a chair beside the fireplace, “Edward, please tell Martha to bring tea and biscuits for our kind service men and Mrs Holmes.”

The butler bowed to you all and left the sitting room.

Lestrade took his place on the lone chair while Sherlock sat you beside him on the chaise. You took your time to lower yourself. Sitting on your bruises was uncomfortable while another cramp hit you. Your fingers dug into his palm.

From Lestrades breast pocket he pulled out a notebook and small pencil.

“Lady Pennicott,” Sherlock softly hummed, “Please, could you tell me what your husband is like as a person?”

The woman who you believed was in her late thirties smiled and stated softly, “My Thaddeus is a noble man, good taste in wine and very devoted to his work. He likes to go hunting and we share a passion for gardening,” she glanced up at the ceiling and paused, “He prefers to plant vegetables to donate to the church and orphans, whereas I have always loved to grow my flowers.”

The way she described him, her devotion was deep and honourable. She touched her round belly.

Sherlock looked over to the fire place behind the baroness. On the mantle was a magnificent portrait twice your height, painted on the canvas was who you recognised as Lord and Lady Pennicott. He was sitting up straight on a fine red cushioned chair with his dirty blonde hair and softened mutton chops while she stood at his right and her ringed hand on his shoulder. The similarities were there but Lady Pennicotts hair had lightened in reality perhaps from all the years that separated her likeness and her reality.

“I was informed Lord Pennicott is a father of five?” Sherlock asked.

The Baroness smiled proudly and pat her tummy softly, “Six soon.”

You couldn’t help notice something was missing from the painting, Sherlock also had a similar thought.

Where were the children in the portrait? Where was a family portrait in the house?

“Forgive me,” a breath of air escaped from him, “are the children away at school?”

“Oh,” her uncanny smile remained while her brows angled down, her throat tightened as she spoke, “I fear they are in the loving embrace of angels now. All of them were taken from us by God,” her eyes glanced to you, “They came out sleeping.”

Your heart sunk to the pit of your belly with sorrow and pity.

Five babies lost, five babies gone…five pregnancies… four and a half years of pregnancy and for what? Five angels.

A woman had one holy role in life, to bare her husband children, and when a woman was defective or produced a sickly child, it was a symbol of failure in society. But you never saw it that way...you imagined it must’ve been agony to lose so many babies. One or two was a common occurrence but five? Five was a curse to experience and relive over and over.

“Well,” you interrupted Sherlock rudely, cutting him off from his next abrasive question by squeezing his hand a little too hard.

You could see the mourning in the baroness’ face. You saw the classic look of all women made uncomfortable by something a man has said. What the hell would the detective know about a woman’s emotions after how coldly he has treated all women and yourself.

You shuffled on the opposite chaise and smile softly, “I will pray this one will come swiftly and feel the warmth of their mother.”

The baroness’ face lifted and warmed. She smiled happily and nodded, “Thankyou, oh I’m just so excited! This one really is a big one, I can feel it. I hope it’s a boy.”

Sherlock was staring at you intensely as the maid Martha finally delivered a pot of tea and poured the steaming liquid. His brows were knitted and his eyes held suspicion as he kept you in his sight. You politely nodded your head once at him before reaching for a hot cup and lifting it to your lips.

Sherlock sighed and turned back to his questioning, “You would say you liked your marriage?”

The baroness appeared offended by your husband as her face wrinkled and a sneer spread her thin lips, “Of course, any woman who doesn’t like her marriage should not be married in the first place. She is a burden to her husband if she cannot perform her duties as a wife.”

Lady Pennicott leant forward and collected her own cup of tea, she delicately pinched a biscuit and dunked it into the contents.

…you felt Sherlock drag his thumb across your fingers. You felt chilly, could he read your thoughts? Did he know truly how much you already hated him and his ideas of intimacy in your marriage? He clear his throat when both your glancing eyes caught each other.

“Can you tell me what happened,” Sherlock pressed, “The night of your husbands disappearance?”

“Well...after dinner,” the baroness sighed in thought and nibbled on her moist biscuit, “Thaddeus wanted to speak with me in his office about a spending I had made a week ago. You see, I had bought a cradle for the nursery. The one we had originally was broken and beyond repair, we disposed of it a month prior. Thaddeus was not pleased with the price and claimed it was an unnecessary purchase,” she paused and set her cup aside before she touched her belly again; rubbing in soft slow circles, she began to blushed, “He was sorely hurt by my choice. He then became very cross with me and left his office in a huff.”

She looked to the yarn, to the tea pot and then finally to the painting on the mantle, “I deemed that he would find forgiveness in his heart by the morning and brush it off. I returned back to the nursery to tidy up before I went to my rooms and went to bed to sleep in my quarters of the east wing. Thaddeus keeps himself to the west wing most nights.”

The detective nodded, “What time do you believe it was when you went to your bed, Baroness?”

She hummed softly while pursuing her lips, “A quarter to nine in the evening.”

“And how did you realise your husband was missing?” Sherlock stole a scone off the tea tray and lifted it to his lips. He paused amidst chewing it slowly.

The noble woman sighed and recollected, pragmatically, “In the morning Mr Redmayne informed me on how Thaddeus took off into the night astride Arion, our prize stallion Clydesdale. Thaddeus had not returned by the next morning and that is when concern drew near. I sent members of my staff to the factories to investigate his whereabouts and none had come upon him. I knew something had to be wrong so I alerted the authorities by the second morning.”

Your husband took a deep breath and discarded the half bitten scone, he wiped his hand unceremoniously on his jacket and throatily asked, “Do you recall if Lord Pennicott has any potential persons he might be deemed as an enemy towards?”

“Only his company competitors, Detective,” She said saccharinely with her smile, “He was a very loveable man.”

“Do you have a list of the names of staff who were working that evening here in Groveland House?”

The butler stepped forward and cleared his throat, “That would be in Lord Pennicotts office,” he pulled out a pair of keys, “I can you show you gentlemen in and where he keeps his accounts and other paraphernalia to his business if you’d like?”

Both Sherlock and Lestrade smiled and stood up.

“Baroness,” Sherlock gently requested, “Would it be overly bothersome if my beloved wife remained and kept you company while the inspector and I look in your husband’s office.”

Your heart jumped to your throat. What was Sherlock doing leaving you behind with the Baroness by yourself!?....what if you spoke out of turn or said something too presumptuous for your status!?...

“Most certainly not,” she beamed “I will gladly accept such delightful company,” She held out a hand, palm down to her right. The butler speedily stepped to her side and leant her his hand. She winced as she scooted forward on the cushioned lounge before struggling to rise to her feet.

Sherlock leant down and kissed the back of your wrist again, so scantily in front of the baroness. You tried tor refrain from loudly gasped and bringing anymore dangerous attention to yourself. Your husband left your side and followed the butler with Lestrade out of the sitting room.

So the party turned to two married women. The baroness was pleased.

She stepped closer to you and reached for your arm. You were surprised by her familiarity but you would not deny the assistance of a woman so desperately swollen and ready to birth any day.

“My dear, would you care to have a stroll with me in my garden?” She smirked and jerked her chin, “Knowing how dear Thaddie kept his space organised I suspect the gentlemen might be a while.”

You nodded and quickly made the warning assurance, “Are you in a condition to move great feets Lady Pennicott?”

“Fret not,” She giggled girlishly and waved her hand casually, “The physician told me fresh air is delightful for the health of the babe,” she tapped the top of her belly, “I have a month or so before they come.”

Your eyes widened, she looked huge enough to give birth now, surely she wasn’t a month away!! Maybe she was going to be blessed with a pair of twins. You had such a limited knowledge of pregnancy in women. Your grandmother hadn’t given birthed a child in the last forty years before your birth!!!

She pointed the way out of the main mansion to enter the garden paths. The sun was perfect today amongst the clouds. It was neither cold nor hot nor humid and dank...it was pleasant and you could smell the fresh nature of bushels and flowers.

“How long have you been known as, The Mrs Holmes?” She inquired cheerfully with her shining silver eyes.

“...Not very long,” you replied warmly before risking a white lie, “We recently finished our honeymoon.”

She grinned and waddled passed a wooden bench, she took a quick stop to rest and pat the seat for you to join her instead of standing dumbly.

“Shall I share some words of advise?,” She hummed, “From a woman that has been married for twelve years?”

“I would be ever so grateful,” you said rushed and desperate. You wouldve listened to anything she had to say. A woman of her standing must’ve held adequate wisdom.

She warmly cupped both your hands and squeezed them. And yet there was an ice creepy into her gaze. She appeared to dissociate, her voice losing its youthful lilt. Her lip wobbled slightly.

“Men are visual creatures. While you are so young and beautiful, you must become pregnant as soon as possible,” Lady Pennicott ran her palm across your waist, her eyes like razors cut across the yard to a bush of red rose buds, “It is inevitable that our husbands will stray their gazes to other women, it is in their nature,” those grey stones in her face rolled back and weighed you down, “as I said- visual creatures. The sooner you make a babe, the easier his devotion comes,” A joyous grin returned to her thin lips, she playfully tapped the tip of your nose and stated, “Trust me upon this.”

You clenched your hand behind you and strained a smile, “I thankyou for such wise words Baroness. I will endeavour to do what I must to conceive.”

At this moment in time Sherlock had proved himself a monstrous villain. Would it be possible for you to fall pregnant?

You looked out at the divine lush greenery and exhaled softly.

“Do you garden Mrs Holmes?” the baroness queried.

You chuckled softly and removed your gloves, you flashed her a sight of your palm, “I am afraid my hands have never been introduced. My grandmother preferred I focus on mastering piano and embroidery.”

The grey orbs fluttered back at you with a surprised him, “Embroidery is a lovely skill,” she pat your hand and pointed across the field, “Please help me up Mrs Holmes, let us take a look at my lilacs.”

You stood straight up and leant out your arm, she was surprisingly light for a woman her size. She leant against you and took small timid steps to her flower patches.

She stood and admired the flower patches, pointing to different types and explaining the breeds of flowers she hoped to grow in the future.

You finally bent over enough and cupped the petals of purple to hold up to your nose and took in a wiff “They smell lovely,” from the corner of your eye was a line of crimson, “I see your roses will soon be in bloom.”

She pinched a bud that was peaking to bloom soon.

“Oh yes, the soil is rich and healthy,” she giggled, “I can’t wait for Thaddeus to return, he liked the roses. He would stand here for a while and think. I know he will love the red colour. It is his favourite shade you see...” She sighed dreamily with her eyes scanning the bushes of scarlet rose buds, “I miss him terribly. I hope he’s alright. I want him to come home soon before the baby arrives.”

A fly smacked into your eye and you sputtered, battering it away. When you gracelessly composed yourself, you stood back up to your feet beside the Lady of Groveland.

You could see how her eyes puddles with droplets of mournful tears. You felt bad for any woman that did not know where her husband was. Especially if there was a rumour about him fleeing the marriage and abandoning her in her serious pregnant condition.

Taking the chance, you boldly took both your hands into yours and now squeezed them. Another buzzing from a fly sat on your shoulder.

The day was growing warmer and a bead of sweat rolled down your neck. The fly tickled your neck and suckled along your salted skin.

You tried your best to ignore the annoying creature.

“I am sure he will Lady Pennicott,” you soothed with a soft welcoming grin, “And he will be most happy when he returns.”

She sighed solemnly and glanced back at the rose bushes. You felt obligated for her happiness in that moment. Glancing back to the house you felt a opportunity come to you.

“May I visit your nursery Lady Pennicott, so I may have references for my own in the future?”

Her eyes flickered up, her face shine bright and her hand tightened over your wrists excitedly as though she was still as youthful as a school girl.

“Why of course Mrs Holmes,” she spun on her heel and wobbled a slight, she lifted her hand and called to the maid Martha still packing the china set inside, “Please inform the detective that I am taking his wife up to the nursery.”

“Yes Baroness,” she said with a humble curtsey and scurried off while Lady Pennicott took you totally inside the house and up a grand stair case from the foyer.

9:03am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England.

Up, up, up you both climbed the stairs. You noticed how the stairs didn’t bother her ladyship once, she was fit and stridden widely whereas you were breathing a little hard by the top step.

She pulled you down a hallway to a white painted door.

She excitedly opened the door wide and practically skipped inside to show you around her future child’s room.

The walls were covered in light blue and yellow paint. There were small peonies covering the trim of the room. There was no carpet but who needed one when you had a newborn.

“Welcome to the resting nest of my baby,” Lady Pennicott proudly exclaimed, spreading her arms out at the room around you.

There was a tall shelf filled with stuffed animals and teddy bears. There was a rocking horse, a doll house, spinning tops, tin cars and rubber balls all waiting, collecting dust, awaiting the arrival of a playmate. There was a permabulator by the window sill. There was a rocking chair in one corner and against the wall closest to the door- you smiled and swaggered over curiously, “Is this the cradle you bought?”

It was made of fine cream painted wood. You chewed your bottom lip in the thought. It was a lovely crib, why was Lord Pennicott so upset by such a delightful purchase? He didn’t have money issues. You put it down as that you didn’t understand the way men thought and men will never know what women think.

“Yes,” Lady Pennicott chirped, “it is from William Whitely department store in Baywater next to the Howard & Co dress department.”

The Baroness sat down into her rocking chair and slowly moved it back and forth, watching you admire the nursery she spent hours and years consistently curating.

You clenched the edge and looked over the railing down at the empty bedding. There was a teddy lamb in the corner, you pinched it’s fluffy white tail and sighed. For a brief moment you let your eyes close and your imagination wander far.

One day you’d have this...with Sherlock. An empty cradle to be filled. You caught the vision of a tiny hand squeeze around your finger and the sound of soft gurgles with the warm pressure of a hand on your waist...was that Sherlock’s hand? Was that your child?

One day you’d have a baby to care for, to provide these things that meant love...yet, was any child of Sherlock’s capable of love? He certainly wasn’t as far as you were concerned.

You bit down a shudder and opened your eyes, feeling hot tears glide down a cheek. You pushed back and sighed, “I am most confident on one thing Lady Pennicott.”

“And what is that Mrs Holmes?” she said softly, she could see the unspoken pain in your face. You swallowed hard and your face fell into a smile, you flashed her a wink.

You laughed softly, “Your child will be spoilt rotten by the love you give.”

She chuckled with you and nodded.

“Have you thought of a name?” you inquired, waltzing over to the chested drawers of baby knick knacks on display.

“Thaddeus Colin if it’s a boy,” she hummed, “or Theresa Grace if it is a girl.”

“Theresa?”

She giggled gently, “That is my name dear.”

Mrs Theresa Pennicott. It suited her. Her old soul eyes reflected her devout name.

A shine of glass pierced a ray of sun into your eyes, you pinched the glass object carefully. You touched a long black tube pulling out of it. You couldnt understand it’s purpose, your eyes narrowed at the rubber end that was shaped like a thumb or a cows udder. There was a second tube attached to the first with a rubber squeeze ball at the end.

“What is this?” you humoured.

“Oh that? It’s a fantastic invention,” The baroness said, “It’s a pump for breast milk with a tube that syphons the milk into this baby feeding bottle. When babies start to teeth they can scar your breasts. This is an effective and modern method I look forward to trying.”

Your eyes widened, scarring!? Babies teeth could scar a breast!?

You placed the bottle bump back and helped Lady Pennicott when she beckoned to stand back up from the rocking chair.

“Have you ever felt the sensations?” She suddenly, “In which they kick within?”

Your face must’ve looked idiotic as you asked plainly, “Kick?”

She giggled and nodded, “Give me your hand, perhaps you may feel them moving.”

She plucked your palm and pulled your glove off your fingers. She pressed your entire hand intimately to her belly. You felt a sense of taboo shame, she was making you touch such a beloved spot.

“Do you feel it?” she then asked.

Felt what? Confusion flooded your mind. Your hand moved around her belly slowly.

“I am afraid I don’t know what I’m meant to be feeling?”

She moved your hand and again you felt absolutely nothing.

“They are very brutal on my body,” Lady Pennicott sarcastically assured, “trust me there is a kick.”

She made a point to push your hand harder, but all you felt was the hard material of her corsetry beneath her main dressing materials.

“Baby’s kick you inside?” you marvelled with stunned horror. This was the first time you’d ever heard of such a notion of a baby beating it’s mother inside.

“Not out of malicious intent Mrs Holmes,” she reassured, “mostly it is the baby using its limbs to move their cramped bodies inside or excitement at the sound of voices, I truly believe they can hear us while still inside. Fear not, to you it will feel like a faint touch like this-”

Lady Pennicott softly tapped your wrist, “Like that.”

And there again was new knowledge you heard from a woman on matters of pregnancy. You moved your fingers around, seeking the supposed feeling of a kick...

Still nothing. You frowned, was there something wrong with you that the baby was choosing not to reveal itself.

“How interesting...”

A soft knock on wood alerted you both to glance at the door.

“Mrs Holmes,” the butler from earlier politely spoke, “the detective is requesting your return, I believe he intends to depart.”

Your face fell. You couldn’t believe it but you’d found this experience immensely enjoyable. You had surprisingly made a friend of the Baroness.

The fair lady hugged your side and sweetly exhaled, “Then I shall escort you back to your husband, Eddie fetch me my cheque book.”

He nodded and walked ahead of you both. You solemnly shut the nursery door, trying to remember every precious detail as possible. It was a innocent place to escape from the crude world.

You returned to the bottom of the foyer and smiled at your husband that stood by Lestrade at the front doors.

By the bottom step you faced the noble woman and curtsied.

“Thankyou Lady Pennicott for your kind hospitality and agreeable cooperation to the case,” you heard Sherlock’s voice float over your shoulder.

“Of course detective, please,” the Butler returned with her cheque book, “find my beloved Thaddeus.”

She scribbled speedily with a modernised ink pen, a sharp tear of paper flashed to his direction, “Here. Thirty pounds. I am sure you are busy with other clients considering your reputation, but I beseech you to seek out my husband quickly.”

Sherlock bowed his head as he deposited the cheque into his pocket, “We shall try our hardest. Good afternoon Lady Pennicott.”

Your mouth might’ve collected flies. Thirty pounds. THIRTY pounds. That was a hefty wage for a year to many men.

Sherlock was granted his coat and walking cane along with Lestrade.

He opened the front door and left slowly, glancing over your shoulder back at the heavily pregnant Baroness.

9:21am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England.

Sherlock and you walked up the gravel path in silence for sometime. You weren’t in much of a mood to speak to him despite well knowing conversation would need to spark eventually.

The three of you slowed down beside the inspectors horse cart.

Thankfully it was Sherlock who destroyed the silence with a stretched sigh. Lestrade grimly smiled at that sigh and rocked on his heels.

“Lestrade, show a useful skill,” Sherlock slapped a coin purse into his chest, “Find my wife and I a decent ride homeward. You still need to return back to the office and finish writing those reports on the Spring heeled Jack sightings....�� he snickered.

The mutton chop male grumbled and left you pair alone to walk down the path into the main parklands to hail a cabriolet or another hackney carriage.

Sherlock pulled out his pipe and lit it quickly, he inhaled fast and asked curiously, “Did you learn anything else from our suspect?”

You squinted and felt a gasp pop from your lips, your hand snapped out and dug your nails into his arm with a scolding hiss, “Suspect? Look at the state she is in Sherlock. She clearly loves her husband. How could such a indisposed woman do anything to her husband?”

He smirked, “Perhaps a jealous one?”

Your brows pulled together. Jealousy wasn’t something you would’ve describe Lady Pennicott as especially with such a privileged life. Such an emotion wouldve been beneath her...but.. ‘It is inevitable that our husbands will stray their gazes to other women, it is in their nature.’

Sherlock pinched out a piece of card from his pocket, a business calling card, he flashed it through his fingers and let you carefully pluck it from his hand.

“it is no wonder Thaddeus Pennicotts name was so familiar,” Sherlocks huffed a puff of air, “He visits a like minded establishment.”

On the front of the card was a single image, a dove holding a olive leaf, and when you turned the card around there was a woman modelled in immodest clothing with text and an address in perfect hand writing.

“The Mayfair Row Dove club.”

You almost dropped the card in the mud at your feet.

He tucked the card back into his breast pocket and hooked his arm around yours, walking you closer to Lestrade waving his hands back at you both.

“I’m curious who his go to bird is there,” He chuckled.

You shook your head and scoffed in disbelief, “but she’s pregnant.”

“Men have needs,” Sherlock sighed, “I thought you’d have learnt that from last evening?”

Your nails dug harder into his arm and grit your teeth. Not everyone was as depraved as Sherlock, surely not. You couldn’t imagine Mycroft or your grandfather practicing such atrocities on women, especially women that weren’t their wives.

You noted snootily, “She said her husband liked to stand out by the roses to think. Perhaps he regretted his choice.”

Sherlock laughed cruelly and hard enough to almost drop his pipe from his lips. He plucked it out of his mouth and kissed you hard and squarely in front of Lestrade and any passing people that shook their heads in disgust at such public affection.

The taste of his tobacco filled your cheeks and floated down your throat into your chest. You could feel how his breath became your breath. Your head grew dizzy from it. His release left you trembling and collapsing against him briefly. His arm grabbed around your waist and held you totally against his chest.

“You see too much good in the worst people,” he whispered wetly into your ear.

“Not true,” you panted, you blinked your eyes hard and tried speaking again. You weakly pushed away from him back onto your own two feet. From the corner of your eyes you could see the inspector standing beside another hackney carriage.

“Not true,” you repeated and swallowed hard, “...I don’t see any good in you Sherlock.”

He grinned devilishly and walked you both to the carriage, He ignored Lestrade entirely except for retrieving his own purse.

“None at all?” Sherlock asked as he helped you step up inside of the carriage. It jostled as he plotted himself next to you instead of opposite.

You thought hard on his question for a time. You shouldn’t have ever been as petty as him. So you kept your silence before you could decide on a eloquent response. You did try to find the good in him. The trouble was you barely knew Sherlock and the side that you’d encounter was nothing short of a blagged, insufferable man that happened to be very experienced in the arts of the bedroom. So you tried to think about qualities you hadn’t seen in him but had at least heard of him.

“You help solve cases and even sometimes restitution, these deeds could be counted as decent and beneficial...perhaps good...”

He smirked until you finished hastily, “However your mistreatment and lustful addiction is nothing short of that than a person that suffers in his sin.”

A long annoyed sigh drew from his lips, however the corners jerked up.

He tug out his pipe and tapped it’s contents out the moving window, “Might I ask Mrs Holmes...” he inquired as he tucked in his pipe, and wiped his lips thoughtfully, “Do you think yourself better than me?”

The silence shared between the horses trotting along the cobblestones allowed you a chance to glare long and hard at Sherlock.

It was a jab, a jibe, a joke, a trick, a trap...

He wanted you to say yes... You could see it in his eyes the way they flicked to your lips and almost drooled with anticipation. He wanted to start a fight.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking at you, you turned your head away and scoffed, “You may have quick wit and a expansive knowledge Sherlock, but I at least carry myself with the fairest morals.”

And that? The reply was granted a omen of Sherlock’s sickly chuckles and his heavy warm hand to sit over your thigh, running his them over the fabric of your skirts.

“We will see how fair a baker street whore morals really are when we arrive home then shall we?”

You leant against the wall of the carriage and chose to ignore him. You closed your eyes and held Sherlock’s hand to prevent it wandering anywhere else. His thumb rubbed along the back of your gloves hands.

You couldn’t understand Sherlock. And feared you never would.

HELPLINES:

If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline Services

India Helpline Services.

#dead dove do not eat #dead dove fic #henry cavill x female reader #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill x y/n #henry cavill x you #henry cavill x ofc #sherlock holmes x female reader #sherlock holmes x poc!reader #sherlock holmes x y/n #sherlock holmes x you #sherlock holmes x ofc #sherlock holmes x reader #dark!sherlock holmes #dark!henry cavill

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medicinal-doll · 1 year

Text

His.

Pairing:Stepdad!August walker x reader

Summary:August just can't keep his hands to himself especially when it comes to his new wife's daughter.

Warnings:Dub-con/Non-con,p in v sex,assisted masturbation,Daddy kink,Dom/sub dynamic,degrading, Ddlg themes, teasing,mind-break,pet names,hint of spanking,manipulation,graphic depictions of sex/fluids

A/N: This one is a little dark so heed the warnings

*Please don't repost without permission If you use my writing as inspiration please ask first and credit me

..........................

Smells of cheap meatloaf and roast beef soil your appetite as you're once again subjected to the cheap musings of your mother's delirious whims to appear as a capable homemaker

A smile crosses her features, distracting from the mellow putrid undertone of the meal. You gulp begrudgingly, accepting tonight as your last day on earth, as you hesitantly heap the lukewarm meatloaf onto the plastic china plate.

