#something something sherlock praise kink...
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hey. hey. i need to be really gay for a minute. dont mind me
#before all that shit happened though i was rly happy tho#bc my boss i have a crush on asked me a question bc he couldnt figure it out#and i immediately knew the answer and he laughs and goes 'this guy!' and he was smiling at me so big#and i was like yes i am the worlds greatest detective thank u#it was so cuuuuute im so maddddd#something something sherlock praise kink...
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dance in the winter.
rating: explicit. 18+ only.
length: 2,937
content: Sherlock Holmes x f!reader, porn with plot, smut [fingering - receiving, oral - receiving, unprotected p in v], kink(s) [praise, hair pulling], fluff
though he tried to restrain himself, it was useless – when he avoided you, circumstance always brought you crashing back into him. as he climbed the stairs to 221B Baker Street, he supposed this was one of those times as well.
Eight days, seven hours, and thirty-four minutes ago Sherlock Holmes had been persuaded by way of your fluttering eyelashes to take on one final case before Christmas, though against his better judgment he hardly needed convincing when it came to you. He’d met you months ago now through his sister and, despite himself, he’d found plenty of excuses to intersect his path with yours. The way you had burrowed into his mind was often infuriating, the way he had permeated your mind dizzying.
It was impossible to ignore the growing affection between the two of you – even Enola had remarked on it to you weeks ago and though you were a convincing liar, she was better at reading you. Sherlock’s behavior spoke for itself, Enola thought – the sheer fact he could be seen with you enough times to constitute a pattern meant he enjoyed your company, and for Sherlock that was enough of a compliment and revelation.
Though no one had pushed for an answer, everyone who knew both of you knew the energy that came with the both of you, and the assumption that you two had acted on those feelings would not be unfounded. Several times now, in fleeting and molten moments, Sherlock had kissed you breathless and reverent. Though he tried to restrain himself, it was useless – when he avoided you, circumstance always brought you crashing back into him. As he climbed the stairs to 221B Baker Street, he supposed this was one of those times as well.
“Eight days, seven hours, and thirty-eight minutes spent on your case,” he proclaimed as he closed his watch, tucking it away before fixing his gaze on you. “Only to follow clues to my own home, and to find you waiting for me.”
You waited for him with a smile on your face, sprawled against the worn fabric of his chaise in a dress you knew distracted him, the depth of its color bringing out the best in yours. He closed the door behind himself, dropping his cane beside the door and removing his jacket as he regarded you with analytic eyes.
“I’m afraid I deduced the crime before you, Mister Holmes,” you taunted, eyes sparkling in the crackling firelight coming from the fireplace near you. He closed some of the distance toward you as you spoke, causing you to raise to be seated before him in politeness, though you wished to cherish the way he hungrily eyed you as you lay before him. “I have been waiting here for the thief to return.”
“I assume you’ve decided it’s me,” he assessed, clasping his hands behind his back to resist the urge to reach out and push a stray hair from your face.
“Yes, Sherlock, I’m afraid you are the thief, and you’ve stolen something very dear to me,” you mused, raising your hand to push the hair from your face instead, almost as if you were further taunting him. “I should hope you return it at once.”
“And what is it I’m accused of stealing?”
“My mind, dear detective,” you sighed, raising to your feet and standing close enough to him that he could make out the details of your face. “All of my sense. I demand you return it at once, I simply cannot pass another day in this state.”
A lazy smile passed his features, one that he gifted to you in privacy, entrusted you with in secret. You etched this one to memory just as the others.
“So, all this week while I have been uncovering clues and following trails,” he began, finally reaching forward to grasp one of your hands. Almost delicately he lifted it, pressing a kiss to your fingers before continuing. “They were all left by you.”
You nodded, fire engulfing your cheeks under his investigative eyes now burning into yours with something genuine and fierce.
“Hmm,” he mused, lowering your hand to rest against his chest as his own fingers traced along your jaw. “Who helped you?”
“I’m offended you think I would need help, Sherlock Holmes,” you quipped, noticing the twitch at the corners of his mouth in amusement. It crossed your mind he likely asked the question purely to antagonize you, though your pride insisted you assert your efforts. “It was me alone.”
“Of course it was,” he nodded, grasping your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Though if you wanted my attention so badly, you hardly needed a game.”
“But you love a good game, or so I’ve heard,” you remarked, eyes light and playful. He had to appreciate that you could hold this back-and-forth with him without losing your footing, the mental dance you’d been in for months now fulfilling a deep need in his mind. “I enjoyed dancing with you.”
His lips crashed to yours with bruising weight, the time since your last kiss finally settling into Sherlock and building the desire he felt for you. His hands found way to your lower back to hold you closer, covering himself in the warmth of you and swallowing the quiet sigh that passed your lips. The grasp he held on your dress revealed his satisfaction at having you so near again.
Eagerness would never spoil gentle intent. He carefully worked the laces of your gown free, pushing the heavy fabric to the floor when it had loosened adequately and immediately grasping your waist again. He released your mouth from his kiss to run his eyes over your body, his pink tongue swiping against his bottom lip in appreciation and to savor the taste of your lips.
“Lay down,” he instructed while motioning back to the chaise with one hand, releasing his hold on you to admire as you stepped back and listened with a meek nod. Eventually he’d tell you how amusing it was when you became bashful for him, but the comment could wait. Once you were comfortable again, he sank to his knees before you, reaching to pull the undergarments that covered you still with an appreciative hum before discarding them in the pile with your dress.
“Such a clever girl,” he complimented, leaning forward to press his lips to the side of your knee to encourage your legs apart. You listened without him needing to ask aloud, releasing a shaky breath as the cold air of the room passed over your heated core. “This is what you wanted, hmm?”
You could only nod as his fingers ran through your folds, teasing your soaked entrance lightly before running the digits back toward your clit, rubbing a well-intended circle around the already swollen nub. “You like when I praise you,” he remarked, like he was announcing his findings for notetaking. You supposed a man like him likely did keep mental notes. “Let’s find out what else you like.”
His head disappeared between your thighs then, his tongue replacing his fingers to eagerly taste what your arousal had to offer. A low sound rumbled in his chest in appreciation as his hands grasped your thighs, spreading your legs more so he could bury his face in your core, his tongue slipping into your cunt to massage your velvet walls. He was gifted with an unimaginable symphony of sounds from your lips as you fought to hold some composure and he fought to melt it away, connecting his thumb to your clit soon after.
He felt the flutter to your walls and swapped his movements, reaching to take your swollen nub into his lips with a firm suck as he slipped a finger into you, curling it to massage the sensitive patch behind your clit. Your hips began to move to meet his face and hand desperately as your walls clenched, white hot euphoria washing over you as your fingers flung to his hair, pulling the wind-blown mess of curled locks in overwhelmed passion.
Though you were in the throes of pleasure you heard the hefty groan that left his chest as he drank your orgasm from you, currently uncaring for tidiness and finding enjoyment in the mess you made of his lower face. When he was certain he’d carried you through it he removed himself from you, standing and displaying the obvious tent in his pants as he offered a hand to you. You took his hand without question, rising to meet him and lean against his wide torso for support. Finding your voice, however, was a task all in itself.
“Where are we going?”
“My bedroom,” he replied, slipping an arm around your waist to lead you down the hall to the named room. While you knew the room existed, you had always assumed it remained empty…you had certainly never seen him use it before.
“Since when do you use your bedroom?”
“Since Enola made me find a flat mate,” he replied, sending a glance your way as he opened the door and gestured for you to enter. He followed behind immediately, pulling you back against him to press a kiss beneath your ear. “It’s not important right now.”
He turned you gently to claim your lips again, reaching behind his back to close the bedroom door before working himself free of his own clothes. You released a content sigh against his lips, pressing your bare skin to his to soak in his warmth and enjoy the feeling of him against you. When all that remained was his undergarments, he was offering you a taste of yourself with his tongue in your mouth, kissing you in ways that could be written of.