As you get your fill of poison, you meet eyes with your stepfather. His poker face trumps yours tenfold. The watery green beans pour onto his cheap dinnerware, and to the naked eye, he might appear content with the cooking. But as you gaze, you can see the subtle flaws of his facade: the slight furrowing of his brows, his lips pressed firmly into a tight, dull line, and the fact that he hasn't blinked since he sat down shows he shares your sentiments."

dimly lit and old worn lights give the atmosphere a yellow tinge as you feel the cotton from the torn seats torn under you.

Dingy is what one would call your dwelling but it's home nonetheless.

As the meal commences your mother decided to grace your ears with the exceedingly interesting tales of her customers from the diner.

And you might be slightly more inclined to listen and even be interested if it wasn't for the fact that she gets the same 3 regulars every time carrying on with their usual drunken shenanigans.

The low hum of the noisy air conditioner threatens to lull you to sleep you sigh trying your damnedest to appear not bored out of your mind as you twirl the fork in the stale macaroni contemplating if running away is an option for the thousandth time.

But that's when you feel something rough and clothed rub against your center

Your instincts cause you to slightly jump and close your legs at the unexpected intrusion thankfully your strange behavior goes unnoticed by your mother it looks like she's too immersed in her rant about some guy that decided to dine and dash.

The movement starts again and you try to calm yourself as it wriggles against your cotton panties.

You glance up at August as he nonchalantly scoops up a heap of meatloaf and chews it casually not giving you the time of day.

And seeing as you have two choices listen to your mother rave on about 'Homeless Pete' or indulge your step father's perverted game you choose the latter.

Steadying your breath you slowly open your legs and you swore you almost saw August crack a smirk.

The rough contact is more direct this time as he circles your entrance teasingly enough to get you worked up but not enough to truly satisfy your urges.

You glare daggers at august as you feel the sexual frustration nag at your brain and he briefly meets your eyes he stares at you coldy almost tauntingly so as if he's not blatantly prodding at you under the table.

August pops a green bean into his mouth before turning away from you engaging in your mother's conversation which he probably cares less about than you if that's even possible.

Fake laughter fills the room and you roll your eyes August notices your disdain and moves his big toe to rub up and down your clit.

You gasp lowering your head attempting to hide the creeping blush on your face from wandering eyes.

August rolls your clit in circles hastily.

As your family dinner starts coming to a close you feel your mind start to numb as you get that fuzzy feeling between your legs.

You widen your legs more shamelessly becoming addicted to the sensation.

You thought you couldn't get any more sensitive but then August slides your soaked undies to the side.

And you feel the unclothed flesh of his foot make contact with your bare clit and you swear you could pass out right then.

The rough thumb pad of his foot thumbs at your button hungrily determined to bring you to ruin before suppers over.

Your breathe starts to shudder as you can only focus on the pleasure building in your core.

"Right honey?!" Your mom beams at you for the first time since you've sat down.

You turn your flustered face in her direction but are sure not to make eye contact.

Augusts pace only quickens at you mother questioning and you feel juice from your pussy leak onto the leather of the seat.

"Y-yeah-m...mom right !"

Your mother frowns at your odd behavior "What's wrong you hot or sumthin?" She eyes you curiously.

You slowly nod your head as you feel yourself beggining to climax around Augusts foot doing your best not to look like your currently cumming your eyes out.

"Well you'll just have to go take a cold shower powers off till daddy's check comes in" she then gets up and grabs her and Augusts plate kissing him on the cheek then goes to drop them in the sink.

"Be sure to clean up, me and your dad need some alone time" she winks at him before shutting herself into the back bedroom.

You breathe out a heavy sigh still slightly spasming from the intense orgasm.you throw your head down on the kitchen table as you slowly come down from your high.

When your heart rate returns to normal you pick your head up, August being nowhere in sight. But the faint creaking of a rusty spring mattress are all the context clues you need to get up and start cleaning the kitchen after that nightmare dinner.

You almost fall on your ass when you leave your chair but regain your composure as you run the dishes under the hot water of the sink. losing yourself in its comfort and reminiscing about your latest encounter with Mr.Walker.

............

You're on your belly in the back bedroom and thankfully your mother is currently not occupying the space. Don't worry you made sure to move the sin stained blankets.

You're re-reading a book you "borrowed" from the local library lost in your own world when you hear your mother shout.

"I'm goin for cigarettes!!" Her scream pierces your ears as another unintentional eye roll consumes you.

It's not soon after that you feel cold rough hands brush against the meat of your flesh. you gulp nervously trying to ignore the ever increasing touches.

He got here faster than usual.it's no surprise your mothers whale noises aren't enough to satiate his hunger and as you've come to acknowledge there's only one girl who truly gets him off in all the wrong ways.

Needy caresses grip your thighs. You attempt to shrug them off by burying your head in your book but that gets more difficult to ignore as gentle touches turn into that of pure carnal lust.

August roughly massaging the fat of your butt in slow circles. each cheek being toyed by one of his big veiny hands as he pries them apart and squishes them back together. loving the feeling of opening and closing his prize.

Still you try to remain unfazed knowing that any hint of what he's doing has an effect on you will only edge him on further.

Walker places sloppy kisses along your bum lowly grunting in satisfaction. Somehow you manage to focus most of your attention on the writing and not walkers highly inappropriate advances. And all is well, that is until walker sinks his head face first in between your legs bumping his Grecian nose against your wet heat repeatedly. You squeak and shoot up taken aback by the sudden invasion.

'Walker!" You say throwing your stuffie Mr.snuggles at him.

He just chuckles at you "Didn't I say you can call me August?"

He slowly slides up next to you smelling of light cologne and aftershave you shift uncomfortably wondering why he would want to to be shackled with you and your hobo mom in a dingy trailer.

You turn away not wanting to give him the reaction he wants "She doesn't like it when I call you that Mr.Walker......." August tilts your head to face him "Well she's not here now is she" his eyes are dark and filled with salacious desires as he takes in your form with his eyes before searching yours luring you to him.

he smirks at the blush beginning to stain your cheeks brushing a light hair away from your face "It's okay bunny..." he says in a dark whisper lowering his head "there's something else I'd rather you call me anyway..."

Your noses nudge one another as he nears your face you being utterly helpless to stop hi-

"What kinda place doesn't sell fuckin cigarettes!!"

As if on instinct you both immediately tear away from one another.

"August drive me downtown this shit hole gas station ran out" your mother yells from the front of the trailer.

Walker sighs in deep sexual frustration at the unexpected interruption.Then reluctantly removing himself from his place beside you, swiping his keys from the dresser before eyeing you one last time with a tinge of something unfamiliar then leaving.

.....................

Crickets chirp obnoxiously as nightfall descends upon the shabby trailer park. Your mother's cigarette smoke fills the air as you brush your teeth preparing for bed.

"Tell me when your father gets home" she mutters as she passes the bathroom not sparing you a glance as she shuts herself in the back bedroom.

After washing up you climb the ladder onto your bed which is a small ledge that rests above the driver and passenger seat it's not much but it's yours. You make yourself comfortable before resting your head and mind stirring from the events from the day and you try to ignore the fact that most of your thoughts linger on him..... and his unsolicited affection.

............

Groggily your eyes begin to peer open still unadjusted to the newfound darkness you sigh deeply as you start to come to. Brain slowly regaining it's consciousness, but there's something that feels weird though. What's that feeling betwee-Ah!

You involuntary yelp at whatever just swiped over your clit. If you weren't aware before you sure are now. You desperately try to wriggle away from whatever's causing it but big strong hands pull you back to the source and you pause. You struggle at the sense of familiarity to the situation. Whimpering softly into the pillow as August's hot salivated tongue runs itself over your most intimate and sensitive parts repeatedly.

You hate yourself for your pussy clenching around nothing. And you hate your body for this betrayal too as your womb practically begs to be fertilized by his spawn. You try to keep yourself quiet and hold it all together but August spreads your delicate petals and drives his big tongue deep into your hole.

You scream into the pillow, it not doing much justice to muffle your strangled cries of pleasure. Your outburst of course only spurs August on further as he writhes his tongue deep against your walls intent to make you lose your mind. You harshly grip on to the sheets stuffies anything to channel your energy into something that's not the multiple orgasms racking through your tummy as you coat Augusts lips in the slick nectar of your shame.

After a few more torturous strokes August has mercy on your puffy pussy and let's go of your legs. You sloppily shuffle away from him, still weak and mind extra vulnerable from the intense orgasm.

You sit up sniffling giving him the angriest expression you can muster up. But in reality it's just the cutest little grumpy pout. You meet August's eyes. His face caked in darkness and mind up to no good. it's only when your eyes drift further you see it.

Red-hot and angry 8 inch dick. So hard it slaps against the skin of his belly. Precum leaks out the tip like a broken faucet. It must be so hard it hurts. His tip twitches, seemingly getting more swollen with every lap his eyes take around your plush body.

Your eyes widen, your furious facade broken as you whine out in fear "G-go away August!-" You stutter gripping your stuffie for dear life as it's your only defense from that monster of a cock threatening to pierce your soft guts.

August tilts his head at you. Eyeing you up like prey before focusing his gaze on the stuffie that's covering your private parts. And from the slight furrowing of his brow something tells you he isn't too keen on having his view blocked. August violently drags you by your ankle pulling your body to him. You feebly attempt to push him off as he climbs on top you.

You both fight for dominance though you can see there's a clear winner. August dodges your attempts to kick and throw him off as he manhandles your body till you're on your flat stomach.

August holds your wrists firmly above your head as he starts to peel your clothes off leaving a kisses over every area he finds. You sniffle quietly trying not to choke on your sobs as you plead with the relentless demon. "August! please-" you cry as he kisses along the sides of your ribcage "don't do this... you know how I get when you fuck me!" you struggle against him but he's not budging. Panic starts to set in when he ropes a finger around your lacy pink panties.

"August no! don't- you'll ruin me!!" you push against him putting the reserves of your strength into resisting him.

True fear starts to set in as your panties are torn from your butt completely at the mercy of Augusts sadistic wills. August snakes a hand around your hip pulling your bottom up then pressing your head down with the other. Your tears stain the pillow you mutter the word "no" under your breath like a mantra. it being the only defense you have left, but when you feel August's flared tip press against your heat you whimper pathetically at your weakness.

You feel August breach your wet little pussy painfully slow and a small squeak leaves your tender lips as his grip involuntarily tightens around your waist as your pussy desperately tries to suck him in and push him out all at once you whine shamefully as August plunges his fat cock deep inside your needy hole.

"F-fuck baby you're so tight" August grunts painfully against your ear every gasp and groan of his eliciting more of your sweet slick to drench his cock. Your body on the edge of an orgasm from just the stretch alone.

"August..please-" you say barely above a whisper as your eyes rolling to the back of your head as you feel him fully sheath inside of you.His throbbing cock tip knocking against your womb.

"Fuck baby-" August breathes out sighing heavily before kissing you on the sides of your temple "you take your daddy so fucking well princess" you whimper at his words sobbing internally.

"t-take it out" you pout.

August laughs darkly "Mmn..Sorry baby not yet daddy's not done with his pussy"

"It's not you- Ah!"

August removes his hand from your head and places it on the other side of your hip he pulls his cock out before thrusting it back all the way in roughly grinding his dick into every ring of your sensitive pussy.

A silent scream overwhelms you. Your body not yet fully able to process the amount of pleasure shooting up from your core. When August picks up his pace you can't stop the whimpers and whines that leave your mouth as August uses your pussy like a fleshlight.

"Aug-Ahh!! August No! Moms gonna hear it!-" you voice your complaints to him through a series of pleasurable cries and broken moans.

Little do you know August made sure to spike your mother's nightly cocktail so she won't be hearing much of anything but you don't need to know that.

"Oh no baby what would your mommy think of you fucking her husband hmm" he teases you cruelly slapping you on your ass as you yelp out.Then bending down to your ear the low tamber of his voice only adding to the wetness leaking from your pussy.

"I don't think she would like that very much dolly" he teases.

"Knowing her daughters such a slut for her step daddy"

You shake your head no furiously trying to convince yourself more than him.

"Aw look baby you can't stop cumming around me writhing those little hips and crying trying to make me feel bad"

"You're milking me dry honey look"

August grabs you leg and hoistes it in the air your exposed pussy stuffed with his cock completely on display "No! M'not...." You shut your eyes not daring to look at where you two are connected until A rough hand grabs a hold of your jaw. August forcing your head right where he wants your attention.

"Look at it baby, look at how pretty you are wrapped around your daddy" you close your eyes and shake your head still defiant but that wavers when August starts kissing your cheek and whispering sweet nothings in your ear. it's his scent and the feel of his meaty thighs smacking against your delicate ones. the subtle tickle of his mustache every time he kisses you.

"Come on pretty girl open up for me" He says in a deceivingly sultry tone.

ever so slowly you open your eyes. And as your pupils start to dilate from the erotic sight August knows you're all his.

August's hips, balls, and cock slap up against your dripping pussy all at once in a sinful unison. You whine losing a bit of your psyche every time his dick roughly pounds into that deep spot inside you.

But it's only when you get that tickly feeling in your core do you truly start to lose yourself. "Daddy-!....please.." you whine out pathetically his cock thrusting in and out of you. It being the only thing on your mind.

"No!August!! m'gonna cum-....stop it!!" August looks down at you with glazed over eyes fully possessed by lust you watch in horror as he licks a small strip up his thumb before placing it on your sensitive swollen little clit.

"Daddy No! Don't you'll break me!!" August relentlessly fucks into your flesh pussy intent on making you cum all over him rubbing your clit in dizzying hasty circles.

"F-Fuck!!ah-Ah!Daddy!!!!" You feel a foreign liquid leak from your vagina. Drenching you and August in the mystery liquid "Oh fuck baby is that all for me" he coos

Your face is red and blushed as you nod absentmindedly.

"Aw don't be shy princess give it to daddy" He teases.

"let daddy use his perfect little pocket pussy hm"

You're in a daze looking at him, far too cock drunk to say anything but the word yes.

"Make me cum lots okay baby"

You nod once again as you bounce on his dick his thrusts turning sloppy but more aggressive. As he nears his orgasm you turn into a bundle of rambles.

"Please fuck me daddy- " knock me up please! breed my little bitch hole up...."

August stares daggers into your soul as you feel him twitch inside of you with every word that spills from your lips.

"Mmm F-Fuck daddy! don't stop I'll do anything just please don't stop- S-shit"

"Look at me-" August moans, his mind just as gone as yours is if not more.

"Tell me whose pussy it is" his commanding tone sending shivers through your body.

You give him and adorable pout "it's your pu-Ah!" He smacks your ass it leaving a red hand print.

"You know what I want to hear dolly"

I-its..daddy's.. Puss-Ah!!"

Another harsh smack.

"Louder!"

"It's Daddy's pussy!!!"you cry out cumming on him all over again.

August grunts get low as he pushes your leg back down. Bracing you with both hands dug into your soft love handles and belly.

August thrusts into your pussy like there's not even a person attached to it. Dead set on making himself cum, coating every inch of your walls in hot spunk.

August thrusts his dick rapidly against your sensitive spot as your head drops to the pillow losing control of your limbs. The only thing left of you being that single mantra that runs in your mind and through your lips over and over as August sates himself with your broken body.

"Daddys..pusssy..d-addys..pusssy..dadddy..pusssy

daddyss-ah!mhn..."

August cums in the deepest part of you. Hot milk flooding into every crevice of your sore pussy. Heavy breathes and pants fill the space as his heartbeat slows.

Your legs are shaking.Not that you notice but August does. He scoops up your trembling form like you're made of glass. Like he's not the reason you can't form one coherent thought.

"Come here dolly it's okay I know daddy's here I got you" he coos.

You sink into his warmth, sweat glistening his chest. your mind thoroughly stirred but his scent and presence calms you.

August places the sweetest tender kiss against your lips and the rest of the world ceases to exist. All you know is that he broke you, but then cradled you like you were the only thing left in the world. whatever happens from now on doesn't matter and frankly you don't give a shit.

As long as your his.

August's special little dolly.

#august walker smut #august walker x reader #dark!henry cavill #henry cavill smut #henry cavill x reader #dark x reader

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californiangirl · 1 year

Text

⊱⋅ ───── ⋅⊰✦ CALIFORNIAN GIRL.🐝

[ MOODBOARD ]

✦ㅡ 𝘍𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘦𝘳!𝘙𝘪𝘤𝘩!𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥!𝘏𝘦𝘯𝘳𝘺 𝘊𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘹 𝘐𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵!𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘢-𝘯𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘺!𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘺!𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳.

IMAGINE, that Henry loves it when his wife's innocent niece comes to spend a season on his luxurious farm, getting to fuck her in the stables, on the lake, in his truck, in the woods, in the barn and in his own bed.

#henry cavill x reader #henry cavill #mooadboard #imagine Henry Cavill #farmer!henry cavill #dark!henry cavill #innocent!reader #bratty!reader

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hertzwritings · 2 years

Text

Kiss with a fist (Dark!August Walker)

A/N: I literally lost track of who asked for what first, so I’m working on a “oooh this might be fun to write today”-basis. Don’t fret, my loves, I’m getting through all prompts and requests as well, mostly because I need the distraction. I am living in HellTM currently. Prompt: Y/N works for CIA, who sends her undercover in the FBI. They, in turn, send her undercover in M16 - who then sends her right back undercover in CIA. Her superior is very confused.

Also also, this is probably going to be my first real Dark!Fic, because it just kind of lends itself perfectly for the idea, I’ve been playing with. Just a warning. It’s probably not as dark as I could make it, but I gotta ease into it 😉

You can buy me a coffee here, and I’ll write you a personalized drabble, one shot or multichapter fic, with whatever you want in it!

Remember, feedback feeds the soul (mine in particular) and my requests – and askbox – are always open – there’s no limits because I am me, and I have none!

MASTERLIST

PROMPTLIST

ASK ME ANYTHING/REQUESTS

Pairing: August Walker x female reader

Contains: Language, coworkers to lovers (or like, boss to lover) smut (18+ MINORS DNI), non-con, degradation, praise, sir-kink, spitting, impact-play, mentions of blood, p in v, oral (m receiving), fingering, use of a gun, anal with a gun, mentions of vomit, mentions of necrophilia (sorry, but it’s BRIEF), cream-pie, forced orgasm, forced cream-pie, use of a belt, breath-play, actual choking, gagging and probably more than that

W.C.: 5.022 (whoops)

Kiss with a fist

“You want me to do what?” You asked incredulously, staring with wide eyes at Mr. Walker. He raised his eyebrow and crossed his muscular arms over his chest, his button-down straining dangerously at the seams. “I don’t want, I need you to go undercover in the FBI. We’re sure there’s a mole, and important information might get leaked at any point.” “But… I… I’m new.” You said, sagging slightly in your chair. “I have no experience with being undercover, Mr. Walker.” “Which is why you’re perfect for it.” He sighed and leaned over the desk, his elbows resting on the smooth wood. “Listen to me, you’re amazing at what you do. You’re one of the brightest heads here, and you think quick on your feet. I wouldn’t send you unless I was sure, you would be able to handle it.” You nodded. You weren’t getting out of this one. “Alright.”

------------

The FBI was very different to the CIA – there was a lot more hustle and bustle, and you tried to blend in as much as you could, giggling at the water cooler with the other women from the office, trying to get gossip that could actually be beneficial. Lucy, the receptionist, had managed to slip during a coffee-break, talking about an anonymous man, who seemed to slip in and out of the office constantly. It was strange, how little people noticed, because he was a tall and broad man, and she had conspiratorially whispered to you, that it was strange that there always seemed to be a case right after his visits.

“I mean, you’ve never seen his face?” You asked casually, tipping your coffee-cup to your lips. She shook her head. “No, that’s the weird part, right? I mean, he just comes and goes, I’m not even sure he work…” She stopped talking when your “boss”, Mr. Jansen, came over and gestured for you to follow him into the office.

“Y/N, I’m going to need your help. You are very skilled at what you do, and I can appreciate you helping from the office, but I have gotten a tip.” You sat down. Jansen was a no-nonsense kind of man, and you were mentally preparing for whatever he was going to say. He never coddled anyone. “I need you to go undercover in M16. I got a tip that someone from there is trying to bring the internal parts of FBI down, and we need to nip it in the bud.” Again? You were going to be a triple-agent, now? “Sir, I…” “It’s not a question, it’s an order. Pack up, you’re doing double-duty.” “Sir, I just started here, and…” “And you have a glowing review. You got this. Now, get.” You stood and walked to your office, trying to make sense of what the hell was happening. You grabbed your phone and debated calling Mr. Walker, but thought better of it; you were undercover, and you couldn’t afford to blow it now.

M16 was a whole different shit-show. You had been thrown into the middle of some serious office-heat, agents on each other like cats in an alley, and you were surprised any type of work was being done around here. On your first day, you had – unfortunately – to give a sweating, large man a kiss with your fist, when he thought it was smart to put a hand up your skirt. Everybody pretty much got the message after that, and most lewd comments weren’t said to your face, at least.

Not that it mattered to you at all, because you seemed to have stumbled upon something bigger than moles in the organizations – it seemed to run a lot deeper, weaving some dangerous webs. You couldn’t help but feel a little annoyed that whoever did this (or helped) didn’t bother to try and cover their tracks.

It seemed to be some sort of manifesto, that had been hidden under layers of coding, and for now, all you had managed to get deciphered was Lark and Apostoles, which, granted, didn’t give you much to on, but it did lead you down the rabbit hole. It would seem as if there was a larger ploy at work here, and you were beginning to feel uneasy about it.

A late night – after pushing several men away from your desk with the promise of castrating them with a finger, if they didn’t leave – you finally managed to get through, and you were surprised at how much information lay between the many lines of the manifesto, along with several instructions to both the FBI and M16; The Syndicate seemed to be printed along any and everything, and you felt sick to your stomach. John Lark was the name that kept popping up, along with a simple A., who seemed to be the one giving instructions on how to dismantle several areas of the inner workings of the FBI and M16.

It wasn’t a mole, it was several. And they all worked towards the same, common goal: Destroy a third of the world’s population. You had to admit, the way they talked about it both gave you a case of serious ick, but also intrigue. You weren’t really on any rouge sides, nor had you ever wanted to be, but there was something in the way they described the entire thing… It was overwhelming. Haunting. But beautiful, even though you were well aware that it would be impossible to ever get done.

“Y/L/N.” You screwed your eyes shut and turned before opening them, looking at the very angry face of Porter, your “boss”, who was currently tapping her heeled foot to the ground. “Are you alone in the office?” You nodded. She terrified you. “Good.” She walked with brisk steps to your desk and sat down, pointing at the several folders full of your findings. “I see I’m not the only one, who managed to figure out something was off.” You shook your head. “No, ma’am.” She didn’t need to know that you theoretically had been sent by C.I.A and FBI. “I’m glad someone has a bright head. It’s why I trust you to do this.” She sighed. “How long have you worked here?” “Uh, around six months?” You answered. “Would you be comfortable to be in the field?” “I mean, that’s what I was trained for… Do we have an OP, I’m not aware of?” She shook her head. “No, this is very much between only a few people in the office. It needs to be dark.” “Okay…?” Her eyes bored into yours. “Can I trust you?” No. “Of course, ma’am.” “Good. Now, I need an insider on the C.I.A. I need feet on the ground and eyes on the sky in there.” She pointed to the folder in front of you. “I’m sure I’ve found a link between some of the higher ups in there and John Lark.” You gulped. “Uhm, ma’am…” “I know, it sounds crazy, right? But look at this.” She flipped a few pages and pointed to a signature, along with a few lines of instructions. “That is definitely government speech. I can sense it, and we need to dismantle this shit as quickly as we can. Weed the weeds before they grow roots.” You didn’t exactly want to tell her that for weeds to grow, they already had roots. “Okay. What do you need?”

--------------

Walking back into your real workplace was somewhat unsettling. You had to try and lie your way through why you were back; not that you truly thought it mattered, because nobody would bat an eyelid at you for being back. Well, except Mr. Walker.

“Y/L/N?” Shit. “Hi, Mr. Walker.” He was next to you in two wide strides, brows furrowed and upper lip trembling a little. “What the hell are you doing back here?” In a very unceremonious way, he grabbed a tight hold of your elbow and dragged you to his office, closing and locking the door behind him. “You were supposed to be on intel with the FBI!” You sighed. Time to lie your face off. “FBI sent me on a wild goose chase. I’m sure they’re trying to get the lead buried before I can get to it, and I just needed…” You sighed and rubbed your forehead. “I guess I just needed some sort of normalcy. I think better here.” You said, biting your lip. He stared at you, gesturing for you to sit on the chair in front of his desk. “You came back to think?” You shrugged, sitting down. “I suppose. They’re… Well, it’s a harder job than I expected it to be.” You said – it wasn’t a lie, per se, you were just omitting parts of the truth. In all honesty, at this point, you actually didn’t care who did what, who was behind what, and who or what wanted to blow up a third of the world. You really just wanted to have one damn organization to stick to, thank you very much. He looked at you, clearly searching your face for something – any signs of lies. “What do you know?” He commanded. He stood against his desk, arms crossed, and you realized two things at once; first, that he was very attractive when he was being all demanding and used his “I’m in charge”-voice, and second, that his eyes flickered for a brief second. The smallest of movements, something most – if not all – people would miss.