To his amusement when he released you from his kiss a whimper slipped from your lips at the loss, and he satiated your disappointment with another gentle kiss before bumping his nose against yours.
“You should have asked if this is what you wanted,” he remarked, offering a light smile when your eyes met his. If you wanted a game to play, Sherlock was the master of such matters, a painful reminder that fueled his mind. “Practice for me.”
“W-what?”
“Practice asking,” he instructed, trailing his kisses to brush along your jaw and to your neck. Infuriatingly, and perhaps admirably, he remembered the exact spots he needed to make you gasp, the perfect pressure to leave you breathless. He asked too much and knew it to be true, though he still insisted. “Perfect it.”
“Sherlock, please,” you whined as he backed you toward his bed, helping you lower down carefully to the cold sheets. Thankfully the cold was chased away by his warmth as he joined you, crawling between your legs and kissing up your chest slowly. “Don’t torment me, I want you so badly. Please.”
“I should make you wait,” he sounded too pleased with himself, too entertained by the desperate hitch in your breath and subtle shake to your legs as you wrapped them around his waist, eager to bring him closer.
“Please…”
“Patience,” he reminded, sliding his hand down your body as he pressed an infuriatingly chaste kiss to your lips as he slipped two fingers into you. “Are you always this wet?”
“Often…when I’m near you,” you replied hurriedly, hips raising to meet his hand, desperate for anything he would offer you. He raised his head to drink in your expression, mentally noting the different hue to your cheeks and weight to your eyes. Seeing your body respond to him was science, learning the different ways to push you toward bliss a newfound task in his mind.
“Hmm,” he mused carefully, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Is this what you want?”
“Yes, Sherlock, please,” you whimpered as he curled his fingers again slowly, taking in your pleading expression as you continued. “No more games, please.”
He removed his fingers from you to grasp his throbbing cock, rubbing your slickness over himself before sliding the velvety head through your folds. With one last look for confirmation to your face met with a nod and whimper from you he slowly pressed into you inch by inch, holding you closer and claiming your lips again in a focused kiss. When he bottomed out and grasped your hips to hold you closer what were normally calculated kisses faltered slightly as your walls fluttered around him, the stretch to accommodate him making you feel almost too full but pulling a delicious moan from your chest.
When he moved it was as though he had been choreographing the movements in his mind nonstop for weeks…and perhaps he had with the way he seemed to massage every inch of you perfectly with each thrust. Your legs remained tight around his waist, holding him to you so he couldn’t withdraw further than you’d allow him – which he was more than happy to oblige. Focused on bringing you to the edge again the only noises that left Sherlock now were quiet groans in appreciation when you clenched around him, a low gasp falling from his lips when you pulled his hair again slightly.
It was then when the lava returned to your core, bubbling under his mercury eyes and leaving your lips as a cry of his name. Your walls clenched around him tightly as you reached another orgasm, eyes squeezing tight as you bit into your kiss swollen bottom lip. It was then he found the words for you again.
“You look extraordinary like this…in my bed,” he complimented, his thrusts beginning to falter. You squeezed him tighter with your legs to encourage him to stay, a request he was more than happy to accommodate with a sloppy few final thrusts before his hot seed emptied into you. As he rode out the remainder of his spend, he pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, sliding one of his hands into yours and lacing your fingers together.
You wondered if he would always find ways to take you by surprise.
He was conscious not to linger, removing himself from you and pressing another kiss to your forehead before retreating to his living room, returning with your undergarments in hand. His hair was tousled from your desperation to grasp something and clung to the thin layer of sweat on his forehead, cheeks red. As you admired him you reached your arms toward him as he replaced your undergarments after running a clean cloth through your folds, discarding it to the floor to handle later.