It was a flicker of fear.

Suddenly, everything clicked into place. The signature of A, the tall, broad man who kept to the shadows at the FBI, the somewhat familiar wording in the manifesto.

“Not much yet.” You lied trough your teeth. “There’s rumblings about someone going in and out of the high office, but not much more than that. A lot of watercooler-gossip, so far, but not anything of note.” You swallowed thickly, and your eyes fell on his pants, where you saw the gun resting against his hip. Well, that and the other gun.

“Hm.” He tilted his head to the side. “And what does the watercooler-gossip tell you?” “That Lucy is fucking her boss.” You said nonchalantly – you didn’t know how to word anything out without giving yourself up. “Apparently, she got some intel from him about something being coded heavily, but that’s the gist of it.” You saw the way his demeanor changed, even before he moved or talked again; there was an unmistakable shift in him, and it made your stomach drop in fear. He sighed and pushed off from the desk, leaning over you, large, thick and muscular arms trapping you in, as his hands grabbed the sides of the chair.

“Y/N. How about we don’t lie to each other?” he said with a dangerous smile. “Sir, I’m…” “Don’t play with me, little bird.” You choked on your own spit at the nickname. “I’m well aware that you’re an incredibly talented and bright woman. It’s really on me, trying to throw you off by sending you somewhere else, digging for leads that wouldn’t get you anywhere.” You swallowed thickly, fear seeping from your pores. The way he looked at you, completely calm and collected, with a small, dangerous smirk on his lips and eyes lit with rage, sent shivers of fear down your spine. “I should’ve known better. See, my problem with you…” He leaned in a little closer, his face closer to yours. “Is that I like you, little bird. Oh, how I liked watching you look at me all attentive, your back straightening every time I spoke the smallest command.” You couldn’t breathe. “It was so easy for me to control what you looked into, what you saw and what you did, when you were right under my nose. You got a little too close, didn’t you? A few months ago, you stumbled on some very bad information, and you…” He smirked dangerously and almost degrading at you. “You ran straight to me, like I would’ve been able to save it. I had to send you off. I needed you away, so you didn’t screw up more for me.” You swallowed thickly. “Sir, I’m… I won’t…” “No, you won’t.” he pushed away from your chair and his eyes glinted. “Go on, little bird, spread those sweet, little wings.” He nodded at the door behind you. It was instant, the way your body kicked into gear; fight or flight was on the tip of your tongue, you could taste metal as you practically jumped the chair and rushed to the door.

You should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy. As soon as your fingers landed on the lock, a strong hand grabbed the back of your neck, pushing you roughly against the door. You exhaled a shaky whimper at the impact; you were well aware that August Walker had killed people with less than a hand on their neck, and for the first time in your life, you were fearful of death. His body pressed against your back, fingers wrapping in your hair and pulling roughly. You were shivering as his torso pressed against you, his breath hot and sticky on your exposed neck. “Oh, sweetheart, why would you think I would make it easy on you?” His lips scraped against your neck, his beard tickling you – you wanted to vomit. “I’m going to make things very hard for you now.” With a single move, he had you turned around, hand still on your neck and in your hair, and he pushed you down to the small sofa in the corner of his office. You grunted when your back hit the sofa, and your head would’ve hit the wall, if he didn’t have a strong grip on you. He slowly, while his eyes were burning into yours, moved his hands until his thick fingers pressed against your throat, cutting off air supply. You tried to struggle against his grip, clawing at his arms, but you were too small, too weak for him to even take notice. His eyes darkened when he took your state in; your hair was coming loose from your bun, your skirt had ridden up on your thighs, your chest heaving, trying to catch your breath, and unshed tears glossed your eyes over. It was a sight to him. “Well… I did have other plans, but I suppose we can make our own fun first.” He mused, his free hand trailing down your body. “Don’t fucking touch me!” You spat breathlessly at him, trying to recoil from his touch. He didn’t take that well. His hand collided with your cheek, the smack echoing in his office, and you felt, more than you heard, the small crunch of your jaw moving slightly out of place. “Don’t test me, you fucking slut. I’m trying to be nice, and that’s how you repay me?” He was seething with rage, and his grip on your throat tightened even more; you gasped, the air leaving your body completely now. He spat at your face, the spit landing on your cheek and nose and he hummed appreciatively at the sight. “There’s a good, little whore.” His thumb caressed your skin, smearing the spit around. You felt the burning of tears in your eyes. “You can cry. I like it when you do.” He said with a dangerous smile, his free hand again moving down your body. You didn’t have a choice, there was nowhere to go, and you wanted to throw up at the feeling of his fingers on you; you ignored the sliver of you that began to respond to him, desperate for your body to shut off. With a flick of his wrist, three buttons on your shirt popped off, and he had a view to your chest. “I always knew I liked you for a reason, Y/N.” You saw black spots float in and out of your vision, and you almost hoped to just pass out. His grip slackened. “Oh no, we can’t have that, can we? You deserve to see, what we’re going to do together, little bird.” You whimpered and tried to clench your thighs together to avoid his fingers dipping in. He chuckled darkly and with the same effort he’d probably use to swat a fly away, he ripped your skirt completely.

You didn’t have the time to react nor say anything, before his large fingers grabbed the thigh highs and tore them down your legs. “So pretty… I should’ve fucking hired you as a secretary, you would have been so much fun to train, wouldn’t you?” he mumbled, mostly to himself, and you realized that this – whatever you had previously hoped or thought – was moving in a direction, that made your hairs stand up. Fuck.

“August, please…” A slap landed on your cheek again, and you groaned at the pain; one more of those, and your jaw would dislocate. “Do not call me that. I am Sir to you. Daddy, if you’re being good.” You whimpered and the tears began flowing freely now, when his strong hands pried your legs open and tore your underwear in half; he wasn’t a patient man, and you had already dragged it out way too much for his liking. He chuckled and his tongue darted out, licking the tears away from your burning cheek. You wanted to recoil from him, but his grip on your throat was a little too tight.

Without warning, he thrusted two thick fingers inside of you. You screamed at the sudden intrusion, hoping someone would hear you and help. He began dragging his fingers in and out of you, spitting down on his fingers as they almost left your body to lubricate them. “Scream all you want, darling, nobody comes in here.” Your tears were rolling down your cheeks now, his thick fingers ripping you apart with every thrust. You wanted to hate yourself, your fucking body for slowly warming to him; you felt it, the way you fluttered around his fingers and the ease, he began sliding in and out of you.

“There’s a good, little whore. You’re liking this, aren’t you? Liking being put in your place; just taken however I want to?” he chuckled again and sped up his fingers. You whimpered, your teeth gnashing on your lips to the point, where you could taste blood. His lips found yours, forcefully kissing you and lapping the blood from your lips, while he fucked you relentlessly with his fingers. “I think… Maybe I’m not going to kill you right away, little one. No, I think my friends would love to meet you.” You whimpered at the thought of it – there was so much laced into the words, and you would rather die. “You’re doing so well, just swallowing my fingers with your greedy, little pussy. Jesus, look at you, you’re such a fucking slut, aren’t you?” You didn’t want to like it. You didn’t, but your body was reacting to everything he did and said, and you felt yourself near a high, that terrified you – if he thought you liked this, what else would he do to you? “Don’t think, you fucking whore, don’t worry. You’ll get yours.” He sped up and pressed his thumb roughly against your clit. You didn’t have time to try and stop it.

You came around his fingers with a choked sob of shame, your pussy gushing for him. “Good girl! Look at you, taking orders from me.” He laughed maniacally and pulled his fingers from you, keeping his grip firmly on your throat, while he opened his pants.

“Be good for me, little bird. Knees.” You tried shaking your head, refusing to fucking do anything for him. He groaned in annoyance and pulled you by your throat to the floor, yanking your hair roughly. “Don’t fucking disobey me again.” He said and pulled his cock out from his pants. It was throbbing and the tip was an angry red, already leaking precum. He was big, and you feared that you might actually choke on it. At least you’d have a chance if you bit him. His grip on your hair tightened and forced you to look up at him. “Try to bite me once and I’ll fucking skin you alive.” You swallowed thickly, and you knew the battle was lost even before it started. “Yes, sir.” He grinned. “There’s my good girl.” He lined his cock up with your lips and you slowly opened your mouth, tears still spilling from your eyes at the thought of what was about to happen. His cock slid against your tongue, and he forced himself as deep as he could go, you gagging around his cock. “Fuck, I should’ve done this a long time ago.” You spluttered around him, spit pooling around your lips and slowly dripping from your chin. You tried to pull away from him when he forced himself deeper down your throat. “No. You’ll take what I give you, and you’re going to fucking thank me for it.” He said, a little out of breath. “Look up at me.” You did what he asked, and he growled at the sight, his thumb wiping a stray tear away. You gagged and coughed around his hard, thick cock as he pushed it further down, and you lost all ability to breathe.

He didn’t let you adjust but began to fuck your mouth and throat as if you were nothing but a toy to him. He held you in place while he snapped his hips, and you spluttered again, trying to breathe – he laughed deviously. “Little bird, you’re not getting out of this. You’re going to be my little whore, aren’t you? So easy to…” he grunted and buried his cock deeper in your throat. “So easy to get on your knees, you’ve been fucking waiting for it, haven’t you? Wanted to suck my cock dry, like a good little pet?” He picked up the pace and you almost passed out when he swelled a little in your throat. He grunted and pulled out roughly, spitting in your face. “You should be my fucking lap-dog, darling.” He caressed your face in a gesture that was both way too intimate and shot fear into your veins. He pulled you up to your feet, and bent you over the desk, forcing your ass to stick out enough for your back to begin hurting. “Please, sir, you’re hurting me…” You mumbled, trying to see if there was a shred of humanity left in him. His hand landed on your ass roughly, and you yelped at the pain. “Good.” He hit you again. “See, nosy fucking bitches like you need to be punished, do they not?” You heard the unmistakable sound of a belt being pulled from loops and your face went white. “Please, no, I’m begging…” You didn’t finish your sentence. The belt hit you hard, hard enough for you to instantly feel nausea creep up on you, bile at the top of your throat, and you cried out. He just laughed and repeated the process. You lost track of time, how many times the belt had hit you, and you were vaguely aware of the trickle of warmth that ran down form your ass to the back of your thighs. He hummed and wiped the trickle with a finger, putting it in your mouth; you tasted metal. “Look at you, so obedient already. You’ll just let me spank you until you’re bleeding and not say a word to it?” You felt something cold press against your folds. “God, you really are a fucking whore, aren’t you? So stupid, so easy to convince…” You felt the cold thing press into you and you yelped, trying to move away. Your entire body was in pain.

He grabbed you by the throat again, and stopped moving whatever he had in his hand, inside of you, while he wrapped the belt – streaked with red now – around your throat, pulling it tightly. You gasped and choked, and he continued the onslaught of your pussy.

“God, getting fucked by my loaded gun does something to you, doesn’t it?” He mumbled and your eyes widened as he began fucking you hard with the barrel of his gun. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t move or even try to as he fucked you with the gun. Your body was reacting to it, growing wetter by the second. ��It would be so fucking easy to kill you like this, you know? I could just…” You heard the gun cock. “Press this once and you’d be dead… I could probably still fuck you until you got too cold and stiff for me.” He pulled the belt again, forcing your head back. “Say thank you, sir, for not killing me right now.” You gasped as he loosened the tightness of the belt. “Fuck you.” You spat. He pulled the gun out of you and held it to your temple, his hard cock pressing against your pussy. “No, little bird, fuck you.” You screamed in pain when he entered you in one, fell thrust, filling you to a point, where it hurt. You were barely breathing, your nails had been broken and bled, while you clawed at the desk.

He fucked you as if he didn’t give a shit. He was rough, the gun steady against your face, his cock filling you up and nudging your cervix. “Fuck, you’re so tight, aren’t you? So tight and wet for me, just ready for me to abuse you, huh?” He snapped his hips and buried himself deeper inside of you – the desk scraped against the floor as he rutted hard against you. Your legs were shaking, and you couldn’t think – everything hurt. “Aw, is my poor, little whore sad? You want to cum, little bird? Just cum on my cock, while I have a gun to your head?” You shook your head. You refused. He chuckled. “Alright.” He sped up, and to your relief, he removed the gun from your head. He was groaning behind you, burying his cock deeply in you over and over, and your relief of the gun being gone was shortlived. You felt spit land on your puckered hole, and you wiggled, trying to get away from him, when he pressed the cold, slightly sticky barrel of his gun to your asshole. “Squirm, and it’ll only be worse.” He threatened, his free hand landing on your ass; you felt the blood trickle again and you screamed in pain, as the gun entered you. He was rough. You didn’t have time to think or adjust as he fucked you with his hard cock and let the barrel of the gun slip inside of your ass, moving it in sync with his cock.

Despite your hate and fear, you felt your pussy flutter around him, the familiar, dull ache behind your clit as your orgasm neared – you were fully sobbing now. “Good girl, fuck, you’re going to cum, aren’t you, love?” He sped up and angled his hips, this time shoving the tip of his cock roughly against your cervix. You were screaming in pain, your body trembling. “Cum, whore. Fucking cum, while I fuck you just like this…” he grunted, and you felt his speed falter for a second. “Cum for me, little bird, fucking make a mess out of me.” You couldn’t hold it back, even if you tried.

You exploded around him, the sounds of your wet slick gushing over his cock filling the room. You gasped for air and reprieve, but he was relentless; his cock was spearing you completely and it felt like you were about to split in two, while the fear of him just pulling the trigger for the hell of it, was ever present in your mind.

You sobbed through your orgasm, and when his lips found your shoulder, you had to bite back vomit.

“Yes, fuck, you feel so fucking good…” Everything felt wrong and painful. His speed was faltering, the rhythm leaving him. “So good, taking my cock so well, baby… Oh, I’m going to get so much use out of you.” He grunted. “You want me to fill you? Make you fill of my cum, get your pregnant so you can’t get away from me? Just… Fuck!” he roared as you began to try and claw at him, desperate to get him out of you. “Oh, yeah, I’m going to make you fucking round with me, darling. Oh, fuck, you need to take it all, like a good little whore…” He fucked you with the gun and his cock so roughly, you thought you were about to die. “Please, please, no… Sir, please…” You begged, but he just laughed and slapped your cheek again. Your jaw rattled.

He came with a strangled cry, pushing his cock and the gun as deep as they could go. You felt ropes of cum warm you and this time, you didn’t hold back. You threw up over his desk, your eyes searing with tears as he fucked his cum deeply inside of you. You were shaking and crying. “Aren’t you a dirty little thing?” he whispered as he pulled himself and the gun out of you, letting you go. You collapsed, your body sliding down from the desk and landing on the floor; you saw blood several places on the floor and your skin. You found his eyes and he cocked an eyebrow, while he wiped the gun down, almost caressing it.

“Now, we can’t have a mess, can we?” You didn’t answer. “I think you best clean that up, Y/N.” He pointed to the pool of vomit. “And then I think we’re going to have so much fun with you.” “We?” Your voice was hoarse, and you couldn’t speak above a whisper.

He squatted in front of you with that dangerous smile on his lips, lifting your face with the gun under your chin. “If you think I’m done with you…” he chuckled. “I have my Apostles, sweet bird.” You paled and he licked his lips. “After that? We’ll see if we need some stress-relief around.”

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buckyshusband0 · 7 months

Text

𝐌𝐘 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐁𝐒𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍

pairing; DarkProfessor!August Walker x M!Reader

☬— nsfw content. dark themes. body worship. degrading/praising. jealous themes. mentions of past trauma. rough sex. descriptions of violence/murder. daddy kink. knife play. verbal insults.

summary; After having a first glance at you, professor August knew he wanted to make you his. The only thing stopping him was that you were a forbidden obsession. Not only an obsession, but you were his student.

THE brightness of the sun seeped through the jet-black curtains as the morning day came to a beginning for August Walker. A slight groan escaped his lips as he pushed himself up and leaned his muscular back against the dark bed frame.

His hooded eyes looked around the bedroom as a — quiet but still audible — sigh left his mouth. His hand gestured over his beard as he got up from his bed to get ready for the day.

Once he was ready, he made his way into his jet-black car with a black hot coffee in his hand. After a 10-minute drive towards the university, August slammed his car door shut and marched his six-foot frame towards his classroom.

Attending a university when your professor is August Walker, of course, he would get all the lust-filled eyes from the girls as he walked through the halls with his slightly unbuttoned shirt and his sleeves rolled up on his muscular arms.

Why wouldn't he?

He walked around the place like he owned it. He knew he had this hold of power over everyone in the university, and he would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy it. The girls worshipped the ground he walked upon, wanting every but of him. But he didn't care for them.

But August only cared for one person. A person who was so naive as to not even recognize the thoughtful acts he would do for him every day. Someone he would secretly protect without his knowledge.

That person was you...

His beautiful sweet angel. You looked shy when you were not with the right people, but when you were, a beautiful smile would break out on your face. As soon as he saw you enter his classroom, August lost his breath as he knew you were going to cause him problems. He was clear that you caused him to have an obsession with wanting you.

They say "love at first sight" doesn't exist, but with August, he felt that love for you blossom out of his stone-cold heart. You were like a plague, something which invaded his mind 24/7.

He couldn't stop thinking about you.. he felt compelled to have you underneath him, to feel your soft skin under his touch. To hear your sweet moans as he gave you the pleasure you most desired. August needed you...

As time goes by, the hallway that was once flooded by people begins to become empty from people going to their lectures. Your soft lips pressed against Zayn, your boyfriend as he forcefully kissed you hard. His hands went to your arms—where bruises covered—and let his mouth form into a smirk.

Zayn was your boyfriend of 2 years.

He wasn't always like this, he was once a loving man. But something inside of him switched. Something to cause you harm. You were too naïve to notice any of his wrongs.

"We're going out tonight, baby," Zayn ordered. He never asked you, just ordered. He never asked why you would cry yourself to sleep, why you would feel like something was holding you down. Your heart clenched and your eyes would cry until they couldn't no more from the way Zayn wouldn't even reassure you.

Reassurance was all you needed...

As he spoke, you nodded before walking away to enter your lecture. When you walked into the room, your professor, August Walker, was talking to a student until his words came to a stop. Without your knowledge, your presence made August happier.

One thing ran through his wretched mind the whole time he taught everyone who stayed sat the whole time, paying attention to the words that flowed out of his mouth. You...

August couldn't help himself but picture what your beautiful body would look like under his. Your sweet angelic moans would escape your lips from the pleasure that he knew you desired — That he desired. He wanted you and only you.

The sinful thoughts that would pop up in his mind caused him to stutter while he was teaching the class that you were sitting in. How could he not? Your (e/c) eyes connected with his every time he would talk, and just by making eye contact with you, his pants tightened.

August knew that he couldn't breathe without you… You were the main cause of his morning awakening. He was aware that this forbidden obsession with you would get him into trouble, yet he didn't care. He was only aware that you were going to be his.

No matter what.

✰ -- --- --- -- ✰

The terrible smell of alcohol reeked through the club.

August felt the — almost silent — wooden floor creak under his heavy feet as he entered the place. The sight of people letting their bodies lose to the music and chugging alcohol into their system made August grimace with a scowl on his face the whole time.

He walked over to the bar — which was crowded with many slouchy men— with his broad shoulders and towering stance. He gives a sharp nod to the bartender whose eyes were glued onto him, waiting for his order and hurried to get a beer at his command.

The sound of unfunny jokes could be heard being thrown around from man to man as August's blue eyes observed the crowded place. He was here for one thing only—well someone...

August knew you would be here.

That is what he loves to believe—that he wasn't stalking or following you. He wasn't, He was protecting you. Protecting you in any way from the risks that this world might pose to you. He was aware that he had to keep his beautiful angel safe from harm.

Because if something were to happen to you at the hands of someone else, they would have seen the devil himself, only God knows. August would happily cover his hands in the blood of the person who had the audacity to harm what was rightfully his with a smile on his damn face.

His hand gestured gently to his pocket to feel for the pocket knife he always carried with him just in case someone ever tried anything with you. He knew no one would try to attack him because of his threatening build and hovering height.

And then, his eyes connected to your figure.

He felt a muscle in his jaw ticks from the scene that was happening in front of him. You were—drunkenly dancing—with another student of his from another class, Zayn.

August couldn't believe what his eyes were seeing. His face turned into a dark red and his knuckles turned white. The sudden sound of glass breaking caused him to step out of his trance and look down at his bloodied hand.

"Fuck." August whispers as his vision darkened at the sight of seeing the—used to be fixed—beer bottle now broken into little pieces in his hand. But, he could care less about his wound. What he really cared about was the anger that he had never felt when he watched you grind onto another man.

Another man who isn't him...

Jealousy hasn't been so clear before, but it was painted like a perfect picture on a canvas on August's face. His brows furrow when he could see Zayn forcefully pull you into a hallway where no one was in and that makes him stand up harshly.

He steps into the — lightly dimmed — hallway and hides behind a wall to observe what is happening. His nostrils flare with anger and envy coursing through his veins from the thought of you being with someone else. Someone who isn't him...

"C'mon, baby... stop being scared and let me touch you..." Zayn whispered drunkenly into your ear as his hands caressed your body. He had you pushed against the wall and even though you were drunk, you clearly didn't want this.

"Zayn, I-I don't want this." You muttered under your breath as you felt his slimy hands make their way under your shirt. You felt an uneasy feeling in your stomach from his touch.

You didn't like it.

You wanted this to stop. "Baby quit bitching and let your boyfriend fuck you," Zayn said with anger and impatience as you didn't let him touch you the way he wanted to. He could see that you were uncomfortable, but he didn't care.

Zayn always loved that feeling he had with you. The feeling of power. He had knowledge about how you're childhood was and why you're this naïve now — which is why he loves to take advantage of you. He loves having a sense of power over you.

But you were done with it.

"I said, stop!" You shout and roughly push Zayn off to get him far away as possible and march your way out of the exit with tears trying to fight their way to escape your eyes.

August's eyebrows lower as he sees you walk out and debates whether or not he should follow you, but he can't just let Zayn walk away feeling happy with himself. He couldn't let Zayn walk away freely after hurting his angel mentally and physically.

And with that, August steps out from behind the wall and marches his heavy feet towards Zayn whose brows furrow from seeing his professor. "Professor Walk-" His words are cut off when a straight punch connects to his jaw, sending him to the rough ground.

His face starts to get covered in crimson-red blood as August continues laying punch after punch onto this fuckers face for touching and disrespecting his sweet angel.

He was going to pay for what he did...

"If I ever hear you talk to y/n or touch him like that again, I will not hesitate to hurt you again. And so God help me, if I find out you were to hurt him again—" August lets out a low evil chuckle and lays another punch onto his broken rib. "I'll kill you with a smile on my face." He seethes through his teeth as he starts to stand up.

"F-Fuck you man!" Blood covers his ugly teeth and a smirk makes its way onto August face as Zayn coughed up more blood.

"Just know this, Zayn, and hear me clearly..." August reaches for the knife in his pocket and retracts it. He roughly injects the cold metal blade into Zayn's stomach and leans in toward his ear. He licked his soft pink lips before speaking.

"He's mine."

Zayn's brown eyes widen from the blood that was rushing out of his body. His skin turning pale, and his eyes fighting to stay open. His vision slowly turning black as the last thing he saw was August's dark shadow walk away from him. He was left there to die. Left alone.

✰ -- --- --- -- ✰

Darkness was all you could see.

The sound of crickets could be heard as you walked on the rough concrete with your arms crossed. The chilling breeze caused your body to shiver and bumps to grow on your skin.

Your thoughts were running wild as you walked to get back home. You couldn't believe what just happened. You actually stood up for yourself... sort of. The sudden sound of a loud honk and beaming lights came behind you and you started walking faster.

"No, no, no, no."

You whispered under your breath hoping the person in the jet-black car would just surpass you and not think to look back. That was until it stopped right by your side and the window rolled down and you felt your eyes widen from who you saw.

"Professor August?" You questioned the knowing face. Worry covered your professor's face as he observed the unsafe environment that you and he were currently in.

"y/n? What are you doing out here walking alone at this time? It's not safe." August said sternly with concern laced in his husky deep voice. You frown not wanting to tell him what happen, but he already knew. Hell.. he even dealt with the problem.

August could still see the way how your body didn't stand up straight, so he knew you were still drunk. "Get in, I'm taking you to my place." You were too drunk to even comprehend what he was really saying, so with that you got into his car and felt how soft the passenger seat was. His face was lightly lit up from the street lights and you couldn't help yourself but think how attractive August is. You feel your body grow with heat and your eyes widen slightly with the sinful forbidden thoughts that rush through your mind. 'Stop it y/n... he's your professor.' You thought to yourself as he drove to his apartment.