He found his place beside you then, resting on his back and pulling you close to hold you for a moment, willing to relax now that you were cared for. His hands ran carefully along your stomach as he held you, pressing gentle kisses to the top of your head repeatedly to silently thank you for what had transpired. His gentle movements brought you to relaxation soon, raising your head to press a gentle kiss to his jaw.
“Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” you cooed, repeating the kiss and causing a brief shudder to ripple up his back.
“Mm,” came a low rumbled reply in his chest before he lowered his head to claim your lips again, aware that he needed to lighten it slightly to accommodate for the swollen bruise to your lips already.
He held you that way for some time, allowing you to rest and enjoy the serenity of closeness to Sherlock in the afterglow of connecting with one another so deeply. Sherlock took advantage of the peaceful, quiet hours of the night to match it with little conversation as well, instead focusing his efforts on soothing your body and showing his appreciation and adoration. When you began to match his affections with soft kisses and nuzzles with your nose he opted to continue, pressing a kiss to your forehead before standing from the bed.
He reached beside the bed slowly to retrieve a robe, wrapping you in the fabric you recognized as one he wore frequently before replacing some of his clothes – whatever was necessary to move about the apartment with some decency. When you’d tied the robe he offered his hand to you, helping you rise from the bed and supporting you against him just as he had before. Even Sherlock had to admit the fulfilled swell to his chest at seeing you glowing because of him while dressed in his clothes.
“Come where it’s warm by the fire, dearest,” he offered in a tender tone, leading you back to the living room and helping you lower back into the chaise.
While any ordinary time with any ordinary person you may have simply gone to bed, what was unfolding with Sherlock was anything but ordinary. Instead, you found yourself wrapped in his robe, draped across his chaise, and bathed in the golden morning glow as Sherlock took his place with violin in hand, playing you soothing and delicate songs. It was not long for you to be lulled into a heavy sleep by his music and for Sherlock’s flat mate to follow the sound of a violin so early in the morning.
“Morning, Sherlock,” John greeted, adjusting his own robe carefully as he entered the room. “I see you found our guest.”
“Did you let her in, John?”
“I did. Did you tell her you figured it out days ago?”
Fondness pooled in Sherlock’s eyes at the question, and the lightest traces of a smile twitched his lips upward at the thought. He glanced away from your face just long enough to properly regard John, shaking his head astutely before returning his gaze to you. John knew the answer before Sherlock confirmed it.
“No.”
Rather than press the topic of the Christmas miracle unfolding before him, John elected to fix morning tea.
masterlist.
#sherlock holmes#cavill sherlock holmes#netflix sherlock holmes#sherlock holmes x reader#sherlock holmes fluff#sherlock holmes smut#sherlock holmes x you#henry cavill
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GAYS OF TUMBLR MAY I PRESENT GRENADA HOLMES, THE GAY.
OR SOMETHING IDK. THAT'S WHAT BANANA (@lxvenderjewel) AND RAY (@thearoacemess) CALL IT. THEY INTRODUCED IT TO ME TODAY.
ANYWAY. IT'S ACD SHERLOCK HOLMES AND BY GOD IT'S SO GAY. AND JEREMY BRETT IS SO PRETTY DEAR LORD. OH MY GOD. SO PRETTY. WHY. HOW. PLEASE.
ONCE MORE, TUMBLR, I AM A SLAVE TO THE BEAUTY OF MIDDLE AGED TWINK WHITE BRITISH MAN. AND HIS HANDS.
THIS TIME, BONUS, HE'S LONG-DEAD.
SUCH IS FUCKING FATE.
OH HE PLAYS FREDDY IN MY FAIR LADY BTW. I LOVED THIS MAN BEFORE I KNEW TWAS HIM, BACK IN MY YOUTH.
OKAY BUT ASH (@random-doctor-on-the-internet) WAS A SKEPTIC AND THEN ZE SAW BRETT'S EYES AND ZE WAS A GONER TOO.
EVEN THE MIGHTY GOOD OMENS ARCHIVIST, VEL (@orpiknight), USUALLY SO REFINED IN THEIR MESSAGES, WAS REDUCED TO A BLUBBERING MESS BY HOLMES GROWLING "GOOD MAN" TO WATSON.
PLEASE PLEASE MAGGOTS TUMBLR YOU NEED TO WATCH IT BBC SHERLOCK FUCKED HIS CHARACTER UP SO BAD I SEE IT NOW PLEASE.
HOLMES IS GENUINELY SUCH A DECENT MAN AND KIND AND POLITE HERE JUST LIKE IN ACD CANON.
SO MUCH SO THAT WHEN HE'S MEAN TO WATSON, WATSON IS LEGITIMATELY SURPRISED AND SAD (HOLMES DESCRIBES IT "TEMPORARILY DEPRESSED" OKAY Y'ALL GAY ASS FUCKS WITH A PRAISE KINK)
THEY'RE SO MARRIED AND SO SOFT AND SO FUCKEING GAY
ANYWAY. SO FUCKING PRETTY. THAT HE INSPIRED POETRY FROM ME.
AND IT'S SO AMAZING AND GAY AND FUNNY AND INTERESTING AND PLEASE WATCH IT I BEG OF YOU.
OH AND. FOR MOST OF THE STREAM, I SPOKE ONLY IN "MMMS" BECAUSE FUCK YOU OKAY THAT'S ALL I COULD MANAGE IN MY STATE OF GAY.
WITNESS MY GAY POETRY:
HOW DARE YOU FLOWERS HIS HANDS ARE THE MOST BLOSSOMING PETALS OF ALL.
(the flowers in the shot hid his hand okay I was desperate)
OH PRETTY BOY KILL ME PRETTY BOY FOR I HAVE FALLEN SLAVE TO THE BEAUTY OF THE HANDS OF A MIDDLE AGED WHITE MAN ONCE MORE.
AND WORDSWORTH'S FLOWERS SHALL NOT BE MORE GAY THAN I, WHEN YOUR EYES TURN UPON ME AND I SEE THE LIGHT OF HEAVEN AS I FALL FURTHER FROM IT.
(THIS WAS COZ OF MY MMMMM LANGUAGE OKAY.)
THE STREAM THAT BROKE ALL THE FUCKING GAYS.
#good omens mascot#weirdly specific but ok#asmi#maggots#sherlock holmes#acd holmes#grenada holmes#jeremy brett#oh lord#so gay#GAY#GAYYYYYYY#john watson#more like begone thotson#dr watson#mmmmmmmmmm#MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM#johnlock#the og johnlock
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would there be any way for you to write a scenario where //plus size reader// is tutoring eddie in algebra and he asks you what you want out of it, so you ask him to tutor you in giving blowjobs because you’ve never done it and he’s taken aback,,, nsfw, lots of praise, gentle eddie pls 🥺💛
haiii okay so! i have another plus size request in my inbox rn so i decided to just make this one for anybody! so yea im sorry about that also eddie's a SMIDDGEEEE rough in this (not super rough tho, like just a tiny bit of hair pulling and pushing ur head down to deepthroat) cuz i forgot that you asked for gentle eddie but he's still pretty soft in this. so yea this took me ridiculously long to write for no reason so i hope y'all like it lmfaooo
contains: blowjobs, deepthroating, inexperienced reader, praise kink, soft dom eddie, dirty talk, hair pulling
wc: 3.3k
“I’m sorry, I just don’t see the point in any of this,” Eddie says, after a several-minute-long period of silent staring at the math textbook that sits in between you. You’re sitting on the cluttered carpeting of his bedroom, with both of your backs propped up against the side of his bed. “Where the hell are all these letters coming from? It’s like they’re purposely trying to make this as confusing as possible.”
You shake your head, leaning over to take a closer look at the text. “The letters are just placeholders for other numbers. You have to solve the equation to find out what they are.”