Now you were sitting on the end of his bed waiting for him to come back with a glass of water he said he would get. August let a gentle smile come onto his face at the thought of him taking care of you.

This is how it should be...

Him making sure you're safe, well-fed, cleaned, and loved. He needed to love on you like no one else could. He wanted to be yours as much as he wanted you to be his. He couldn't help the feeling of butterflies crawling their way into his stomach at the thought.

He brings the glass of water and lays it down gently on the desk. "Are you okay, angel?" August asked with a soft tone he would only use with you. You are so special to him and you don't even realize... Too blind to see the acts he has act upon for you to notice him.

He let out a soft breath as he looked down at you and saw an unfamiliar look in your (e/c) eyes. "Angel are you-" August's words were cut off when he felt a pair of lips connect with his. A bright pink shade reached his cheeks as you kissed him, and God did he love the feeling. The feeling of your soft lips on his...

He soon returned the passionate kiss and felt the butterflies he once felt, come rushing back in. Fuck he needed you so bad... Your tongues soon started to dance with each other—fighting for dominance. He backed away from the kiss to connect his lips to the soft skin of your body and gestured over every mark on your body.

"You're so beautiful..."

His tall muscular body leans in towards your ear, his hot breath exhaled towards your (s/c) skin which made unwanted goosebumps arrive. His next words left you to let out a soft whine escape your lips.

"I'm gonna fucking ruin you angel.."

August's words made a smile reach onto your face as you leaned back onto the silky sheets of the bed and reached your hands out for him to take. He threads his rough fingers into your soft-like ones and puts them over your head. He leans in for another kiss until you have to pull away—which causes a string of salvia to form—to catch the loss of breath.

Your body was in bliss as you felt nervous under his touch. His blue dilated eyes held nothing but lust and love. As you feel his hands gesture over your thighs, you look away but instantly feel a finger under your chin to reconnect your hungry gaze to his.

"Look me in my eyes as I fuck you, angel."

You swallow a growing lump in your throat and nod to the six-foot man's order. Without warning, you felt a soft pair of plump lips against your hole and your eyes widen from the euphoric feeling that made its way towards your stomach.

It was all happening so fast. Soft moans escape from your lips and your eyes roll to the back of your head as your toes curl. Your fingers thread through August's brown hair and you pull at it roughly which causes a muffled grunt to leave him.

The eye contact August was making was so real. His eyes filled with—nothing but lust and love— never stopped looking at you as he ate you out like you were his last meal. "Fuck, that feels so good!" You moaned out loud, not holding back any noises. Your body jolts up when you feel three fingers curl up inside of you and penetrate your hole roughly. Your cock leaking as you felt your orgasm rushing in already.

"Shit, I'm so close, keep going-" Your words were cut off when he yanks his fingers away from you to your wet tongue, leading them. As he forces you to suck on the fingers that are already within you, he inserts another finger. He moves them into scissor motions as he removes them from your lips to show how wet they have become.

"You're not gonna fucking cum till I say so, understand?" August growled out and all you could do was nod until you felt his thick cock push itself into you. Your eyes widen from the size of it and sweet moans escaped your lips.

"A-August..." You mumble a whisper as he thrusts deep inside of you over and over. You couldn't believe what was happening. This felt so... so real. August hands caressed your body, worshipping every part of it. Like the beauty you are. Your touch, your moans, your fucking sweet scent. August couldn't hold back any longer. He felt his cock twitch inside your pulsing hole—which signaled he was about to cum.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum! Cum with me, angel... cum with me like the good boy you are." He moaned out. The scratches that you caused on his back start to turn a dark shade of red and his eyes roll to the back of his head as he felt his sticky, white cum paint the inside of your walls— like a blank canvas waiting for its artist to perfect a masterpiece.

A masterpiece is what you are...

Letting out a huge sigh of relief, August pulls out of you and falls down onto the soft sheets. You fall onto his chest and lay a gentle kiss on his chest as you look up at him. His arms wrapped around you, holding you tight, as if you could disappear at any second.

He couldn't let that happen.

You were finally in his arms, exactly where he wanted you. The butterflies started to flutter once more as soon as he felt your presence next to him. You were, after all, his to hold, feed, care for, and protect—his beautiful forbidden obsession.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

#henry cavill x reader #henry cavill x male reader #professor au #x male reader #august walker #henry cavill #black reader #dark fanfiction #henry cavill angst #henry cavill smut #buckyshusband0fics #black male reader #henry cavill x reader smut #henry cavill fanfiction

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took-hold-of-nothing · 11 months

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boxofbonesfic · 2 months

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Title: Tonality [5]

Pairing: Prince!Geralt x Princess!Reader

previous Chapter

Summary: “The white wolf wants you. He’ll have no other.” As you grieve the loss of your father, your mother marries the king. Whilst you struggle to acclimate to your new life, you begin to suspect the interest your new brother has in you is less than familial.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Dark Fantasy, Darkfic, Step-cest, Medieval/GoT inspired AU, Genre Typical Violence, Mild Descriptions of Violence, (Future)Smut, Dubcon/Noncon, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, MINORS DNI!!

A/N: OMG I’M SO SORRY. this chapter was so hard to write and it kept getting away from me, because i really wanted to pivot hard into some of the main plot points. i really hope you enjoy it, please drop me a comment and let me know even if you didn’t.

“Come.” Your mother’s voice is firm. Her mourning veil just barely outlines the shape of her face, as her lips move beneath the fabric. It billows behind her as she walks down the darkened line of empty pews toward the front of the little chapel, a flickering candle held steady in her gloved hand.

Your father is to be buried tomorrow.

You know his grave is already dug—a fresh square cut out of the dark earth next to his father’s. The thought of him alone in the dirt is enough to make your throat tighten, though no tears come. You have cried them all already; a veritable ocean. Even so, your dry eyes ache for lack of them.

“W-wait, mother, I—” You do not want to see it, the vacant thing your father’s soul has left behind. At the end, you could barely recognize him in the fragile body decaying in his sick bed. You catch at her sleeve with numb fingers, lowering your head in shame. “I do not want to see—” Her icy fingers wrap around yours, long and thin, her jagged nails digging into your skin.

“We must each place a stitch upon the shroud.” You wince as she presses the long needle into your stiff hands. “It is our duty.” Only when you accept it does she release you, and for a moment, you see her lips quirk cruelly beneath the veil. You tremble as your mother steps aside, your breath catching as you see the shape of the body on the altar.

Just behind her is your father, his shroud dotted with the shapes of dead flowers and bare trees. It does little to quell the horror you feel to behold him, though, his thin outline visible through the shroud, limbs folded and delicate like a baby bird. You remember what he looked like two nights prior, his rheumy eyes dull and deep set into his skull, skin thin and sallow. He looks small now, too, beneath his shroud, and you find it hard to believe this withered corpse had once been a great mountain of a man. A good man, a strong man, now reduced to the barest scraps of skin and bone.

“Stitch.” Her command fills every inch of space, in the chapel and in your head. And though you want nothing more than to close your eyes and be gone from this place, your body will not obey. You raise the needle.

“Please, mother—”

“Stitch.” Her voice is like iron nails in your skull. Blood drips from your nose, and you taste the warm copper of it on your lips. You pinch a corner of thin fabric between your fingers, and push in the needle, pulling it through until the knot at the end of the thread catches. You lower your hand to the shroud as you sew another stitch, and as you do so, your fingers brush your father’s sunken cheek, and you retch.

You cannot stop—

She will not let you.

You look down at your father’s body with tears in your wide eyes, and as you do, a scream builds in your throat. You pinch his lips together between your forefinger and thumb. Delicately; like you would the hem of your gown for a curtsey— and sew another stitch through the meat of them. He is beginning to rot, now, you can smell it over the cloying scent of incense.

“Mother stop!” Your scream is swallowed by the heavy darkness of the empty chapel. Your mother sighs, her breath curling against your ear.

“How else can we make sure the dead don’t speak?” She threads her fingers through yours as she pulls your hand toward his sunken eyelids. You pinch the stiff flesh between your fingers, holding it taut for the needle.

“Now close his eyes.”

You wake with a start, sitting up in bed as you cover your mouth with one hand, fingers searching for the thick black funeral thread—but of course, you find none. The dream clings to the edges of your vision like spider silk, the taste of decaying things still heavy on the panicked air you draw in. A ra sob wrenches its way out of your throat as you press the heels of your palms against your closed eyes.

Perhaps I am mad, after all.

Ain’t supposed t’see the dead ones. Maybe Madge’s old superstitions had borne fruit in your own mind. You recall the symbol she made with one hand, finger on thumb, finger on thumb, before spitting down into the dirt as you left your father’s burial. She’d shaken her head then, some the silver-gray locs piled on top of her head coming loose. Ain’t supposed t’see them. They stay when you see, them, Lady.

They stay.

“No!” You throw the blankets off of yourself, lurching out of bed and stumbling towards the wash-bowl on the dresser. The thought of that day fills you with the same cold dread you have come to know too well. You’ve little choice in your dreams; the specter of his burial hanging over you like overripe fruit. But here, in waking, in the chill autumn daylight, you have the power to turn your thoughts to other things.

At least, you try to.

The water is shockingly cold, but you are grateful for it, staring down into the porcelain bowl. A knock at the door startles you, and you jump.

“W-who is it?”

“Kassandra, Majesty. Might I come in?”

“Yes,” you sigh. “You may.” You pat worriedly at your swollen eyelids, and you frown at your reflection as the door swings open. Your mother has an effortless sort of beauty, one that needs neither rouge nor powders to enhance—a trait you certainly do not share. Your disturbing, sleepless night is written plainly on your face.

Kassandra sets the tray down in the sitting area, before turning to you with a worried expression.

“Her Majesty hopes you are well,” she says, nervously tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear with dainty fingers. “As you were not at break-fast this morning.”

“I was… I did not sleep well.” You shake your head. “I trust my mother made her displeasure quite clear.” She stifles a laugh. “She’s good at that.”

“She did.” Kassandra gestures to the tray, porridge and an assortment continental fruit cut into bite size pieces. “You should eat, Lady. While it’s hot.” You pick uninterestedly at the porridge until it is mostly gone, along with the tart green grapes and sweet winter melon. At the very least you do feel better for it, or at least, more present—more grounded in this world, not the dream one.

You clear up the remains of your breakfast, piling the dishes neatly back onto the tray. In the armoire, you note that more Rivian style gowns have been hung, your light Redanian dresses folded neatly and shunted off to the shelves on the side. Your mother’s thin excuse makes you wrinkle your nose in distaste as you finger one of the heavy sleeves. “Much too light for these Rivian winters, Dear,” she’d said, patting the neatly folded dresses.

“You won’t need them.”

The truth remains unspoken, but you know it still—she does not want you to need them. You pull a heavy crimson dress from its place and begin to undo the lacing. Kassandra clucks her tongue at you.

“Highness, please. Allow me at least one task.” You roll your eyes in response.

“I believe you are capable of more than dressing me—and that I am more than capable of dressing myself,” you reply. You change into a fresh shift before shrugging into the dress. You twist around to reach for the lacings, but Kassandra shoos your hands away to do them herself.

“You’re doing them wrong.” She chides you gently. “Up for lift, down for compression, my Lady.” Kassandra nods at you in the mirror and then positions your body so that if you crane your neck just a little, you can see her hands as she easily threads the thick ribbon through the eyelets. “Opposing sides. Like this.”

You purse your lips. “We don’t wear these dreadful things in Redania,” you mutter, your breath hitching as the corset tightens. She laughs before stepping away, brushing loose lint from the folds of the heavy fabric.

“Even so, our fashion does suit you.” You can tell she wants to say something else, the way her mouth opens and then closes, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“You’ve another correction?” You ask, gesturing at yourself with a chuckle, but she shakes her head. She glances at the door, as though reassuring herself that it was still shut.

“No, no, I—I do not mean to be insolent, Highness,” Kassandra begins, “but I do not think I have ever heard you say you have rested well within these walls.” Your smile turns brittle and tired.

“No. I have not. And your concern is not insolence. I am grateful for it.”

“Healer Janna—her draughts have not availed you?” You hesitate, wondering if you should describe the shape of your demon, give it form and substance outside of your mind. You shake your head, steepling your fingers together to stop them from trembling.

“It seems the dreams that plague me require more than nightroot and dried frogspawn to satisfy them.” I see my father. I see him dead a thousand ways.

“Healer Janna’s draughts for sleep and pain are as close to magic as they’ll allow in the White Keep, you know that.” Bastard’s magic. You do. You think of Father Rame’s disgusted expression. He does not seem the type to suffer a witch to live. “But I have… there is another. A woman—they call her The Dock Hag.” Her voice is a low whisper, as if she fears the good Father ears will ring with her heresy, even here.

“And she can… she can rid me of these dreams?” The prospect is a tantalizing one. “You know her? You have visited this woman?”

“I—yes. I met her. Once.” Her smile is sad. “When I was small, and the older Ladies had need of her.” Kassandra’s words are aged, heavy with the weight of years that both do and do not belong to her in equal measure. “And then again, for the memories.”

“She…” You cannot bring yourself to say it. Kassandra nods, the smile going brittle and crumbling from her face.

“Not many Lords will claim their bastards, Highness, if you will forgive my candor.”

In your mind’s eye you see a small Kassandra, attending her own mother, most likely, or perhaps even an older sister or cousin who… had need of this woman. The witch who had taken their babies—

And then burnt their dreams out.

“What did it cost?”

“Nothing special. Gold.” You let out a relieved sigh at her words. That, at least, is an easy enough problem to solve. Kassandra cuts her eyes at you. “Are you going to go? To see her?”

Perhaps Madge was a superstitious old northern goat—But maybe she was right too: the living are not meant to mingle with the dead. Perhaps it is some guilt that drives your father’s image to the forefront of your mind, some secret thing that the specter of his death clings to—you cannot know.

But the witch might.

—

The east stair is narrow, cut roughly out of the stone as if it were an afterthought. The iron railing is pitted and mottled from the salt in the air, and it rattles dangerously as you grip it. The stairs themselves are uneven, still slick from the inconsistent rain that had stopped only hours before. Every step feels as though you are lurching forward, being pulled down the long winding stair to the paving below.

There are more ways to enter and exit this keep than the main gate, Majesty.

The east stair wound around the back of the White Keep like a snake, the steps hidden in the stone like a secret. As you take another cautious step down, your foot slips and you gasp, the railing shaking as you cling to it. You steady yourself, locking your trembling knees tightly as you recite Kassandra’s instructions.

You will take the east stair down from the parapets over the chapel. Through the gap in the wall is the city. Go straight to the docks, ask for the Hag.” She had not wanted to stay behind, though you had convinced her with a stern look and an order to send away any who came knocking at your door till you returned. You would need her to provide a believable excuse in the event that anyone came looking—and an empty room would be cause for alarm, especially with you… “ill.”

Below you, the city glitters with light even as the dark begins to deepen. Beyond it, the sun sinks into the sea, lingering on the horizon before disappearing completely. Like Kassandra had said, near the foot of the stairs—twenty feet back, and behind a column, but near enough—is the gap in the wall. It is overgrown thick with dying ivy, the orange leaves already turning spotty brown at the edges.

Crushed leaves litter the hood and shoulders of your cloak as you start to squeeze inside, the stone catching at your clothes. You push your way through the narrow passage, panic coiling in your gut at the feel of the unyielding pressure at your chest and back. Your fingers meet open air at the next push, and you practically drag yourself out into the streetlight, fingers digging into the stone.

The misty street that greets you is practically empty, and what few people there are do not seem to have noticed that you have joined them from nowhere on the wet cobbled street. Hurriedly, you brush dirt and discarded leaves from your cloak before you adjust your hood, angling it down over your eyes. You keep your head down, your hands clenched into trembling, nervous fists. Every heavy step you take away from the keep sets the warning bells in your skull to ringing, as gooseflesh rises on your arms.

It isn’t too late to go back. It isn’t. Not too late to turn around, slip back between the ivy covered crack in the east wall and seek your mother’s counsel once more—and go to sleep, knowing that you will see beyond the veil again.

The thought spurs you onward.

The streets are even more unfamiliar in the growing dark, and as you watch the lanterns flare to life to chase it away, you swallow nervously. There is so much to see, here—too much. As you approach the city centre the market is still bustling with activity, the shops open and windows bright.

You spare yourself a few moments to watch the people. A woman buys bread, her son playing in her skirts, a man pulls shut the door of the tavern across the way, a blacksmith’s hammer falls rhythmically like a drum, the chapel’s bell rings for evening prayer—there is so much here, the sheer amount of everything almost dizzies you. A woman bumps your shoulder as she passes by, and it stirs you out of your reverie. By the time she turns to apologize, you are already gone, hurrying off through the square.

The air turns salt with brine the closer you get, and you lick your dry lips, tasting it. The night had been thick with sounds in the city center, but the further you travel from it, the more quiet the streets become. It is eerie, the stark difference between these silent, empty streets and the lively square only moments ago.

The last time you had been to the docks was when you’d stepped off of the ship, in the scant few days before your mother’s wedding. Now, the narrow streets look different, unrecognizable from the snatches you remember through the carriage windows. You look in one direction, and then another, frowning.

“You’re lost, Sweet.” There is no question in the old woman’s voice. You see her then, standing beneath the street lantern in a pool of pale light.

“I—I am looking for—”

“Me, Sweet. You’re looking for me.” The shadows fall away from her face without her moving, like the light has only just decided to accept her. The Witch’s white hair is wild about her face. And her face… she is a severe beauty, like wind whipped ocean waves. The years define her jaw, sloping in gentle strokes down around her eyes, and her ears slope upward into gentle points. She is older than your mother, though you know this not by sight but because you simply… know it. An uncanny feeling that has grown in the back of your mind that she is like you, but… un-like you, too.

She is an elf.

It is not just the ears, but the air about her, an ethereal quality that surrounds her as thickly as the shawl about her shoulders. It is in the delicate set of her jaw, perhaps, or the distinct lack of canine teeth in her amused grin. You take a halting step forward, and then stop, wary.

“You are the W—you can help me?” The Witch wraps her shawl tighter about her shoulders, and fixes you with a hawkish look.

“Don’t know that yet.” She purses her lips. “Shall we do this in the street? Or will you oblige me my own roof?” You nod hurriedly, and follow her as she turns quickly on her heel down the street. You are close enough to the docks to hear the water as she approaches a small house, pushing open the door. You follow her inside, halting briefly at the doorway. There is dried heather inside, hanging in a braided bushel on the arch. She watches you step inside, her dark eyes narrowed.

“Shut the door behind you,” she snaps, flicking the edge of her shawl over her shoulder. “Never met a Princess raised in a bloody barn.” You brush aside the bushels of dried herbs hanging from the low ceiling as you make your way inside.

The Witch rounds the other side of the table, where you see the evidence of her unfinished work. A grindstone, laying on its side, with half-ground herbs lying in the bowl.

“How did you know?” You ask as she picks it back up, the sound of stone on stone filling the room as she resumes. “That I was looking… for you.”

“I always know,” she replies, somewhat exasperated. “Like a rabbit knows a fox.” Her sharp eyes find yours once more. “What ails you, sweet Princess?” There is mockery in her tone, though you dare not take umbrage at its presence. “A suitor you wish to beguile? A fair maiden you wish to remove from his eye?” Her gaze drops down, and then darts back up again.

“Or perhaps an unseen consequence?”

Your throat tightens.

“No, I—my dreams.” You say. “I dream the most terrible things, and I—I want you to take them away.”

The stone stops.

“Come here, child. Into the light.” The Witch holds out her hand, beckoning you forward. “And take down that stupid hood, you’re not hiding from anyone here.” She clucks her tongue at you as you approach, fingering the edge of your hood reluctantly. She already knows who you are—though you are not quite sure how she knows. With one hand, she reaches for your face. You do not flinch away from her—you do not fear her, though perhaps if you were smarter, you suppose you would. Her touch is gentle as she tilts your chin up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

The fire crackles in the hearth, louder for the silence.

“And what do you dream?”

“I see…” You swallow. “I see dead things.” She peers into your eyes, her pupils wide. “I see my father.” You tremble as she steps away, your mouth suddenly dry. “These dreams, these-these nightmares, you can stop them, can you not? You can—”

“I’ll not hear more about what I can and cannot do from the maid in the high castle,” she snaps. “And they are not dreams, though you walk through them in yours.” With her other hand, she reaches beneath her collar, producing a thin leather cord. There are all manner of things tied to it—feathers, beads, and small, clean animal skills that shine dimly in the firelight. There is a long black needle there, too, hanging by its’ eye.

“There is a spirit tethered to you.” She turns your hand over, stroking her fingers over the lines in your palm. She snaps her fingers, motioning for you to give her your other hand. “By great sorrow—” The Witch squints, bringing your hands closer to her face. “Or rage.” She drops your left hand, holding onto your right. “I can no more remove it than I could your shadow.”

“Tethered?” You repeat. “These are—they are dreams, they are not real—” You sputter in protest, but the Witch merely looks at you, orange firelight dancing in her dark eyes.

“If they are only dreams, why do you fear them so?” You cannot answer. “They are messages. You should be grateful for them, there are few feats quite as great as bridging the divide between us and those who have gone before, Little Queen. Your father cannot watch over you forever.”

“I am a Princess.” The Witch smiles.

“Is that right?” She grasps your hand, gripping your index finger hard and watching as the tip reddens. You flinch as she pinches the needle between two thin fingers. “Come now, Sweet. Mustn’t be afeared of a little pain.” She jabs it into the meat of your finger, and you yelp, tugging uselessly at your hand, but her grip is iron.

“Ouch!” With a twist of her hand she swipes the fat drop of blood from your fingertip and flicks it into the fireplace. It does not fizzle out, but instead lands on the topmost log, bubbling until it turns black. It smells like ozone—not copper. You do not know why, but you tremble a the sight of it. You have come here to have something taken away, but as you watch your blood crack and burn, you feel as if perhaps something is being given instead.

“What does this mean?” You turn to her. The Witch rubs your blood between her fingers, sniffing the residue for a moment before wiping them clean on a rag. She does not answer you right away, staring thoughtfully at the thin line of black smoke curling from the fireplace.

“Please, I—”

“It means, Princess, that we are kin, you and I.” She tilts your chin back as you stare at her, wide eyed. She runs the tips of her fingers over the narrow curve of your left ear—not pointed, not like hers, but… You push her away before you can stop yourself, clutching at your chest with your other hand as if to calm your racing heart.

“This cannot be true, it—it cannot!”

“Less than half,” she continues as if your sputtered refusal had never been spoken at all. “Less elf blood in you than I could hold in my hand, but aye, kin we are, still.” The Witch looks you up and down, and this time, there is pity in her gaze. “I cannot take your dreams.” Cold spreads through your trembling limbs. “You must release them yourself.”

“Release them? How?” She cups your face, and the movement of her thumb over the swell of your cheek is almost affectionate, though the words she speaks next send a cold chill down your spine.

“No fear, Little Princess. No fear.” For a moment, you swear her eyes go gold, and Geralt’s voice echoes again in the space between you. Before the Witch can say more, you quickly dig the gold out of your pocket, tossing the coins down onto the table as you flee. You do not register her cries to stop, to wait as you barrel through the door, throwing it shut behind you.

It is raining again, hard sheets of cold water pouring down from the dark, angry sky. You can hear the sea raging against the docks, water crashing in thunderous waves up against the harbor’s weathered stone. Your head is spinning, full to bursting. You are elf-kin—perhaps? Maybe?

Your mother had never seen fit to mention that minor detail—and for that matter, neither had your father. You tug your hood up roughly over your head and turn your face down, away from the cold rain pelting against your skin. Had he even known?

Would he have even wanted to?

Perhaps I can just ask him myself.

The thought makes you shiver, wrapping your cloak tighter around your shoulders. I can no more remove it than I could your shadow. You do not know which is worse—having left your father behind alone in the dirt, or the restless specter of him living in your dreams. Your finger aches from the point of the dock witch’s iron needle, and you clutch your hand to your chest as you make your way back towards the White Keep. Above you, a white hot arc of lightning splits the sky, throwing up stark shadows against the row of dark houses.

It is by that grace alone that you see the man.

You stop short, your heart leaping into your throat. He stands in the shadows beneath the sagging eaves, his stony face surprised as your eyes meet. He steps forward with a heavy sigh, a gloved hand resting on the hilt of the sword at his hip.

“Highness.” Your throat tightens, and you take a cautious step back as he comes into the meagre light offered by the street lantern above you. “Please don’t make this difficult.” His cloak is drawn over his chest, but you can see the shape of the armor underneath, jet black.

Nilfgaardian.

You turn—and run straight into a hard, armored chest.

“Good evening, Your Highness.” Duke Emhyr’s long fingers dig hard into your shoulders, hard enough to bruise. His black hair is slick with rain. He was waiting here… waiting for me. “I shall have to inform Lady Kassandra of your whereabouts,” he sneers. “She seems to think you are asleep in your bed.” You lift your heel and grind it hard into the top of his foot, and the Duke curses, his grip loosening. You pull away, but he manages to catch the edge of your cloak, pulling hard until you fall backwards.

The impact knocks the wind out of you, leaving you gasping and dizzy, staring up at the dark sky.

“We did not get to finish our little chat, in the garden.” He says, squatting down over you as you struggle up to your knees on the wet street. “I think we should do that now, Princess.”

Your heart pounds heavily against your ribcage as you stagger to your feet.

“No.”

“It is not a request.” He motions to the guard behind you, and he grabs you as you struggle, wrenching your arms behind you.

“Filthy witch,” he hisses, and you flinch. “You and your whore mother.”

“Gavin, your manners.” He tuts mockingly. “I would be honored, Majesty, if you would accompany me for tea.” You stare at him in silence, the rain soaking through your cloak. “If you would, Ser Gavin.” He forces you forward, and you stumble.

“It is late for tea, Lord Emhyr,” you snap, dragging your feet against the paving stones. “Perhaps a discussion with Her Majesty herself—” Ser Gavin grunts with irritation at your resistance and shoves you, hard. You stumble as the Duke makes an angry noise deep in his throat.

“I’ve little stomach for lies.”

A cold shiver winds its way up your back. You hear the threat though the words remain unspoken. The streets are deserted, and you cannot tell if it is the weather or the hour. Behind you, clears his throat.

“Here, my Lord.”

The faded, splintering sign hanging above the door reads Madam’s Tea House, though by the riotous noise coming from inside, you suspect they serve a few things little stronger than tea. Ser Gavin places a rough hand on the back of your head, forcing it down as he steers you through the doorway. Your stomach drops as your eyes adjust to the dim lighting.

The air stinks of ale, sweaty skin and something more pungent and sour that you cannot identify. There are people everywhere, draped across tables, lounging on pillows and pinned against walls in various states of undress. Your throat goes dry, at the sight of the bare-breasted women sprawled over the tables, their dresses rucked up around their waists. A woman with white painted cheeks and cherry red lips steps quickly out of the way as you are shuffled through, her eyes lowered and lips pressed into a thin line. You understand their choice of venue now—

No one will even remember you were here— and no one will remember when you are not.

As if sensing your rising panic, Ser Gavin’s hand tightens on the scruff of your neck, and with the other hand, he grasps your shoulder. On the raised dais in the center of the dim room, a woman twists lithely, scarves gripped in each of her dainty hands. Gold rings dangle from her bared nipples, matching the one in her nose. Your eyes meet and for a single moment, for a single step, she falters.

The crowd at her feet turns on her in an instant, jeering and spitting. The same men who had watched her dance with silent awe now mock her openly, insults dripping from their lips along with stray drops of ale.

“Let’s get a new girl up here. One who can remember her bloody steps!” There is no end to the praises of men when one is perfect—nor an end to their venom when you are not. The truth of it is as plain as the room Duke Emhyr and Ser Gavin force you into. There is a bed with a bare, stained mattress upon its dilapidated frame, and a wooden chair stands between it and the weak fire in the hearth.

“Sit.” Emhyr instructs you with a bored gesture, and when you do not comply, Ser Gavin squeezes your shoulder hard until you gasp from the pain of it. You lower yourself reluctantly to the chair as the Duke watches, and you get the feeling that he enjoys it, watching you be forced to heel. If not my mother, then me. Through the silence, you can hear the muted noise of the brothel outside. As uncomfortable as it is for you, you hope it is doubly so for them.

The Duke stares at you, his eyes narrowed.

“You wouldn’t see it, not at first,” he says. The disgust drips from every syllable, like he is speaking of something unsavory. “The way you favor them.”

Your heart pounds even as you feign ignorance, schooling your features into shocked offense at his words. He cannot know that this is the second time you have heard them this evening, that you are already itching to get to a mirror to confirm these revelations for yourself, because you do not even know if they are true. The memory of black blood curdling in the hearth is enough to set the uncertainty in your lead filled stomach rolling.

“I know not of what you speak, my Lord.” The words feel fragile, like they are made of glass. “There—there is still time to let this be nothing but an unpleasant misunderstanding—”

The duke stands in front of the hearth, his hand resting on the mantle. The curve of his back speaks to his weariness, and you wonder if he has been looking for you all night.

“You and your whore mother have upset the order of things quite a bit, here. Whatever other things you may be, you are not unintelligent enough not to have seen so.” He turns, the fire reddening his cheeks and setting the whit es of his beady eyes ablaze. “Two seasons of talk and courtships undone in a month—and for a woman who is too old to bear a new heir.”

“His Majesty has an heir,” you remind him. “Or have you forgotten? If you disagree with your king’s decision, you are more than welcome to challenge it before the court a second time, though Their Majesties might not be so prone to leniency given the circumstance.” His jaw tics at the reminder of his position—and yours—but the sly upturn at the corners of his mouth do not disappear.

“So the Witch does inspire loyalty in you.” He squats in front of you. “Do you know what we do to witches, in the North?” He asks, fingering the dagger at his belt. “Father Wolf is the devourer of all things. Even savages.”

“Ever since I stepped from boat to shore I have heard that word, and I cannot help but wonder,” the words pour through the gaps in your gritted teeth, and you hope he chokes on the broken glass of them—“if you have ever uttered them looking in a mirror.”

He raises his hand, as if to backhand you across your face, and you duck down hunching your shoulders to prepare for the blow. It does not land, however, and when you look cautiously up at the duke, he is staring behind you, locked above your head. There is a fourth presence in the room now, one you feel pricking at the back of your neck.

“No, no, continue.” The drawl that fills the empty room is both shocking and achingly familiar. “I would see the treason with my own eyes.” Geralt stands in the doorway, filling it to the brim with the width of his shoulders. Water drips from his sodden silver hair, though he makes no move to push it back from his face. His hand rests openly upon the sword hanging at his hip.

“That way it passes fewer lips on its way to the king.”

Duke Emhyr’s eyes go wide, and then angry.

“I protect the crown, and you call it treason,” slowly,—almost regretfully —the duke lowers his hand. “Can you not see? Can you not see how they twist—” Geralt turns his gaze to you, and somehow his golden eyes seem darker. Harder.

He came for me.

Ser Gavin fingers the pommel of his sword nervously, playing at the thought of unsheathing it, but too craven to commit. Still, he stands between you and the prince, and does not move. The duke’s rambling of treason and bewitchery continues behind you, rising to a fever pitch as you approach the door. Briefly as you turn, you see him, his face red and lips flecked with frothy spittle as he flings a long, accusing finger towards you.

“They will poison this empire, it’s people! You cannot allow them to sit the throne, it is treason to do it knowingly, you must act!” The fire burns bright in his wide eyes, and you see reflected in them the same vicious zealotry that burned in Father Rame’s. “That which is rooted in rotten soil cannot grow! I will not stand idle while we are destroyed from within.”

In the spaces between his words you can see the calculation. He’s chosen death, you realize. You taste it in the air before he speaks, the power of his decision already shaping the world around it, like chaos—but not the kind they shunned. It tastes like the air inside the chapel; the still, thick air, perfumed so that the smell of his body would not leak further than a few feet beyond his corpse.

“You know the truth of what I speak, Majesty, you must see that His Highness is not himself! He pants after the elf-bitch, like a man possessed! It is unnatural, you must—you must see it!”

Geralt’s mouth creases with anger. “I see your distrust in your King has bred treasonous discontent. I see your desire to rise above your station would have you slavering after my father’s throne like the dog you are.” He steps into the room then, and you watch as the Duke’s hand closes about the grip of the dagger strapped to his waist. “Your dedication to this fiction will cost you.”

You had not been able to see Geralt’s other hand, positioned behind him, his arm taut as though he were dragging something heavy. He steps aside, and your heart leaps into your throat as you see why—

A dead Nilfgaardian soldier lies behind him, dark liquid pooling thickly underneath his armor. The duke sees it too, his body tensing.

“If you will not serve your people, if your father will not protect them, what choice have you left me?” The duke murmurs, the words underscored by the quiet ring of steel as he unsheathes his blade. You jump up, knocking the chair over in your haste to get away from him. You trip over your skirts, stumbling forward as Ser Gavin grabs for you, his hand knotting in your cloak.

“You will let her go.” Geralt delivers the instructions as truth—no ultimatums.

“Oh, aye,” Emhyr, nods, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. “On that we agree.” You expect him to lunge for the prince, to hear the sharp clash of steel on steel, but you do not. Instead, his face fills your vision. “You may go wherever you wish, now, Lady.”

You taste death on his words and in the air, and when he steps away, his hands are empty. There is a strange coldness in your belly, and slowly, your hand drifts up to investigate. The leather grip of the dagger is warm, but the steel is cold, so cold you can feel it all the way inside. It’s strange, the way it doesn’t hurt, the way the blood does not feel hot on your trembling hands but cold—

The death Emhyr had chosen was neither his own, nor Geralt’s—but yours.

Dimly, you are aware of Geralt, of your body tucked tightly against his, the sound of steel on steel, the feel of cold rain on your face. Weakly, you lift a hand to your belly, your fingers slipping on the handle. Geralts hand closes over yours.

“You must leave it, Doe, you must. I know it hurts.” It doesn’t. You want to tell him, but you cannot find the will to move your lips. You feel your grip slacken on his cloak, your fingers releasing themselves without your permission as your vision tunnels. Geralt tells you not to close your eyes, and the words echo far off in the encroaching dark.

I have to, you think that perhaps the words escape your slack lips in a low mumble, but you cannot be sure.

Just for a little while.

to be continued…

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funnyexel · 6 months

Text

imagine your ex is dark superman...

“I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”

He utters lowly, his warm breath dancing on your cheek as you tremble under his gaze. The coldness and stuffy feeling of the room, effecting your mental.

“you- you're acting crazy.” Swallowing thickly, you hesitantly look up to his darkened eyes, afraid of this unfamiliar man.

As the adjective left your lips its like his eyes lit up in the slightest. Almost in a twisted amusement at the negative connotation. Feeling your legs wobble as you slide down the wall he pushed you against, he follows your movements. Lowering himself down with you as his hands loosely hold onto your biceps.

“why? why this?” You were limited to a few words at a time, the icky feeling you feel under his gaze, stopping you from expressing yourself how you usually would. And he could tell. You're not as talkative as he remembers.

Stooping down, he studies your scarce movements. And all he wants to do is kiss the tears off your cheeks, and take you out your fetal position. Carry you to his bed, caress your goosebump ridden skin gently, so gently you won't believe your eyes when you watch him undress you with such patience. He wants to move his large hands down your thighs and squeeze on the soft skin, gently. Remember?

He wants to show you how gently he can be when he licks your pussy, not like a starved man but as a past lover that desperately wants to rekindle the forcibly blown out flame. He will delicately hold your legs down and make you cum on his tongue until you're shaking for a more pleasurable reason.

He wants to pound the idea of you getting back together into your head, permanently.

But then again that's a want, not a will....

Yet.

You stare at him, wanting an answer. Obviously not noticing how he mentally disassociated by the innocent look in your eye.

"I love you."

He says.

"I love you so much. I gave you time. Three years, to figure yourself out and you still needed a push to come back to me. You need me, baby."

He states firmly, speaking down to you as if you're an under developed and confused teen. Shaking your head, while you eye him in disbelief. You don't know how to respond.

"You love me baby. Say it."

He inches closer to your face. Glancing down to your lips and back up to your wide eyes.

"That's all you have to say and it's all over. We stop this silly little game of chase. Okay?"

He utters these words, which successfully make you feel insane. Looking up to his dreamy blue eyes and defined jaw, a dangerous combination with his deep and husky voice. You feel your thoughts being overtaken by his corrupt words. His warped thinking seeping into your mind and making you his little toy. Even with your kicking and screaming, he'll make you his again. He'll do what he wants.

kinktober list

regular writing list

#fanfiction #y/n #dark!superman #dark!superman x you #superman x reader #clark kent #henry cavill characters #henry cavill #henry cavill fanfiction #superman x you #dc characters #dc superman #dc universe #suggestive cw #freaktober #kinktober

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stolen-stardust · 28 days

Text

“aw henry cavill cant play kaladin but what about dalinar?” you know dalinar’s also asian right

“oh uh how about taln” …taln is Black

“how abou” if the next name out of your mouth isn’t szeth then i will hand you copies of stormlight archive with every character descriptor highlighted so you realize literally every non-shin character is a person of color

#like okay TALN???#TALN THE GUY WITH DARK SKIN AND LOCS??#full offense how are y’all this bad at remembering character details. white isn’t the default!!!!#btw this is not a safe space for henry cavill #cosmere #stormlight archive #racism

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milknhonies · 4 months

Text

Wails of Wedded Bliss

Masterlist || Chapter 2

Chapter Summary: Sherlock Holmes is forced to marry you...and it is clear...he does not appreciate the union...thanks Enola...

Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Domestic r4pe, P in V intercourse, Forced/Arranged Marriage, Loss of Virginity, Loss of Innocence, Domestic Violence. Wedding crashing.

Word Count: 9k

Author Notes: This story has been published in the past on Tumblr on my old account @milknhonies-old-account since I have created a newer account and I am reposting it here.

11:35pm Monday 28th April 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

“You know Sherlock, matrimony is not as wicked and cruel as you might believe,” said his companion one day beside the fireplace of their flat.

The detective was slumped in his chaise playing away at his violin obnoxiously. The terrible tune of Frère Jacques made the doctor wince as it hit his ears sharply. Sherlock Holmes had found himself in a mental state of his own man made dramatics...

“Et tu Watson?” Sherlock sighed and put the violin down before wiping a hand over his face, “My dear doctor, I have no desire to restrain myself to the shackles and torture you inflict onto yourself.” He rose to his feet with a lengthy groan and sat his instrument aside. The depressed sir stumbled over a pile of discarded books to get to the drinks trolley.

The wine bottle cork popped loudly as he tugged you open.

It was no mystery. Sherlock did not entirely approve of Mary Watson purely out of jealous spite influenced by the attentions of his friend. When the pair married Sherlock stood stiff and tight lipped. He reluctantly handed over the ring as John’s Bestman.

Over the engagement and even during the marriage, Sherlock did not cease his sly childish comments made from time to time.

John however had caught his wife in conversation and debate on numerous occasions with the detective. Mrs Watson and Mr Holmes were not friends by any means, but they tolerated each other under limited circumstances. They found smart enjoyment in each other.

The doctor had come to visit his friend under the revered request of the older Holmes brother...Mycroft. There was finally an expectation...Mycroft wanted Sherlock to make a male Holmes heir...Perhaps it was scandalous rumour but John wondered how true the gossip of the older brother was; being a pillow biter or an infertile gentleman...especially with the pressure to have Sherlock marry and procreate.

Sherlock poured himself a glass of wine and downed it quickly. He set the glass on the mantle and shook his head slowly.

John tried to smile, “Mary and I have fun.”

Sherlock scoffed jealousy.

John had been married and moved out of Baker Street for six months now. Sherlock dared not ask the condition of Mary’s pregnancy.

“What fun? With your lace doilies and Shepard’s pie?”

His friend smirked, “I enjoy Mary’s pie very much, Sherlock...” He pursed is lips and tapped his cane to the floor, “Perhaps you need a slice of your own?”

Sherlock glanced at his friend. He narrowed his eyes as he returned back to the chaise, careful to not trip again on the books and loose papers that laid across the floor.

“My own pie?” Sherlock crooned as he laid back into the cusions, “Why do I get the sense that we are not speaking that of a pastry?”

The doctor tilted his head and cleared his throat, staring off into the fire, “Mrs Hudson has confided in me that you’ve resorted to returning here with...friends from Mayfair Row of the fairer sex.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. The old hag of a landlady needed to keep her nose out of his business. He was making his rent on time, it shouldn’t matter who he kept his business with.

The detective groaned and rubbed his eyes, “Merely cases, dear John.”

The doctor bristled, “Do not lie to me Sherlock,” he waved his finger, “I know very well what you do with those women...it’s only a matter of time you ask me to check your pecker. God knows what they carry.”

Sherlock shrugged and sniffed loudly.

“For goodness sake man...” John scolded, “Have you no heart whatsoever then for the dear girl you are to marry?”

The detective rubbed his hands and laced his fingers, “Why should I?”

“Sherlock!” his friend hissed, “Have you not even considered the notion she might also resent the concept of matrimony as much as you?”

“Is that possible in women?” Sherlock quirked, “Good Scot! I sound like my brother.”

“Your own sister is still dragging her feet through her engagement to the Tewkesbury boy on what...a year almost now?” the doctor tapped his cane on the floor thoughtfully.

Sherlock huffed, “Enola is not a woman.”

In the eyes of the law she was...she needed only pick a wedding date and commit to it.

Sherlock wouldn’t have the luxury of a long engagement. The wedding was next week and he had quickly agreed to the contract. He would marry under the financial clutch of his brother...Mycroft threatened to cut off all entire bank in regards to Sherlock’s unpaid drug debts...

After the cold leads to the trail of Madame Moriarty...the detective found little sleep in the night...Sherlock befell the unfortunate antidote of cocaine to help him stay awake and opiates to keep him asleep...John loyally helped those sweating events and threatened to put him in an institute if he didn’t cease his regular consumption.

Perhaps, John wondered, Mycroft was intending to cease the draining of his pocket by using a wife to tame Sherlock’s spending habits. John decided then and there that Mycroft truly was an idiot.

“You’ve not told me her name...” the doctor said in the long silence.

Sherlock looked at his feet and sighed, “Y/N...her name is Miss Y/N Y/L/N.”

The surname was familiar to the doctor, however not personally.

John nodded gradually and scratched his moustache, “Mrs Y/N Holmes of Baker Street...it’s got a little ring to it. A simple lift to the breath don’t you think?” he mused.

The other man glared at him, he didn’t like John making fun of the situation he’d been coerced into.

He deflected, licking his lips, “Mary has grown fat.”

John cackled at the poor insult, “Swollen with my child. I’m glad you have finally noticed. I look forward to seeing your future wife just as ‘fat’ one day too.”

“Please John, my ingestion!” Sherlock shuddered, cupping his lips.

The cane tapped again at the floor, “Surely she isn’t so unsightly?” his friend asked.

“She is most plain,” Sherlock complained, before he peeled through the papers at his feet and held up a board of hard card to his friend, “Here...my brother thought it kind to send me a portrait, to invoke my eagerness, but as is clear...my mind is not swayed.”

John took the photo carefully and moved his spectacles from his pocket to his face, he gazed upon your printed face in the glow of the warm orange fire.

The doctor raised a brow and snorted, “This girl? Sherlock...I believe your disregard to the union prevents you from seeing her true potential. I think you will make fine and handsome children.”

Sherlock looked on to the fire and continued to shake his head stubbornly, “I need a case Watson...not a wife...”

The doctor felt his resolve failing, he donned his hat and scarf, “Perhaps she is your next case...after all why would anyone agree to marry you?” he stood and left Sherlock to ponder until the embers of the fireplace burnt out black and the last light of the room was succeeded by the wretched dawn.

09:00am Monday 5th May 1890 Saint Marylebone Parish Church, London, England.

A lengthy breath escaped your chest as your fingers pinched your pearly white gloves.

Twenty was a scary age...you walked a line of spinsterhood.

This was it...

You were lucky to be here. Lucky to have this offering...the circumstances were complicated. You were illegitimate but nonetheless still cared for by your father’s parents. They pitied you and your past. Good Christians with empathetic hearts, they chose to raise you when your father abandoned you for a wife who despised the concept of living beneath he same roof as her husband’s bastard.

You were grateful and honest and polite and strived to please your paternal grandparents. When they presented to you a engagement contract, you dared not waste or drain any more of their kind financial generosity.

You were amazed by the name also on the document...

You were being asked to marry The Sherlock Holmes, London’s notorious detective.

You were stunned. You accepted.

His brother, the dealer of the contract was a friend of your grandfather and had been the proposer of the deal. The two men seemed to always sit together in parliament house.

You hadn’t even met your husband to be...today during the ceremony would be the very first time.

As your grandmother fixed your veil in the carriage ride to the church, you caressed the front of the bible in your lap. You prayed to God this marriage was right and meant to be.

“You are not as pretty as my daughter’s, but as our ward after all these years I am sure you will be a suitable bride to Mr Holmes,” she muttered under her breath.

Her husband happily scolded, “Nonsense! Our granddaughter will be a perfect match to the greatest detective of London.”

He leant beside you and pinched your nose under the veil, “My little girl is the prettiest princess today,” his fingers laced with yours and kissed the back of your gloves hand with his silver beard covered lips.

“Thankyou grandfather.”

The corner of your lips jerked up. He was the warmer of the two...but it was confided that your grandmother who sat sullen faced in front of you was merely putting in a facade. Your grandfather told you early at breakfast that your grandmother wept last night, sad to see you off to be a true married woman of society.

The accomplished their task, raising a young lady of good standing and half decent breeding.

The carriage came to a screeching halt.

The cold breeze hit your face as your grandparents climbed out of the carriage door. Your delicate gloves fingers reached out and were supported by your grandfather.

You passed your bible to your grandmother who exchanged them for a modest bouquet of flowers and lace.

The chapel was massive but you knew there would be only a small audience.

Your feet climbed the stairs and patiently waited for your escort. Your grandfather’s wobbly knees had to rely on you and his walking cane. Your grandmother climbed behind him to insure he didn’t fall and hurt himself or drag you down too.

The wooden church doors were open a jar.

The whistling wind made you feel like you were entering a funeral rather your own wedding. You were not opposed to matrimony but the dead silence and stares at the front of the pews made you blood feel cold...

A gentleman you knew as Mycroft Holmes was sitting in the front pew and rose to attention as you were entering.

There was three other men standing at the edge of the room.

The priest, and the groom and his best man.

Your husband to be was handsome from the distance you could see if him. His lips remained stern in a flat line however and his brows appeared knitted, perhaps he was...displeased?

Sherlock Holmes was accompanied by his infamous companion...Doctor John Watson. A war veteran.

A woman you had never met was mirroring his position to the left side of the church, your chosen maid of honour...but as she turned the slight curve of her belly spoke out... pregnant. A matron of honour.

Your grandfather clenched your arm and kissed the side of your head. You began your steady approach down the island with your grandmother now leading in front to find her seating on the front left pew.

You tried to not share too directly at your future husband’s frown. Perhaps he was tired or not aware he was frowning at all and just deep in his thoughts.

You passed your bouquet to your matron of honour.

Your arms felt shaky, this was it...a lifelong commitment ceremony.

When you paused before the alter, the priest bowed his head and asked your grandfather, “Do you giveth this woman to be married to this man?”

He gruffly cleared his throat “I do,” and turned you to face him, his hands squeezed your arms gently before he carefully lifted your veil above your face and over your flower covered hair. He smiled softly, tears beaded in the corner of his eyes. He leant closer and kissed your cheek, in your ear he whispered gently, “God bless my darling girl.”

Sherlock was quickly removing his white glove and pocketing it in his inner breast side blazer.

Your grandfather turned you around to face the priest. He placed your right hand into the holy man’s who then carefully removed the glove you wore and passed your naked fingers into the warm clammy hands of Sherlock Holmes. His reaction to your bare face was out of surprise...you did not know if his wide dark blue eyes were a good sign or not.

The priest tied a small white ribbon around your wrists, connecting you and Sherlock in symbolism.

He turned back and floated up to the stairs of his stand. He opened his holy book and said out to the very small group witnessing, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man...and this woman in holy matrimony.”

You felt your throat tighten and your mouth dry as Sherlock’s thumb softly rubbed the back of your hand. Your eyes glanced over to his face...his frown had disappeared, he was wearing the smallest of smiles. Relief swept through you, he was happy for now and that is all you cared for.

As the priest continued his holy speech on the reason of marriage you thought about your duties as a wife. You would now look after your husband as you have cared for your grandfather. You would bring forth a hot meal for dinner and host luncheons with other married couples of society. You would rub his sore feet and shoulders and prepare him a bath when he required it after his days of long tiring work. And most importantly...you would lay back and take him within to create children. You would spend the rest of your life expected to make your husband feel appreciated and loved. You were to be his other half, his Eve to his Adam.

He had the important duty of caring for you financially and supporting your future children and their education.

If he was a detective you knew his intelligence meant you would make very brilliant minded babes. You would make society proud.

You had seen Sherlock face in the papers but they were of illustrations that did not capture the colour and humanism of himself

“-Into which holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined,” the priest softly finished.

You felt Sherlock sigh and when his thumb stopped rubbing your hand, you tried to return the same rubbing onto his fingers.

It was a silent language of greeting and comfort...

‘hello, how do you do?’

‘I am well, thankyou.’

“Therefore, if any man can show any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace.”

The groom glanced over his shoulder and his lips appeared to tighten...they fell into a frown and his hand grip loosened...was he...your heart deflated...was he not wanting to marry you?

You tried to restrain your emotions.

The priest peered down at you both, “Kneel.”

Sherlock and you with your hands still touching and bound slowly bend to your knees before the altar. The holy man pulled out a bowl and pinched his hands into the holy water.

He flicked both of your faces as he spoke, “I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in Matrimony, ye do now confess it. For be ye well assured, that so many as are coupled together otherwise than God’s Word doth allow are not joined together by God; neither is their Matrimony lawful...”

There was no way you could mention how you were concerned Sherlock’s reaction might’ve been worldly. He remained silent to.

Your grandmother once told you how people who marry often do not love each other until years later. It happened to her, so you had within your heart the trust that as long as you put in the effort to be the perfect wife, Sherlock would eventually grow his love for you.

The Priest smiled at you both and nodded his head,

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes wilt thou have this woman Y/N Y/L/N to thy wedded Wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony?”

Your eyes glanced to his face, he appeared, flushed.

“Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

Your groom looked over your hands and then glanced up at your face, his throat bobbed, “I will.”

His thumb rubbed your hand again.

You tried to smile...it was hard when he didn’t appear as enthusiastic about the union as you had hoped. It reminded you this was really just a contract between his brother and your grandfather.

“Y/N Y/L/N wilt thou have this William Sherlock Scott Holmes to thy wedded Husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony?”

Your eyes stared up at the Priest who was dictating the vow, “Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

Your voice for a moment caught in your throat. You looked to the floor and nodded, “I will.”

The priest then stood away and proclaimed, “Now ye have proclaimed to god, now tis time you proclaim your vows to yourselves.”

You felt Sherlock tighten his grip and faced him still kneeling beside him, his voice wavered as he proclaimed, “I, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, take thee Y/N Y/L/N to my wedded Wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

A pause in the air reminded you it was now your turn to repeat the solemn vow.

And for a split second...you wondered if agreeing would be a sin to god...you would do this all...but love...could you love a man who you did not know, honour a man who may not love you?

You nodded and properly looked into his eyes, trying to vow earnestly.

“I Y/N Y/L/N take thee William Sherlock Scott Holmes to my wedded Husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”

He glanced away and his lips parted, it was if he wanted to say something to you...before he closed them and eyed the priest. Ah yes...you were still in a holy ceremony. Talking could come later.

The priest nodded to you both and gestured to your hands.

“Now the groomsmen may please administer the ring.”

Sherlock removed his other glove.

The man who stood behind him, John, stood carefully forward after stealing a small ring from his breast pocket and passed it to Sherlock.

The priest untied your hands and your groom delicately took your left hand. He removed your other glove and pocketed it.

“With this ring I thee wed,” He pinched your forth finger before sliding the cold golden band on, it felt slightly loose, “With my body I thee worship.”

You finally took the time to actually look at his full face as he vowed to you. His blue eyes were dark and sparkling like a night sky or a ravenous stormy sea. In the corner of his right eye was a fleck of brown...oh yes...the stony sea side by the waters, they were his solemn eyes covered by curtains of thick dark lashes.

“And with all my worldly goods I thee endow,” he trailed off softly.

His lips were thin, wet and soft...his skin flushed in a soft pink but not overly obvious, his neck was a shade lighter to his ears and cheeks.

You heard the distant hum of the priest standing above you both.

The groom cleared his throat, “In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

The priest clapped his hands and joyously announced, “For as much as William Sherlock Scott Holmes and Y/N Y/L/N have consented together in holy Wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth either to other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a Ring, and by joining of hands; I pronounce that they be man and wife together, rise now as Mr and Mrs Holmes. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

Everyone in the church echoed the everlasting word...“Amen.”

Sherlock and you rose steadily back to your feet. He let go of your fingers. Your hands limply fell aside. You turned back to your grandparents and smiled.

You were now a married woman before God.

The holy man brought around the script of lawfully paper to sign your name and the names of your witnesses. The parchment was laid across a small serving table where there was a small ink well and pen waiting.

Out of necessity you went to the table first.

When you signed your maiden name and then scripted out your new surname, you were now under the law of man the wife of the British detective. Your eyes fluttered shut...it was done...you were no longer considered the poor bastardess soul that had been disowned by both parents...you were now The Mrs Holmes. Wife and a future mother of Holmes sons and daughters.

Your matron of honour came closer to your side and politely smiled, “Mary Watson, my husband is the groomsmen. You are most beautiful and I must demand Sherlock cherishes you rightfully.”

She was a beautiful. Her gown at a light blue cooled her wild complexion. With her blonde hair and rosy pink cheeks, she glowed in her motherly state.

You returned the grin, “A pleasure Mrs Watson, thankyou for being here on this special day.”

She leant across you and signed the paper before laying her hands on your shoulders thoughtfully. You looked over your shoulder at the man who was now your husband.

He was shaking hands among the male participants. He was smiling. Your souls felt relieved. When he looked at you, the was something strange...he looked you entirely up and down... His face dropped, back to his deep thoughts.

He bowed his head to you before he brushed passed you leant over the certificate to officiate his name, however before the pen could meet the paper there was a persistent cry.

“I object!” Screamed this mousy tone that echoed the chapel walls, “Sherlock! I am sorry I am late! Stop! Stop the wedding!”

The sound of running feet screeched along the stone floor.

Everyone’s face split into shock as a boy who was a little younger than you for appearance sake came racing down the pews.

Yet as the boy ran closer, you could see the hat fall of his head and a wave of beautiful brown locks flowed down their back...her back...it was a girl in dirty boys clothes. She looked a kin to a chimney sweep with the amount of spot over her face and her hands and shirt.

“Please!” she heaved onto her knees to catch her breath, “Do not continue!” she raised her filthy palms in praying pleas to the priest.

“What is the meaning of this!?” your grandfather said losing his temper at the foul interruption of a seemingly happy union.

“Enola!” the two Holmes brothers shouted in union. They looked to each other accusingly before looking back at the girl.

The young woman glanced between you and Sherlock and started shaking her head.

“Enola,” Mycroft hissed and grabbed the girls arm roughly, shaking her slightly, “look at the state of you! What is the meaning of this? You were not permitted to attend and yet you come here uninvited nonetheless!?”

You were frightful of the way Mycroft shouted at her and brutally shook her. The young woman appeared scattered, she looked at you and then to Sherlock again.

“You were too late Enola,” your husband frustratingly sighed, “Mycroft let her go, this is my fault.”

Too late...wait....what...

You were stunned...speechless and confused...

Did Sherlock...have another love? Did this young creature hold his affections?

Mycroft loosened his grip. She sprung away from the older Holmes, “You are married, perhaps before God who I know you don’t care for!” And dashed passed you and waved the certificate with only your name on the paper.

“What blasphemy is this?” your Grandmother now announced with annoyance.

“But see?” The young woman named Enola ignored her and ran up to Sherlock, “Your name is not here, so legally you are not married Sherlock, you can stop this!”

His nose flared and his face darkened to pink. You could hear how his knuckles cracked as he made them into fists. He was furious. His angry eyes flashed at you and back at the girls.

You felt stunted...this girl was right...

Your chest deflated...you were not married, no, you were still in fact Y/N Y/L/N the bastard daughter of a Lord who was not permitted the privileged respect of your legitimate cousins and siblings. You were not a honourable woman still...you were still covered and stained with your parents sins.

The comforting hand of Mary Watson touched your hand. You started trembling.

Your heart ached. Your hopes to be veiled in a honouring title as a wife were diminishing by the second.

“I can help pay off your debts when I marry,” she quickly spurted, “Do not let Mycroft rule over you like he has done all these years! Do not marry a woman you clearly do not love Sherloc-”

“Enola!”

You gasped. You jumped as his voice bellowed and boomed through your ears and throughout the stone walls of the church. This dramatic scene was incredibly unorthodox and the priest himself seemed amiss and confused on how to handle the audience of the church.

“Enough!” Sherlock angrily hissed and shook his head.

He tore the paper from her hands and slammed it down on the priests stand before gracelessly signing his name.

“There!” he spat and slapped the paper against the priests chest, “It is done!”

He proceeded to storm out of the church leaving you and the rest of those in attendance in shock. “Sherlock! Wait!” Mrs Watsons husband shouted as he gathered his hat, coat and cane from a pew and hobbled out hurriedly after him.

Your chest tightened...you felt a rush of air escape you. You felt rather like your entire body had been spun around too many times. The embarrassment you felt before the audience was horrible. Tears were watering up into your eyes.

You felt abandoned.

It was quite obvious to you and everyone in the church...

Sherlock Holmes did not want to marry you. Why were you so unlovable?

You felt your legs grow wobbly. Carefully with the kind support of Mrs Watson you sat down in a pew.

Your grandmother did not look at you. She stared at the cross hanging above the ceiling and sighed. Her wrinkled lips turned downward. She did not approve of your behave or his.

This wedding was a distasteful event.

Your grandfather was shaking and needed to also sit down. The priest and Mycroft helped him to the opposite pew chairs. His hand was strictly clenching his chest.

And everyone but yourself was glaring at the young girl in boys clothes...

“Enola,” your matron of honour mumbled, “I think it best you leave until you are ready to apologise to your brothers wife...”

Your breath hitched and you gasped out of shock.

So she was not a old girlfriend romantically begging for love from your now husband...no instead the name came ringing through your ear. Enola Holmes...of course...the less experienced Holmes detective...

You dared not speak. You knew your tongue might be venomous and hot as a flame. You were in shock and a state of silent rage and sadness. You could’ve slapped the stupid looking girl whose face was full of surprise and regret.

You weren’t entirely sure how to express yourself. You felt humiliated and rejected. All those years of silence and a straight face after what your father had said to you...it broke you...

Your own husband did not want you. We’re you that much unlovable? We’re you cursed to feel this way?

Your grandfather was the only man in your life left that you felt honest adoration from...and his time was coming soon to an end in his old age.

You muffled your sobs into you gloves as you heard Enola run out of the church.

It was your brother in law who then came to kneel before you and hold out to you a handkerchief, “My sincerest apologies dear sister. I dared not think Sherlock or my sister could be so wicked a pair until now. All I can beg is you accept your role and keep your sweet countenance.”

You wondered suddenly why he was not the brother you married instead. Before you focused on such a thing you remembered that lusting for another man, your husband’s brother, was a grave mortal sin and incredibly improper before a holy priest.

Taking the cloth you sighed and covered your face, “Th-thankyou Mr Holmes, I do hope to make your brother very...” you croaked and tried not to break into tears again, to avoid them you swallowed hard, “very happy.”

You took a cool deep breath and forced a smile onto your lips. It hurt. Your cheeks stretched and painfully ticked.

He nodded and smiled, “I am sure you will my dear, I am sure you will, allow me the opportunity to escort you to your cab, your grandfather...”

You both looked at the older man whose anger had made him out of breath, “is still unwell.”

You said your subtle goodbyes. You kissed your grandfather’s balding scalp and scratching softly at his beard. He kissed the inside of your palm. His eyes watered, he didn’t want this for you. He looked down with shame.

In your eyes now you understood be would be the last man to have ever loved you.

Nodding you accepted his arm and thus concluded the wedding...

11:23am Monday 5th May 1890, 221 Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

Mycroft had hailed you a cab as your husband so nobly left into the one that had been rented for the both of you.

Your brother in law loaded you inside and had said he would look after your grandparents to make sure they got back to their own home safe and soundly.

You closer the curtain to the window and let your heart sob.

A sad bride on her wedding day, how terribly melancholy and cliché....

You didn’t expect romantic puppy dog love found in frivolous novellas, however you never expected such humiliation and horror to strike you on such an important date. This would be something you’d never forget...

The abandonment of another person in your life.

You were in a state of utter distress. You clenched your skirts tightly beneath your fingers. Yoh violently tore at your veil and the pins in your hair that held the specific style.

As the carriage cam to a halt the driver called out your destination, you pulled the curtain back and looked at the street.

221 Baker Street...your new home.

You opened and slid out of the carriage by yourself. You lifted your skirts, avoiding the black mud that your shoes squished into.

You climbed the front stairs of the building gradually and knocked at the door.

You waited five minutes before resorting to desperately banging. The horse cab had taken off and there was no going back.

What you desired most was a chance to sit down again and collect yourself before you sobbed hysterically on the street in the public eye. You already held the strange case of some being still clad in your white wedding gown.

When the door finally creaked open you fought every bone in your body not to storm your way through inside.

A wrinkle hand pushed the door open, followed by a steady voice of an older woman, “Why, hello my dear!” she said, “You must be the new Mrs Holmes then?”

A woman with wide eyes too close together with glasses and a loud clattering chatelaine on her waist opened the way to you.

Her hand launched out and tugged you inside by your wrist.

“Come, come in, please!”

You let her pull you inside the building and shut the door behind you.

As she locked the front door she spun to welcome you in an unexpected hug.

You normally would be shocked by such impropriety of embracing a stranger so quickly. But in your state of distress you leant closer into her arms and sniffled.

She pulled away, “My dear,” she gasped, “It is your wedding day, why the tears?” Your wet eyes went round and round as she jittered about you, admiring your dress and pinching at the soft material. “I did not expect you to arrive here so early. Oh and where are my manners! I’m Mrs Hudson dearest, I am your land lady and housekeeper.”

You fiddled with the ring now solid on your finger. You bowed softly to her, “My name is Y/N I don’t expect you to call me Mrs Holmes, Mrs Hudson, please call me as you will be my name,” you mumbled and wiped your eyes. They were pink and puffy.

She clicked her tongue with dismay.

“I presume Sherlock has brought you to this state...” The elderly woman smiled sadly, her wrinkles spread out, she took your arm and led you up a flight of stairs.

“Darling, I am just happy you are here. Your husband can be such a bully sometimes, but don’t tell him I said so. Your belongings arrived early this morning and I was just finishing putting your belonging away in your room.”

“Mrs Hudson,” you whimpered, “thankyou greatly for I have had a trying day...”

She gave you a copy of the home key to the 221B door.

Inside you were received with a scent of ink and tobacco. A very masculine smell. Clearly this was the home of your husband.

“Sherlock can be quite the messy tenant so I pray you will be fast enough to clean up after him,” Mrs Hudson stated bluntly.

“He has all his things thrown around the apartment and his excuse is always it has been done for a bloody case,” she made a high pitch sound and quickly covered her lips, “Forgive me dear, I don’t usually swear.”

You smiled sweetly and sighed, “Do not ask that of me Mrs Hudson,” you shook your head. Your grandfather had a terrible habit of doing many deeds and saying many things unfit for the ears of a lady.

She sighed with relief and clapped her hands. By taking your arm once more, she guided you through the homestead and presented you the premises.

Here there was a fireplace in the living room, nearby a bathtub had been carried from one of the bedrooms, it’s linens already prepared and laid over the copper surface. A fresh bucket of coal and wood sat beside the fireplace layout. The floor covered in a fine carpet and the curtains were the thickest of velvet.

“Kitchen is down stairs, shared by us both dear but I supply most meals as is the tenancy agreement so you needn’t burden yourself with those tasks, I do ask you wash your own linens. We have a alley line out the windows.”

You nodded as the woman kindly spoke to you and introduced you to your new life.

It was when you passed two doors you realised there was two bedrooms.

“Sherlock is sometimes a overly private person. Especially to the contents of his cases and clients. He owns the only key to his bedroom so I’m afraid I cannot show you his room until he arrives. This one, where Doctor Watson once resided is now yours.”

You opened it up and noted the empty trunks around the room which Mrs Hudson had emptied earlier.

“Doctor Watson lived here?” you asked over your shoulder as you stepped into the quarters.

You visually took in the fine canopy bed and a small desk and wardrobe in the corner with a large window that led out to the alley wash line, a balcony area and stair case up to the roof above.

Mrs Hudson went around and closed the suitcases and trunks gently, one by one. You started to explore which drawers she had placed what undergarments and jackets and what dresses had been hung in the wardrobe and which books she had stacked onto your desk and where she placed your accessories on your vanity.

You were not surprised by the condition of a separate sleeping quarter. Your grandparents slept in separate rooms...but that was because your grandfather was a loud snorer and suffered from nightmares of his time in the wars.

This marriage, you worried, would also lack a lot of physical contact...

“I am going to carry these empty trunks up to the attic dear,” Mrs Hudson stated as she lifted the empty wooden boxes. Your eyes widened and before you could offer assistance she had moved spritely out.

You opened the window to your room, allowing light into the space. You sneezed. It seemed the particles in the light showed Mrs Hudson forgot to dust the area.

You opened the small doors. The noise of the outdoor city crept in. The smell of the salty mud in the street tickled your nose.

Intrigued to enjoy more of your space you came out to look more around your home. It was smaller than what you came from, that did not make you any less grateful. This would be better than living in the gutter of the slums, you were sure.

The idea you now had a home of your very own where you could independently invite people over for tea and luncheon was exciting, your husband be damned if he didn’t allow.

12:07pm Monday 5th May 1890, 221 Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

When Mrs Hudson returned after removing the last suitcase and storage box, you politely requested she help you out of your wedding dress...

Her grey eyes widened at your request, “Did you not wish to await Sherlock’s return my dear? Traditionally the husband loves to take of this gown of all gowns.”

After his actions today...you were not sure you wanted to please him or suffer his very untraditional behaviour. You doubt he would be kind or patient enough to unbutton the line down your back.

You shook your head, “Thankyou for your suggestion Mrs Hudson, but my mind remains solid, I wish to resort to a dressing gown. I don’t intend to welcome any guests today other than yourself and my husband.”

Not willing to question your choice, she smiled warmly, “Alrighty dear, turn around then.”

Her wrinkly fingers pinched at your spine line of buttons starting from your neck downward.

“Forgive my prying dear...may I ask how the service went? I had expected you and Mr Holmes to have arrived together.”

You sighed and pinch the bridge of your nose. The moment you arrived you sensed this line of questioning would eventually occur...

“It was sorely interrupted by my sister in law...I believe she was attempting to save her brother from the wails of...” you smirked, and sarcastically drawled, “wedded bliss...”

You could hear the old woman cackle behind you, “Ah that Enola Holmes is a trouble maker and their mother if I might say so myself.”

“I did not witness his mother at the ceremony?” you noted openly, you presumed their parents had passed away.

“Oh no, probably not. Eudoria like a ghost in the walls some days. Very secretive that woman but good company I assure you, a comedian.”

How unusual to state so openly their mother was a trouble maker and yet good company...was such a thing possible?

“She...Enola...revealed his...true desires...or lack of...to be my husband...he left the chapel in a great frustration.”

Mrs Hudson’s worrisome tone opened out to you, “Oh no my dear, I am sorry to hear such a thing...I did say earlier some days he can be bully so I must pray he doesn’t treat you like that furthermore.”

You nodded sharply, “Perhaps my husband needs a bigger bully to tame his actions. Maybe he needs a good humbling?” you snorted a laugh. You felt a sudden pause in Mrs Hudson. You sensed her stepping away. Her sudden silence disturbed you

You looked over your shoulder to observe her but what came in view was a elderly woman gaping at a hard face man at the front door...Sherlock.

“Mrs Hudson, I do not believe it is a duty of yours to undress my bride and so I must find myself saying, I forbid you to touch her so intimately again,” he quipped as he shed his blazer and hung his top hat on the coat rack.

The room had become cold despite the bright sun shining into the apartment.

You felt exposed with your back flared out.

You turned your body for your front to face him.

The housekeeper snorted, “If you hadn’t abandoned her in the chapel this morning perhaps you would’ve been here to do it yourself.”

Your jaw fell open at her boldness. The man grimaced and smiled tightly with fire in his eyes, “Mrs Hudson?” he asked sweetly, “Get out of my apartment. Now.”

It was scary and yet so calm as he said it. His tone was full of a unspoken threat. The elder woman jerked up her chin and nudged him as she left the main room.

Sherlock swiftly locked the door behind her.

“So...Mrs Holmes...” He muttered bitterly, “You appear to be in need of a hand there with your wedding dress. Come here...wife...so I may relieve you of your strains.”

He spat the word ‘wife’ through gritted teeth. You did not feel safe...

“I...I’m sorry for what I said,” you mumbled, looking away from him as he stepped slowly closer to you.

He looked at you with a harsh face. His finger twirled in the air...silently demanding you turn.

He might as well have slapped you with the way you gasped. You bit your lip tightly to not cry now in front of him again. You turned away from him and began to pull down the bodice of your gown.

“Do not be,” he scoffed lightly, “You were merely stating what lay in your mind...”

You felt him behind you, hovering over you. You felt his fingers dug into the strings of your corset.

You pushed the bodice down to your hips. You untied the string of your bustle. When the springy cage collapsed, your white skirts fell passed your hips and down to your ankles.

“To this day,” Sherlock hummed, “I seek when women return to the corseting stays of only their chest. I don’t like pulling all these strings loose.”

You nodded slowly. You wanted to not disagree with him or voice your opinion. You had made the mood direly cold and you felt it was your duty to make him happy once again.

You stood from foot to foot nervously, “I had the means to merely shred my dress and not my underlings, you needn’t remove my corset-”

He cut you off blunt and brashly, “I want to see my wife naked and I need to pull these strings before I lose patience and cut them off, so please stay still.”

“Naked?” you gasped as he tugged roughly, making the whale bone loosen further around your waist and hips. You lost your balance and fell forward onto the lounge.

He twirled you around to face him, “Yes, naked,” and pushed the corset up and over your head. You felt suddenly like a trapped animal on the cushion lounge. The chemise was light and sheer...it did little to hide your breasts....

He got to his knees in front of you and started to unbutton your shoes.

“You know how to perform your wifely duties yes? You do not require an anatomy lesson I hope? A woman of sublime education should know how one copulates with another.”

You clenched your thighs tightly together, tol afraid to move as he stared up at you. Very tiny movement of your nodding made him hum approvingly.

You were feeling hot...sweat beading at the back of your neck. You were not sure whether you were ready to have him so carnally especially in the middle of the day. You were unsure if this was appropriate to be doing at all.

As he removed both your shoes...his hands tenderly pulled at your white stockings....his hands creeped up your legs and pulled at the ribbon garters... Your bare feet felt cold to the air.

You jumped as the feeling of his lips pressed to one of your knees.

It was the first kiss he ever gave you.

His hands were wayward and you frigidly laid still. You were still too scared to move. His hands cupped your covered breasts softly.

The breath in your chest was quickly stolen out in a gasp and a unpreventable shaking moan.

His face rose up and his nose nuzzled to yours. It was so intimate and sudden...you were frightened and turned your face away to shudder...

“W-wait,” you softly begged.

He pulled back and huffed, “Yes, you’re corrct, I am overly dressed as well it would seem.”

He pushed up to his feet and plucked at the buttons of his vest. His finger unkindly tore his cravat from his throat and thumbed down his trouser lifting suspenders.

You felt your knees rise up to your chest. You were unsure if he wanted you to help, if that was a part of the duties of the bedroom....you were still not in the bedroom however...

“I believe this copulation would be easier in the bedroom, my dear Mrs Holmes?”

You didn’t understand straight away what he meant...you were frazzled...surely men who hated their wives didn’t do this? Had you pleased him so quickly that he didn’t care about whatever you’d don’t to frustrate him?

He looked at you dumbly and tilted his head, glancing to your bedroom door.

His hand held out to you, “Shall we?”

Your mouth felt impossibly dry but your loins grew a buzz and you felt a need to self pleasure...was this lust allowed in a marriage bed?

You carefully rose to your feet.

He pulled you closer and closer to your room and finally closer to your own bed.

He gently pushed your shoulders down for you to sit on the soft mattress

He removed his shoes and pushed down his loose trousers. His breeches, he started to unbutton. You looked away from his face and up to the ceiling.

You heard his breeches hit the floor. You didn’t want to look at his intimates... He shed his shirt and started to pinch at your chemise.

“Lift your arms up.”

From the corner of your eyes you could see his bare chest.

You were trembling with your limbs above your head. You didn’t know this man...he was Sherlock Holmes the great detective but that is all you knew.

And you were letting him see you in a state of your most open self...

He pulled the material over your head and he groaned as he gazed at your totally nude chest. Your nipples hardened in the cold breeze wharfing through the open window. Your arms fell to quickly cover your chest, you were too cold and shy to be so exposed like this to him.

He noticed your shivering. He turned away and went to close the window and shut the curtains. With strange admiration you noticed his tight and strong backside and thighs.

You flushed and accidentally whimpered when he turned around and you saw his cock. It wasnt like the statues in the museum...nor the medical books you perused..

It was...larger, and brutish.

You bit your lip and clenched your thighs again.

Would be hurt you? You were curious as a young girl about sex like many. Among your friends you had heard that the larger the male member the more agonising coitus would be.

You quickly recalled a time as a girl your grandfather took you to a horse auction and a stallion had broken his way into the mares pen. The great black beast look the white squealing mare most violently.

Would Sherlock pin his body above yours and bite the back of your neck to keep you beneath him...

You gulped loud enough for him to hear.

His hand pushed your shoulders back slowly.

“Spread those pretty thighs Mrs Holmes, show me what is now mine...”

Your fingers dug into your arms as you held yourself. Pathetically, tears came creeping out the button ducts of your orbs and escaped down your cheeks.

You swallowed the sob building in your chest. You didn’t think this intimacy would be so frightful and terrorising...

He stared down at you with a mean smirk. He scoffed and shook his head. He touched your knees and helped force them apart. Your spread thighs revealed your hairy centre at the crease of your drawers crotch...

He hummed approvingly. He stuck two fingers into his mouth and sucked them loudly and lewdly...

You choked on your tears and covered your face with your hands unable to watch anymore...you felt everything nonetheless...

Those fingers trailed across your thigh and tapped at your peaking labia. Your eyes felt wide.

A light shriek jumped from your throat as his hot mouth latched to your neck and you gasped while his tongue tickled your flesh.

You felt a single finger wiggled its way around your pearl bundle of pleasure before trailing and prodding into the space of your body...the hole. Your vaginal entrance...

“A hairy pussy cat...I might need to change that...”

You didn’t understand what filth he was suggesting. You knew your pussy referred to your entrance but to change it made no sense to you...

His free hand gently pulled your wrists away and pushed your hands to sit above your head.

With his soft mouth he wetly trailed his tongue along your skin arouse down to your fuzzy covered underarm and across to the swell of your breath. You squeezed your eyes shut with difficulty as you felt the tip of his nose nudge your teat...

His hot breath covered your nipple.

It stirred a strange, painful warm down your belly and arousal between your legs. You felt the wet essences of pleasure seep from yourself...

You shuddered loudly and groaned into the head of his curly hair as his finger pushed inside, stretching you out. You blanched at the thought remembering his thick cock was worth four of his fingers at this moment.

The sound of his finger was squelching and wet.

His second finger flickered to get inside of you. You tore away your mouth and loudly groaned as he entered and spread your insides.

Your belly felt tight. You let out a moan.

He kissed along your jaw and pushed his mouth over your lips. You didn’t know what to do. It was like he was sucking at your lips and licking them with his tongue.

You felt your experience come to light. You and on some occasions of youth touched yourself intimately in the dead of the night when all in the manor were asleep...your soft sighs muffled by your own pillows were heard only by yourself. The scratching sounds of your hips rolling against a thick blanket between your legs were maybe mistaken for a skittering rat in the walls.

You urges would decease the touches when you were reminded by your own senses that your genitals were not your prize but your future husband’s to touch. It was a sin to steal what would belong to him.

And as you laid beneath Sherlock and recalled those desperate nights of silly humping you bucked your hips into the touch of his fingers filling and stretching your way.

It was good to be a virgin...you didn’t want to be a slut ...you worried he would see you as many saw you.... Like your mother a prostitute....

You kept yourself pure for this moment but for the first time you wondered if that was a good choice. Was the lack of experience...a good thing for men?

And after sometime of him thrusting his fingers in and out, you felt the soft hot skin of something touching your hole....the tip of his cock.

“Sh-sherlock,” you worriedly whispered, “Please...w-wait.”

Your husband grunted and lifted his hand away from your hole to run his thumb across your tear wet cheek.

“You are aware it will sting...nothing has been inside you like this before.”

“Yes,” you whimpered. He kissed your wobbling mouth and used the tips of his fingers to press on your clit. He rubbed you slowly and realigned his tip to your hole.

“Allow me to open your doors with my key, wife. Fill your home with children.”

You shouted up at the ceiling as he thrust hard and fast into your body. Your lower body felt like a hot poker was ripping up into you.

You gasped and choked on a silent squeak before a few seconds past and the air filled your lungs making you scream and cry out as your life changed forever...

It was like he had cut you inside. And the pressure had not left you. His cock was dug deep and snuggly buried inside your tight hole.

You hit him. Your fists banged his chest with the little strength you had left.

“Stop! Get off me!” you wailed.

With bruising grip he held your arms down either side of your head. He was too strong for you to pull and push off. You sobbed out for your grandfather, so scared this would kill you.

His hips pulled back. You both gasped.

You groaned at the sight of his dick leaving you, covered in dark burgundy blood. It yellowed his pale member.

You felt sick and turned your head away into your covers.

“Please,” you begged, “Let me go.”

He sighed and shook his head, his mouth latched to your ear, “No...you can do this Y/N...this is the price all wives pay.”

He sheathed back inside of you. This time the burn of your walls was a little less.

The smell of metal was in the room. Your blood scent hit your nose finally. You could taste it in the back of your throat.

The way his hip bones punched down and roughly scrapped your pelvis made you hiss.

His mouth forced it’s way onto yours again in a passionate kiss. You whimpered and begged him to stop again as he thrusted inside. It hurt too much...you whined and sunk your teeth into his lips and caught the tip of his tongue.

“Fuck!” he roared and pulled back violently. His lips and yours covered in bright red blood in contrast to the red waves between your thighs.

“Get off!” you screamed again. You tugged your arms weakly. You tried pounding your heels into the back of his thighs.

He rose his hand high and you squeezed your eyes shut waiting for a blow...it did not come. You heard him yell angrily and hit the blanket instead.

He tired himself out of you, the force made you choke. The taste of his warm blood in between your teeth had you spitting aside the covers.

He pushed off the bed and stomped angrily out of the room, slamming your bedroom door shut. You sniffled and turned onto your side, crying as the burn between your legs struck you. You felt empty and sore. Like his hand had punched inside your body.

This is not at all what you anticipated as a married woman...

Why would any woman ever love their husband after cause such agony as that in their beds...

You reached out for a pillow and tugged it to your face. Your nose rubbed deep into the soft goose feathers and let your tears meld with your snot.

You curled up and clutched your sore side...

It was a pain comparable to your menses.

You prayed for help or someone like your grandfather or Mycroft to come and save you.

HELPINES:

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline Services

India Helpline Services.

#wowb #wails of wedded bliss #sherlock holmes x ofc #sherlock holmes x you #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock holmes enola holmes #henry sherlock holmes #dark!sherlock holmes #dark!henry cavill #dead dove do not eat

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medicinal-doll · 1 year

Text

Prey.

Dark!Daddy!Sherlock x little!reader

Summary: Sherlock hasn't paid you any attention. he'd rather barricade himself in his office than tend to your needs, so you act out. But when Sherlock finds your mess, you find yourself reaping the consequences of your insolence.

Warnings: degrading, master/slave dynamic,cursing, manipulation,Non-con/Dub-con,daddy kink,spanking,fingering,mind break,hair pulling,rough sex,Dom/sub dynamic,hint of ddlg,teasing,petnames,p in v sex

A/N might be admitted to the mental hospital for this one ✨

*Please don't repost without permission If you use my writing as inspiration please ask first and credit me

........

Your master had been glued to his office for hours. lasting about 10 minutes before you started to miss him badly.You started with your usual routine of whining and whimpering. gently tugging on his pant leg.

Of course he repeatedly kicked you out. but today was different. because after he kicked you out for the third time, you heard a distinct clicking of a lock.

How dare he shut you out like that! you grabbed onto the door handle grunting in frustration and disbelief, but no budge.

.........

A few hours later it was midday. Your tantrum had more than the usual running time. probably because you were bored and Sherlock wasn't there to reprimand you for your mischief.

In the few short hours, you managed to trash the entire living room. The bulk of your toybox was strewn across the room with it's contents littered on every surface imaginable.

But there was just one last thing. Sherlock's prized japanese oakwood coffee table. you threw your huge teddy bear Sherlock had won for you at the fair last Valentine's day.

And watched in horror as it collided with the hard surface. knocking it over onto the hardwood floor with a thundering crash.

Then silence...everything went completely still.

Until you hear that distinct lock sound from Sherlock's door.

"Shit!!shit- shit-" you frantically lift the table, and thank god it's not cracked. you think that would've been your last day on earth. you sigh in relief before turning back to your mess. bumping head first into something clothed and solid."Ouch" you rub your head before peering up, and your eyes go wide.

"Well....Do you have anything to say for yourself little one?" Your master towers over you. His aggravated domineering presence fills every corner of the room to the brim, as he stares you down. anger ever so present in his gaze.

Corneas Seething in anger harshly lavish your form in sheer and utter guilt as you wiggle your butt in shame.

Torn teddy bears and scattered blocks covered the area. Your gaze fixed on the bottom of your sirs deep azure robe, too afraid to look into his eyes. you hated to disappoint him. you didn't mean to be bad, you just wanted him to play with you.

Sherlock wastes no time and leaves you with no room for another reflection before he drags you by your worthless little body to his chambers.

"No!no-Master No!!" You try to kick and claw away from him but sher's grip is firm on your nappy.it threatening to tear from the sheer force of his hold.

Entering the room with haste a harsh grip forces your head against the wooden tile of his room.

Body squirming in desperation to resist.

Sherlock's eyes are cold and uncaring, analyzing your feeble form until you feel a forceful tug at your waist. Followed by a rough hand attempting to pry the diaper off of your clothed center, while the other holds you still.

"No!"

You were unbelievably wet, but the humiliation of letting him do whatever he wanted with your body made you want to revolt. You can't just let him take you in such a barbarically ungraceful way that easy.

You kick your legs at him trying to throw his grip off of you.

Sherlock says nothing dead silence.

Of all the times you've been with him, you've learned there's 2 sides to his disciplinarian ways.

The first being good sherlock.

Usually he'll just toy with you playfully. while the goal is to punish you, who said it couldn't be fun. Edging you for hours on end as you beg for him to touch you, fuck you, anything. he'd drive you insane, all while he taunts your stupidity.

Laughing at the fact that you should know by now who you belong to.

But then.....there's other Sherlock..Bad Sherlock. Needless to say Sherlock is a man of business. When he comes home to you it's a little different because he has a soft spot for you. But at work he's diligent and stoic, very much no nonsense. and his cases require the utmost concentration and precision.

But most of the time he gets a kick out of your disobedience, and enjoys correcting you. And then there's other times where he genuinely needs you to behave.

His word is law.

Disobey that and well...let's just say your mind and body will be out of commission for at least a few days.

You can tell which mood he's in by the look in his eyes.

When you were in his office he seemed fine.

But I guess as time went on the puzzle he was presented with must've taken him to a more serious state of mind.

So in short, his silence doesn't surprise you. But that's not to say It doesn't scare you shitless when he gets like this.

Cause then there's no arguing with him anymore.

He'll do as he pleases with his property.

Without another thought your nappy is violently ripped from you. Still kicking and screaming Sherlock breathes a deep sigh.

"Disobedient..." He remarks in a low grumbled tone. Before flipping your dress over your head till your little ass was shown fully on display.

You gasp as sherlock roughly groped at the exposed flesh. And there you were... Wet as a river. Sherlocks not daft. He knows when your behavior is especially bad, it's usually a result of your urges not being sated.

But Sherlock has to admit that he almost fell for your trap.

You wanted him to get upset.

He's rougher with you when you've pissed him off. The firm grabs of the tender flesh on your breasts. The way he manhandles you. toys with your body as you're powerless to stop him. How he pounds you as you beg him to stop. screaming it hurts while under your breath you're begging god that he lets Sherlock fuck you till you die.

Sherlock spreads the petals of your not to be ruined heat. you whimper at the sound of the wetness as he gazes at your gaping hole silently collecting his thoughts.

"You don't deserve my cock..." He decides to himself.

That set you off.

"No! Daddy please M'sorry I juss missed you n-"

"Enough" he says hearing no more of the show your trying to put on. Which he now realizes was just one of your big acts of foreplay for rough sex.

He glares down at you, seeming so tall from your spot on the floor. you pout at his feet wiggling your butt in guilt.

But Sherlock refuses to give into the temptation. Today you need to be reminded how unwise it is to test your masters patience.

"Is this how I taught you to behave" he repremands.

Your frame falters, sinking lower to the floor at his blunt questioning. Your silence being a good enough answer.

"Go get my box" he commands.

"T-the gold one?" You look up at him in terror.

"The red one" he corrects.

Involuntary tears leak from your eyes as you cling to his leg like a feeble lamb.

"No! Daddy please don't! M'sorry-" you plead.

"Yes I know you're sorry prey, you're going to be very.. Sorry..."

"No! Anything else!! put me in the ca-"

"Oh so now she tells me what to do" he taunts, the tamber of his tone coated in disapproval.

"N-no I didn't mean it like-.... I wasn't-..." You mumble your explanation but ween off to silence at the judgement of his commanding glare.

Sherlock bends down to your ear. brushing away stray hairs and whispering softly. Voice laced in malice and cruelty, contradicting his calm demeanor.

"Go get my box before I shove my cane all the way up that tight little pucker of yours"

Wide eyed and fearful of your master's wrath you hastily crawl away to retrieve the box from the "training room".

..............

Hesitantly you return, the box clutched nervously between your hands as you try not to make direct eye contact with your owner.

"Well the little thing managed to follow instructions"

You pout at his harshness.

"Now go pick out a belt" he says fiddling with the miscellaneous "correction tools" in the box. not even looking in your direction.

You decide to not make this harder on yourself and sulk as you leave again.

"And don't pick a small one...or I'll come choose myself"

You wince at his threats pouty and fearful what he's gonna do to you.

You come back with a thick black leather belt. you shiver from seeing the spiked and studded one he had hanging in the room.

As you enter you see sherlock pulling out a golden butt plug adorned with a jade jewel. you gulp as it looks bigger than the others he's used on you.

He comes closer to you taking notice of the way you flinch as Sher bends down to your level. holding out the buttplug to you between his middle and index finger.

An unreadable expression adorns his features as you take it quietly hoping he won't put it to use.. wishful thinking.

"I want that in your ass before I return...and no lube" he says in an oddly casual manner.

You look at him doe eyed "T-theres no way-" you think to yourself.

"Do you understand me" his dominant cadence snapping you out of your daze.

You nod reluctantly.

"lie down on the couch when you're done"

He then leaves without another word as you eye the cruel challenge your sir has bestowed upon you.

When Sherlock reappears he's clad in his disciplinarian attire. A white dress shirt rolled up to his forearms showing off his delicious spiderweb veins. complimented by a tight black vest showing off every curvature of his sculpted form. black dress pants and shoes to match. And finally an exorbitant avant garde watch adorning his wrist, along with a fresh pair of medicinal black rubber gloves.

You curse under your breath. You've really fucked up this time. And you didn't even manage to get the stupid fucking plug up your ass it just won't go in.

You begin to panic, strenuous efforts to shove the toy in become more frantic as sherlock nears you like a shark in the water. He smirks internally as he sees you tear up with both legs in the air. trying to forcefully shove it in, all to please him.

"Stop" he instructs, and you instantly halt your actions. his words like a cheat code to your body.

"Give it to me."

He holds out his palm all casual and unassuming. he doesn't look mad, but you know it's all a farce to keep you guessing.

You whimper meekly as you continue to try and jam it into your unprepared hole.

"Need I repeat myself?" sher growls with impatience.

You look away feeling shy before begrudgingly handing over the jade plug.

Sherlock hunches himself over you no mercy in sight.

"hold open your ass"

"Sher-"

His eyes demonically snap to yours. not only where you about to object and defy his orders, but you also were going to address him by the wrong title.

"Oh bunny don't make me break you" his eyes say.

"Yes Sir" you mutter defeatedly.You then snap your lips shut and pry your butt open as much as you can.

"Wider" he says plainly, feigning indifference.

You try to hide your blush. Sherlock looking at you so exposed like this, he must be getting some sick kick out of it.

Sherlock leans his head down and licks a singular wet strip up your hole. you hate that your walls flutter from it.but that all comes crashing down as Sherlock rams the plug deep into your ass. you scream loud enough that even the neighbors could hear your desperate cry. not that they would dare say anything.They hear you scream most nights. whether it be pleasure or pain, it's all the same to Sherlock.

You fold in on yourself crying at the rough intrusion in your body. you don't dare fight back when sher seats himself on the love sofa. manhandling your form until you're splayed over his lap. you sniffle quietly as sher massages you gently.your body quivering in fear as you hear the clink of a belt. you grip on tightly to his trousers bracing yourself for what's to co-AH!

Sherlock deals a devilish leather blow to your ass and it's already too much."Daddy! No!" You try to reach for the belt but Sher just keeps hitting you harder everytime.

"Ah! No Stop it!!"

You cover your ass as sher holds his belt in the air.Winding up for the worst blow of them all.

"Remove your han-"

"Daddy it hurts!"

"I said move your Fucking hands!!"

You take them away as the leather comes crashing down on your tender ass. you yell as the sting reverberates throughout the tender flesh.

All the strength is zapped from your body, but Sher's just getting started with you.

You cry and sob, muffling your tears and digging your manicured nails into the fabric of your master's trousers.

But then something rubbery makes an abrupt intrusion into your slicken folds. your head shoots up and you gasp at the new contact digging though your walls in search for that deep sensitive area.

You look back at Sherlock stoic as ever as if he didn't just deliver the ass beating of your life just moments ago. You manage to contain most of your moans until he finds your spot.

Now you're really in trouble.

He grinds his knuckles deep into your core making you spasm as you whimper and writhe moaning like a virgin whore.

Sherlock reaches his other hand to pull your hair.You whine and wince as Sherlock periodically takes his fingers out to smack your sore butt then entering them back into you.

It's all too much.

"Please sir can I cum-" you plead trying to wiggle your spot away from the daunting strokes of his gloved hand. moaning profanities under your breath at the mind numbing sensation.

Sherlock says nothing, but you know it's a trap. cumming without permission is a big no no. The consequences being worse than the spanking you just got.

"Master please!! I can't hold it any longer-" you whine meekly trying to wiggle your butt away the pleasure overriding your senses but sher holds you firm.

"If you cum I won't fuck you" he comments, admiring the beauty of your soaked heat clenching and coating the rubber of his the gloved fingers.

It's a little concerning how fast you started to move at his threat.you didn't even squirm that hard when Sherlock dragged your sorry ass into the room.

Wiggling profusely, Sher meets your whims and let's go of you. leading you to tumble onto the hard wooden floor.

"Ouch" you say pitifully, but your mind is quickly drawn away from that as you feel sher's hand lace itself in your hair. pushing your head to lay flat against the ground. his other hand pulling your hips up to meet something wet and bulbous prodding at your entrance.

You grin sadistically.

Yes...this is what you've been yearning for all day. this is the reward for all your efforts. annoying Sherlock, trashing the living room, and getting that violent spanking. all for Sherlock to use you as his own personal cum doll.You're just as fucked up as he is, if not more.

But you grow concerned when sher doesn't move. So you curiously look up at him from your limited view on the ground.

"Holy shit" you shudder internally.

Now he looks pissed, brows furrowed and lips pressed together into a sharp line his eyes cold and malevolent.

Ah yes, this is your master.. the bad one.And the one that makes you the wettest of them all.

He bores into you expectantly, speaking not a word. Sherlock is a man of principle and justice, so needless to say he wants you to apologize for your egregious behavior.

You swallow your shallow breath before pulling your most innocent angel face at him. And even though sher will act like he's immune and it doesn't help your case. His cock twitches noticeably against your entrance as you bat your baby doll lashes at him.His grip tightening in your hair as he grows just as impatient as you are for release.

Not that he'd admit it but he also needed this badly, some leeway from the stress of his case.

"M'sorry for being a bad girl master" you pout at him cutely.

Nothing, not a blink from him. so you keep going.

Listing every single bad thing you've done for the day as his tip distractingly glosses over your clit.

"And I'm sorry for not getting the-mmph!"

Sherlock breathes out a heavy sigh as he slowly sinks his fat cock in your needy little pussy.

"Keep Apologizing..." He grunts as his cockhead buries itself to the hilt nudging against your little baby room.

"I-i'm sorry I couldn't get the plug In ah!-" You yelp as his cock is pulled out from your hole abruptly.

"Couldn't get it where pet" Sherlock groans as he starts to plunge his cock into you.rutting against every sensitive nerve imaginable.

"I-in my ass..." you whimper writhing your butt against his hips begging for him to ruin you.

"Where!" He growls lowly pounding against a spot that makes both of your eyes roll to the back of your skulls.

"In my ass!!Please Master fuck me!fuck-"

Sherlock fucks into you recklessly. robbing you of your inhibitions and vocabulary in an instant.

"Fuck-daddy fuck pleas-! Ruin me please..."

You whimper whine and moan at his cock, it pulling embarrassing sounds from your body. You and Sherlock rock back and forth inside of each other animalisticly, as if driven by a primal urge.

You feel his big veiny cock pulse inside of you hitting your spot with every rough thrust. his balls clenching and unclenching themselves from the pleasure.

"Master!Master!Master!!!Please-.. Shit-!" You call him over and over again. begging for him to stop or keep going, your mind being too scrambled to decipher between the two.

"You gonna stop being an ungrateful wench"

"Wrecking all the expensive shit I pay for"

Sherlock growls into your ear tugging at your hair while he fucks your pussy aggressively.

"Yes! yes-"" you mewl at him completely under his spell.

"Dumb fucking baby slut, fucking up my nice table- I should fuck you on that table.. breed you till the cum drips out" Sher groans darkly in your ear. his gutteral moans sinking you deeper into the pool of bliss.

"You want me to fuck you dumb hm? Ruin and break you" he taunts.

You nod sickly, slamming your hips to fuck back into him. meeting every one of his sinful thrusts in a circadian rhythm."Is that why you won't let your master get a good day's work in dolly,Need me that badly?" Sherlock starts smacking your ass again and you forget what being human feels like.

"Yes sir!!yes sir-Please I can't help it!" A bit of drool leaks from your mouth seeping onto the floor.

"Well would you look at that, all cock drunk and addicted to my cock"

"You addicted to my cock baby hm?" He coos in a dominant tamber.

"Yes sir! I need it!! I don't know how to act right if I don't have your dick breeding up my little bitch hole-" you bark out your pussy clamping down around him tightly.

"I know prey, your just a dumb little baby princess"

"That pretty little head of yours is just filled with air, You need your master to keep you in line honey don't you"

He places a sinister kiss to your head as he delivers thrust after thrust into your dripping walls. the intense rhythm of his hips unwavering.

"Don't worry honey I'll fix you right up

You know I always do..." He whispers psychotically.

"Y-yes master!" you moan, the program of his influence playing all over your mental state.

"Bad toy....such a naughty little toy...messing up daddy's apartment" he says in between the manipulative kisses.

"Say it princess, tell me your my toy"

You revel in the sound of his voice, it pulling you deeper into the fog of your mind.

"I've.. been a bad toy master!-"

"I-i'm M-masters...Toy" you stutter the command back to him as he pounds you good and deep.

"Good girl, now tell me how bad you want me to fix you" he says, voice dropping to that low gravely octave that could make you do anything.

Sherlock's thrusts become disheveled as his pace slows him finally reaching his orgasm after the countless times you've already cum.It still leaves you spasming around him.

"I-Im a D-dumb little bitch toy master, I-i need you to fix me..." you say all mind broken and too fucked up to care.

"Of course I will sweetness" Sherlock says smirking possessively. placing a tender kiss to your lips, this embrace being the first kindness he's shown you all day.

Even though your senses are shot, you can still register the thick streams of cum coating your walls. But all you can do is lie there, you couldn't walk if you tried.

"Come here honey" the devil of a man picks you up in his arms in an all too gentle manner considering the careless roughness he's subjected your fragile body to.

You lay blank in his arms with slow shallow breaths as Sherlock carries off your form to the training room for a little "tinkering.

Then it'll be off to bed in your cage, some supper if your sir is feeling merciful.

Not like you have a say anyway, you're his after all. Sherlock's obedient little pet.So I hope you learned your lesson little bunny.But if you didn't that's fine too.Sherlock would love nothing more than to wipe the slate of you clean.Taking you apart and putting you back together again until you learn to be his perfect little angel.

His Prey.

#henry cavill smut #x little!reader #henry cavill x reader #dark!henry cavill #daddy!henry cavill x little!reader #henry cavill x female reader #daddy!henry #dark x reader #dark!fic #sherlock x reader

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hencvl · 11 months

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Mine. I [Remastered]

Dark! Clark Kent x reader. Warnings: dark fic, forced marriage.

Summary: you finished your night shift and you feel someone was following you.

A/n: sorry for any mistakes that i made, English is not my first language. I also don't give permission to post my works on any other platforms such as Wattpad, Ao3 etc.

my masterlist

series masterlist

read pt. 2 >

You curse under your breath as you walk down on the street, clutching tightly on your coat. It's 12 a.m at midnight, you just finished your shift and on your way to your apartment. You reluctantly use this route because it was the closest to your place.

You shiver as you feel the cold air against your skin, even if you are covered in many layers of coat, you can still feel it. Winters can be fun, but also can be annoying at the same time.

You checked your phone as it was buzzing, a message was sent from your roommate. You have been living with him for over a year now, yet both of you barely know each other.

Clark-

i leave some dinner leftovers in the fridge.

You-

Mkay.

You looked around as you felt someone following you from behind. You could feel an unknown presence since you left your workplace, yet you choose to ignore it.

You turn your heels around to see who it is, but only to find nothing. Suddenly, a hand covered your mouth to muffle your scream, your back was pressed against the stranger's chest

“whaa- help!”

You fight the figure, wiggling and squirming in his hold. You know you shouldn't be using this route at all! what the hell have you got yourself into. You kicked the stranger's ankle, but it was a futile attempt.

“stop resisting.” he spoke in a harsh tone, gripping you tightly. The last thing he wanted to do to you was hurting you.

No, you're too precious to him.

Instead, he took out a pad that he dabbed with Chloroform earlier, and slammed it on your nose, letting you breath the toxin.

“noo..ummf..”

Seeing you fall unconscious in his arms, he smirked as he caress the beautiful face of yours while engulfing your small figure in his warm embrace.

finally. Months of watching you from afar, admiring, longing for your touch and warmth he finally got to hold you in his arms. He would not let this opportunity to have you go wasted.

The man looked around the alley, afraid if someone did watch his deed. Once he was convinced that everything was clear, he looked back at her with a wicked grin.

“sleep tight, my bride”

You take a sharp breath as you blink, only to find yourself spawled on a soft mattress. You tried to move but failed, too exhausted as you lay back. The bed moved a bit as you heard a groan next to you, a muscled arm makes its way to your waist, bringing you closer to a toned bare chest.

You stayed still, telling yourself that it's just another nightmare. But it's not until you feel a warm breath fanning on your neck before he placed a soft kiss on it before whispering right into your ear.

“what are you trying to do, my dear?”

His voice is deep, whispering at you soothingly as he caresses your waist. He lifted himself and got on top of you, finally got to see his face.

You study his Adonis looks, from his curly hair, trailing down to his handsome face. His icicle blue eyes are the most beautiful things you've ever seen, so beautiful yet so cold.

His jawline is sharp, like you could hurt yourself just from tracing it. He let you stare at him. What a romantic scene it was. Like the beauty of flower petals formed from two colors, becoming one solid entity.

You couldn't help but gawk, how can someone be so fine like this? The thought left your mind immediately as he shifted from his position a bit, leaning closer towards you. He brushes his succulent lips against your cheek, like a predator finally gets to devour its prey.

“wait- who the hell are you? why am i here?” you said, as you sat up on the bed and backed up from him.

“you don't need to know.” he replied, groaning slightly as she made a distance between them. He wanted to hold her in his arms again and never let her go.

He tried to reach out to her again, grabbing her ankle and pulling her towards him with a squeal. Even though she tried to resist him, she seemed to be liking his touch.

A smirk made its way to his face, adding the handsomeness in his features that got her melted.

little did he know...

“argh!” he let out a pained groan at the sudden kick on his crotch. She kicked him hard in the balls that got him shaking slightly from the after effects.

You immediately jumped out of the bed, abandoning the mysterious man that was about to hold you captive and your backpack. That doesn't matter now. Your life matters.

Running down from the apartment, you look around trying to ask for help before the man comes and captures you again. Luckily there's a cab pulling up on the road once they saw you.

“this is madness!”

#dark clark kent #clark kent x female reader #clark x reader #clark kent #superman #superman fanfiction #clark kent imagine #dc comcis #henry cavill characters #henry cavill imagine #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill fanfic

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geraltofriviagwynbleidd · 8 days

Text

Nothing unusual. Just Dandelion being Dandelion and Geralt being Lambert!

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cell-positive-especially-great · 4 days

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https://amanda-726.ludgu.top/n/LeZ1Njg

#atheist #army #genshin xiao #hot celebrity #tamen de gushi #game grumps #star trek tos #starwars #byun baekhyun #bendy and the dark revival #ebonygirls #henry cavill #milo ventimiglia #palabras

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boxofbonesfic · 9 months

Photo

Title: Tonality [4]

Pairing: Prince!Geralt x Princess!Reader

previous chapter

Warnings: 18+ Only, Dark Fantasy, Darkfic, Step-cest, Medieval/GoT inspired AU, (Future)Smut, Dubcon/Noncon, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, MINORS DNI!!

A/N: a little more story, a little more tension, a little mor everything! what do you guys always, please mind the warnings, and enjoy!😊🥰 divider by @firefly-graphics

The Nilfgaardian banner snaps in the sharp, salt-laden breeze, the dark fabric bearing the crest of its namesake. The bright yellow sun mirrors the one in the cloudless sky above the keep. From your room, you can see their approach long before they reach the gates, a thin vein of black weaving through the countryside like a snake. The garrison pauses only briefly in the city, winding through the crowded streets in their pitch colored armor like a long satin ribbon. You grimace at the sight of them, swallowing against the sourness you feel growing at the back of your throat.

You do not know why the sight of them fills you with a dark foreboding, a shadow that looms in the space behind your thoughts. Perhaps it is the knowledge that you are expected to greet the Nilfgaardian envoy alongside your mother, the king, and the prince that makes your stomach curdle.

“My Lady, should we not join their Majesties?” Kassandra’s voice draws you from your churning thoughts. “Her Highness would not be pleased if we were late.” You swallow the dry retort that your mother would not be pleased no matter what you did, and automatically feel guilt over the bitter thought. You grimace before nodding at Kassandra over your shoulder.

Nothing good will come of this. The feeling—no, the knowledge—is as familiar to you as your own name, appearing among your thoughts as if it had always been there. Only sorrow will come of this day.

“Are you alright, Your Grace?”

Your throat tight, you smile. “Y-yes.” I am grim without cause. You shake yourself, smoothing your hands down the stiff, unfamiliar dress. It’s new, gifted to you only this morning as your mother had informed you of her expectations.

“You’ll look lovely in this,” she had bade the servants to lay out the massive thing, a veritable ocean of fabric, with so many skirts and stays you find yourself amazed you can even move at all. You detest the restriction and corsetry of it all, fidgeting with a frustrated grimace as Kassandra opens the door. Your thoughts must be plain on your face, for she is quick to reassure you as you pass.

“You are a vision, Your Grace,” she says, hurrying to your side as she closes the heavy door behind you. Despite your displeasure, her words do comfort you, and you offer Kassandra a watery smile in thanks. “I daresay you shall be the envy of every Lady in attendance.”

You laugh dryly. “Even you?” Kassandra’s response is unexpected—she shakes her head, pressing her lips together into a thin, apologetic smile.

“No, my Lady.” She says softly. There is true pity in her eyes, which stings all the more. “Though there are many in His Majesty’s keep who would treat with the Gods themselves to take your place—and, exalted though it may be, I am not among them.” The words pass unspoken between you, true honesty masked only slightly by propriety. “I would not wish that for all the world.”

The throne room is as packed with bodies as it was at your mother’s coronation only a few scant weeks prior, servants weaving deftly in and out of the crowd. It parts easily for you, people scrambling out of your path as you make your way toward the throne. Geralt stands to the king’s left, and you feel the weight of his gaze upon you so heavily it is as though he has touched you with his hand.

“My King. I trust you are well this morning?” He heaves a heavy sigh at your question, massaging the graying hair at his temple.

“As well as can be expected, given the circumstances.” King Vesemir graces you with a tired smile. “But I am glad these worries are mine. Would that they fall on mine own shoulders and save yours.” Of these troubles, you know only what little you have managed to glean from casual conversation and your own observations—the Lord of Nilfgaard has sent his envoy, along with a garrison of troops, to treat with the king.

Your mother scoffs. “You are a King, my love,” she says, tilting her regal head at him. “You can do nothing without rousing at least a little of the rabble.”

You take your place next to her, skirting around the prince with a wide berth. Your mother reaches for your hand, patting it as she nods approvingly at you.

“You look as lovely as I thought you would.” Somehow, her complement makes you like your clothing even less. The dress is heavy and cumbersome, the corset laced so tight a deep breath makes the seams groan.

“It is the color.” Geralt’s interjection makes your mother’s smile thin and tighten, until the edges seem brittle like paper. “It suits you, sister.” Is there no line he will not cross? From behind his wide shield of plausible deniability he mocks you, his mouth quirking innocently as if he is unaware of the boundary he dances upon. Gracious acceptance is the only play you have, and he knows it as well.

“You are too kind, my Prince.” You clasp your hands together and face forward. It is surreal, almost, to see the calm with which he regards you now, when only a week ago he had raged at your door like a madman. Had you not seen it yourself, you would not think it possible. Though you would blame him for it, the nervous twisting of your stomach is not Geralt’s fault alone. The ill feeling that had taken root in your belly at the sight of the Nilfgaardian envoy still left you with a sour taste on your tongue, one that did not seem to wash away.

And the dreams…

You shudder to think of them, the dark, creeping things that keep you awake long after the halls of the king’s keep have fallen silent. You have not wandered from your rooms again to your knowledge, but you’ve slept so little in the past week that you suspect it is less a matter of your self control and more the lack of opportunity. The nails on your fingers, hidden by the cumbersomely long sleeves of your dress, are bitten down to the quick. It is a new habit you’ve developed sitting in the crushing dark as you wait for the dreams to come.

Your father’s rotting face swims before you again.

Sugar sweet—

You twist the heavy fabric of your sleeves in your nervous hands as you stare hard at the stone floor between your feet.

“What troubles you, Little Doe?” Geralt’s voice is as much of a surprise as his proximity, his side lightly pressing against your own as he leans down. You drop your hands to your sides like deadweight, suddenly aware of his eye.

“And why would you think me troubled?” You ask curtly. The prince’s wolfish grin sends a strange, hot pulse straight to your core, one you vehemently try to ignore. You are under no pretense, you know what the prince is, who he is. He has gone out of his way to show you, and yet—

“I am apt to know trouble when I see it.”

The throne room doors slam open, leaving you no time to respond as every eye is drawn to the entrance. The instant hush that falls over the room is so deep that the herald’s voice is like a crack of thunder. At the same time, your stomach tightens. The dark warning in your heart rings again like a bell, clear and true. Though you still do not quite grasp its meaning, the message is clear—whatever you’d been meant to avoid had now come to pass, leaving no room for escape or denial.

“Presenting His Lordship, Duke Emhyr of Nilfgaard!” The duke sweeps into the throne room, his ink-black cloak billowing behind him. There are two of his own guards flanking him in their telltale black armor, like pools of animated shadow. Their faces are hidden by their helms, the sides carved like griffin wings.

The duke stops before the throne, dropping down to one knee.

“My King.” His accented common turns the words up at the edges, almost like a question. “Hail.” His face is handsome but severe, high cheekbones, fierce, beady eyes, and a thin mouth that curls up at the corners, just like his words. There is a scar on his face, long and thin and jagged, stretching from his left temple to the right side of his chin. His already wan smile thins further as he turns to your mother.

“My Queen.”

“Lord Emhyr.” The duke’s smile is wan as he dips his head again. “I bid thee welcome. I trust you found the journey pleasant enough.” The words are empty pleasantries, merely frivolous formalities exchanged before the truth is allowed to be addressed.

“Aye, Majesty, as enjoyable as one can find a carriage journey.” He straightens back up. “I would extend my many congratulations on your union. The Gods themselves could not have delivered a more beautiful Queen.”

To your surprise, it is Geralt who speaks next.

“We did miss you at the celebration, my Lord.” The remark is meant to sound like a casual observation—you know it is not. “Quite a pity.”

Emhyr’s jaw tics. “Indeed.” He looks over his left shoulder, and motions the guards forward. “My deepest regrets. As I previously expressed to His Majesty, my presence was required elsewhere. As I am sure you recall, we do share a border with the Elves.” He spits the word like a curse. “Occasionally those savages do need a good reminding of where their lands end, and ours begin, Your Grace.”

You shudder. There are few elves left south of the heavily policed Nilfgaardian border, but you have met some. Savages. The word makes your lip curl. They are rather fond of that word, aren’t they?

“I did bring a—belated—wedding present.” Between the two of them, the guards haul forward a small black chest, the polished wood glinting in the light. He pulls back the lid, and a murmur travels through the gathered courtiers at the sight of the jewels. A small fortune in dark blue sapphires sits within. King Vesemir stands, bidding two of the ivory cloaked kings-guard forward to take the chest.

“A most precious gift.”

“The mines remain prosperous. Perhaps Her Highness might have them made into something befitting her loveliness.” A smile creases your mother’s ruby lips, but it is sharp enough to cut. Neither does it reach her narrowed eyes.

“We cannot thank you enough for your gracious gift, my Lord.” Her voice is delicate, like breaking glass. “But I do not believe you rode for six days to bear witness to my beauty.” You are left to wonder in the brief moments before Duke Emhyr answers. If he will allow the truth to be broached, or if he will flee from it like a rat from a burning ship.

“Indeed my Queen, I have not.” He casts a look around, as if the words he is about to speak are for everyone there, not just the king. “Your Grace, I come before you today with only the deepest respect for your will, authority, and wisdom.” Duke Emhyr chooses his words carefully. He chooses them as carefully as a mason did his stones, stacking each one meticulously on top of the other. “But I do admit my heart longs for clarity on this matter.

Not a season past, when His Majesty announced an end to his long mourning period, and indeed his intent to marry once more, I did put forth my own daughter as prospect.” His accusation takes shape, and you watch your mother’s face tighten, her fingers curling around the polished bone arm of her throne. “And before this very court, His Majesty agreed. I had imagined a shared future of prosperity and happiness between both our great houses. I mean no offense, and so I beg pardon—”

“And yet you have given it.” Your mother’s expression remains placid—her voice less so. You can almost hear the icy words forming on her tongue as her lips part to speak again, but the king silences her, holding up one steady hand.

“I appreciate your candor, my Lord,” he leans forward. “But it is Vesemir who rules here, not Emhyr.” All chatter ceases, and the chamber is as quiet as the crypt beneath it. “The decision as to who it is I marry is mine—and mine alone.” King Vesemir stands, descending the short set of steps until he is level with the duke. “It is I who bears the burden of ensuring the prosperity and stability of this realm. And while I am ever thankful for the service you have provided it… you would do well to remember that fact, my Lord.”

“Of course, my King. I—I mean only for the betterment of the empire.” It is then that his eye falls to you. “I see no reason a match might not still be made—”

“Then we shall speak no more about it.” You watch the duke’s jaw tighten, his lips thinning as he fights not to show his displeasure.

“As you will, Your Grace.” You have not heard the last of this matter, of that you are certain. A sinking feeling rises in your stomach, like you’ve tumbled freely over the edge of a cliff. There is no going back, the feeling seems to whisper, goosebumps erupting across your flesh. A path has been chosen now and you will walk it—

“I thank you again for your generous gift, Lord Emhyr,” the dismissal is obvious in the king’s tone.

“The pleasure is mine, my liege.” The words sound broken in his mouth, like he’s chewed them up. A cold finger traces down your spine as his eyes meet yours again. “I thank you for your counsel.”

—

The sky is dark, angry black clouds roiling above the keep. You’ve not seen much rainfall in Rivia since your arrival, but today the clouds above you seem full to bursting, the smell of the imminent downpour filling your nostrils. Still, you take your time as you stroll through the gardens, stopping every so often to enjoy the sight of flowers in bloom.

“You are enjoying the gardens today, my Lady,” Kassandra’s observance is gently made, though she looks worriedly up at the sky.

“I feel I must,” you reply, leaning down to inspect a half-closed bud. “Summer here is drawing to a close, and I must admit I fear the cold.” You offer her a small smile over your shoulder.

“Have you no winter in Redania?” She asks, wonder coloring her words. “The land of eternal summer indeed.”

“No snow,” you agree, shaking your head. “Tis more like… autumn.” There is a wistfulness to your words you cannot suppress, a longing that brings moisture to your eyes. In truth, you doubt it will matter how many years you spend here at court—Rivia will never feel like home. Kassandra smiles thoughtfully.

“I should like to see it, my Lady,” she says. “Twould not be a chore to accompany you—if you wished it so. The winter here is harsh, even within the city walls.”

“Aye, winter on the continent is no easy task to weather.” The two of you turn at the sound of a new voice to face the speaker. Duke Emhyr bows respectfully, removing his cap as he does so. “I did not mean to intrude—I find the gardens less familiar than I imagined,” he adds, a small smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “Might I trouble you for an escort?”

You had not seen the duke since his spectacle at court the day prior, the matter of which had the courtiers aflutter with gossip. You suppose you, like Duke Emhyr, had been equally blindsided in the matter of your mother’s courtship and her subsequent marriage. Nervously, you wonder if his feelings of dissatisfaction—and possible animosity—extend to you by proxy. Kassandra curtsies, and you nod, forcing a small, charitable smile onto your lips.

“O-of course, my Lord.” You reply. “I myself find the task of navigating the keep daunting, despite calling this place home.” Kassandra falls into step just behind you, and you must physically stop yourself from commanding her to walk beside you. Though you’ve little personal regard for the importance of blood and titles, you know here in Rivia those things matter above all else. The duke is more than happy to ignore her, his hawkish eyes weighing heavily on you.

“How long has it been since your arrival at the White Keep, if you will indulge my curiosity?”

“Nearly three months.” Though you have kept count of every passing day since your arrival, to say it aloud makes homesickness rear up in your chest. The duke clucks his tongue pityingly.

“Tis a shame. Redania is quite beautiful this time of year. I have had the pleasure of many a visit.” He clasps his hands behind his back and casts a look at the dreary sky. “Nilfgaard is my home, but I would be a liar if I said I did not envy the beauty of the southern jewel.” The wistfulness in his voice inspires thoughts of warm autumn nights scented with pine and faded sunlight. But a warning echoes in your heart at the false note in it, the one that reminds you of the coy, prying questions of your mother’s ladies in waiting, only cloaked in a cleverer disguise.

“Indeed.” You round the corner of a hedge. “I have never seen snow, now that I think of it. I should much like to, now that I am older.”

“Never seen snow?” The duke echoes your words, replacing your simple desire with shock. “Though I would not speak ill of your late father—Redania has never seen a finer Regent—I do believe he kept you far too sheltered.” It takes effort to keep your smile from going thin at the mention of your father. As if in response, a dull ache throbs in your chest.

“How lucky for us, then, that his death should bring me here.” You flick the words from your tongue like the lashing of a whip. There is a brief moment of dark satisfaction as the duke’s eyes widen, and his confident words falter.

“My sincerest apologies, Princess, I did not mean—”

“No, of course not.” You reply, swallowing against the sudden lump in your throat. “Forgive me, Duke Emhyr. My father I are—were, quite close.” You offer him an apologetic smile. “Might we speak of something else?”

“Of course, of course. My deepest sympathies.” He casts a furtive glance in your direction. “I hope you have been enjoying your time here, despite the… unfortunate circumstances.” You nod primly—for what words do you have to describe the aching emptiness that fills you at the thought that home is a distant thing now, the memory of a place you no longer belong.

“I have found ways to occupy myself.” You feel as thin as your smile. “The White Keep is large, there are many ways to spend ones time.”

“And Her Majesty has certainly taken to her role,” he continues. “She has taken to court as though she were born here.” There is a note of bitterness in his voice. “Has she spent much time in Rivia? Surely during His Majesty’s rather short courtship—”

“I know little of my mother’s courtship,” you say flatly, your eyes narrowed. “If you wish to know about it, perhaps you should ask her.” This time, it is difficult to leash your ire. You grow tired of the duke’s probing, his thinly veiled attempts to pick information from conversation behind the shield of feigned ignorance.

“Highness—”

“I trust you will can your way from here.” There is an unfamiliar coldness that underscores your words, one that uncomfortably reminds you of your mother. It is like hearing her own voice from your mouth, leaving a sour taste on your tongue. “Lady Kassandra, l believe we should take our leave.”

“At once, My Lady.”

You leave him at the entrance to the gardens in the courtyard, sweeping past as his eyes bore into your back.

—

“How does it end?” You are sat before the fire, a book held tenuously in your hands. Your loose, traditional dress is folded beneath you primly as the flames dance in the hearth. “How does it end?” Your father repeats warmly, chuckling as he leans forward to rest a hand on your shoulder. “You stopped reading.”

You can’t quite recall where you were now, the words seeming to shift on the page as you squint at them.

“I… I don’t remember now,” you say, glancing over your shoulder at your father. Though the flames are bright, his face is shadowed, but you get the feeling that he is smiling.

“The princess has just met the wolf,” he replies. “She doesn’t know it yet, but he plans to devour her whole—body, and spirit.” You look down at the page. “She is careful, the princess, and clever, but the wolf is sly, and he is not the only thing she has to fear.” You do not know why, but his words fill you with an incomparable sorrow.

“What else does she have to fear? Is the wolf not enemy enough?” You are crying. You don’t know why, but you are, tears pouring down your face and dripping messily off of your chin to stain the pages with salt.

“Weep not, daughter. She may yet avoid his jaws—and if not that, then perhaps she might at least turn him to her will. But the peacock—she is her true enemy.”

“A bird?”

“Yes, dear girl,” your father’s voice goes strangely quiet as the fire burns low in the hearth, and the sitting room is shrouded in gloom. “For while her pretty feathers distract you, her beak plucks out your eyes.”

You wake blearily, blinking in the darkness as you struggle back to wakefulness. Instead of your bed, you are knelt on the cold, stone floor in front of the half-dead hearth. The embers that still smolder within are not enough to give off true heat, and pins shoot through your legs when you struggle to your feet. It is frigid in here, and you shiver, clutching your thin nightgown tightly around yourself.

You’ve no memory of leaving your bed, nor of kneeling in front of the hearth, and you sniffle as you make your way back beneath the canopy above your bed. There is a familiar ache in your tight throat that feels like you’ve been crying, and when you lift a shaking hand to your cheek.

Your face is wet with tears.

—

Your mother strokes your head as you sob, your tears soaking into her gown.

“I—I fear sleep, I fear waking,” you rasp, wiping at your sore eyes with the back of one trembling hand. “T-there is no respite from them. I close my eyes in one place and open them in another—” A hiccoughing sob cuts the words in half. “Mother I fear I… I fear I shall go mad if I see father again. His face—!” You bury your head in her lap as another round of shuddering sobs wracks your limp body.

It has been years since you have sought your mother’s comfort like this, and in truth you cannot remember the last time it was even offered. She had been surprised to see you at her chamber door at this hour, disheveled and still clad in your nightgown, but she had let you in after you’d tearfully recounted the contents of your dreams.

She strokes your head. “Nightmares, my love. Nothing but terrors spun up by your mind—brought on from stress, no doubt.” Her hand is cool and comforting against your forehead. “I shall have the healer assemble something for you.”

“T-thank you, mother.” You offer her a watery smile.

“Anything for you, my love.” She strokes your cheek affectionately, the bandage wrapped around her index finger rough against your skin. “I do so hate to hear of your suffering, I will do what I can to appease it.” You smile wider, even as you swallow back the inappropriately bitter feeling that says you have been suffering all this time regardless. This was the response you had desired from her all those weeks ago when you’d begged her to send you home—and now, for some reason, it feels… hollow.

“What happened to your finger?” You ask, and she sighs, waving her hand dismissively.

“A hairpin, nothing to worry yourself over.” You dry your eyes, dabbing at them with a handkerchief. Your mother barely acknowledges the timid knock at the door before the chambermaid pokes her head inside.

“Highness? H-His Majesty is here.”

Your mother does not look surprised to hear this. If anything, the corners of her mouth curl up into a sly smile for half an instant before she nods.

“I see. I shall see to him in a moment—” The maid squeals as the King himself pushes past her, his eyes wild.

“Thayet!” He calls your mother’s name with a hoarse, desperate voice. “I have waited over an hour for you—oh.” He seems to note your presence with all of the recognition one would give a fly. His bright, golden eyes are cloudy with confusion—as though he hasn’t the faintest idea who you are, or why you are there. Recognition finally lights in his eyes, and he nods at you.

“Princess. It is… quite late,” he says slowly, as if he is only now realizing that fact himself. “Should you not be abed?” Your face heats with embarrassment.

“Ah, y-yes, my King. I was… troubled.” Your eyes dart between him and your mother. “But mother has allayed my fears.” You gather your shawl about your shoulders, bowing your head respectfully. Of course he would visit her as a husband—that is a fact you suppose you have known since you came to this place, but to catch the King in your mother’s bedchamber was another thing entirely.

The eagerness in his eyes as he looks at her, the way he licks his lips—it reminds you uncomfortably of Geralt, and of the need you see mirrored in his amber eyes. You retreat from the sitting room, though the sound of your mother’s voice makes you glance over your shoulder one last time as the door begins to close.

“I shall send Callista with a sleeping draught,” your mother calls at your retreating back. “For the dreams.”

Your stomach turns uncomfortably as you watch the king latches onto your mother, pulling her close as he trails desperate kisses down her arm. You are too far away to hear the words he growls through his gritted teeth before ripping at the bandage on her thumb and sucking the injured digit into his mouth.

The door closes with a loud bang, leaving you alone in the dark, empty hall.

The peacock, your father whispers in your memory as you shuffle back toward your room in the early hours.

She’ll pluck out your eyes.

to be continued…

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