“What am I, Sherlock Holmes?!” he exclaims, throwing his hands up in an exaggerated show of defeat. Eddie’s a smart guy, but math is certainly not one of his strong suits, which is why you’re here in the first place to tutor him. You’re not exactly a math genius yourself, but you’ve been managing to pull B’s and A’s all semester in algebra, and with Eddie assigned to the seat right next to yours, it didn’t take very long for him to catch on.
He’d started out copying your answers during tests, attempting to come off as inconspicuous despite him breathing down your neck to get a glimpse at your work. When you finally called him out for it, he’d been apologetic and somewhat embarrassed, which made you feel sorry for him; wanting to help, it was then that you offered to give him a few free tutoring sessions.
Eddie brings his knees up and settles his elbows against them, the heels of his palms pressing into his forehead in exasperation. “Honestly, (y/n), thank you for offering to tutor me, but I think I’m a lost cause.”
“You’re not a lost cause, Eddie. You just need to study more,” you say, reaching out to place a hand on his denim-clad shoulder. “I bet if we do a couple more sessions you’ll be able to land a C on next week’s test.”
Eddie peeks at you from between his hands, the yellow overhead light reflecting brightly in the dark roundness of his eyes. “No way. You’re not giving me any more free tutoring sessions.”
“I don’t mind helping you, Eddie,” you say, patting him where your hand still lays. And it’s true- while he might be difficult to teach, he’s still a good-natured, funny guy, and you’ve grown to enjoy his company. In fact, you’ve even began to detect the faintest hint of a crush in the pit of your stomach, having been charmed by his smile and laugh and general mischievous demeanor. With Eddie being Eddie, though, it’s almost impossible to tell if he feels the same way, since he’s always putting on a show, never allowing his true emotions to show through his theatrical exterior. “I like hanging out with you.”
“Really? I kind of just assumed you found me annoying,” he grins, dropping his large hands to settle them atop his slender thighs. “But still- I’m not going to milk your generosity any more than I already have. I might be poor, but I’m not a fuckin’ bum.”
“Well, maybe you can just do me a favor or something?” You scratch your chin pensively, racking your brain for something you could ask Eddie to do for you. What could a guy like Eddie Munson do for you, anyway?
“What kind of a favor?” Eddie questions, apparently just as perplexed as you are, his head cocking to one side. “Man, I wish there was something I could tutor you in, but, uh, I’m kind of failing most of my classes.”
You chew on your bottom lip for a moment, his statement jumping out to you for a reason you’re unsure of. You glance at Eddie’s sheepish face as he tucks a strand of dark hair behind one ear, drumming the fingers of his opposite hand against his thigh; you can’t help but find him ridiculously handsome when he’s like this, all shy and indecisive, and you ignore the sudden urge to lean in and kiss him.
You try to imagine how Eddie would react if you were to make a pass at him; you’re fairly inexperienced, so you haven’t gotten much practice in the department of flirting, which makes you worry you might say something idiotic if you try.
Licking your lips, you shrug noncommittally, praying that your face doesn’t reveal your current topic of thought. “Maybe you could tutor me in something, like, not school-related.”
“Such as?” Eddie surveys you with his big eyes, blinking rapidly to communicate his impatience with you. “Listen, (y/n). I’m really not good enough at anything to be a tutor.”
Shifting, you toy with an idea that’s begun to form in the back of your mind, inflicting a sudden sense of urgency in your gut. It’s risky, but so tempting, with him this close to you.
“There’s still things that you know more about than I do,” you start, fidgeting with the hem of your sweater as a means of avoiding his eyes. You’re easing your way in now, testing the waters, and holy fuck, are you scared. “Y’know, like music, dungeons and dragons… and other stuff.”
“What other stuff?” Eddie says skeptically, crossing his tattooed arms across the front of his beloved Hellfire tee. “Those are the only two things I even do. I’m a simple guy.”
“Well…” you mutter, hugging your legs closely to your chest in an act of self-soothing. You’re running purely on adrenaline now, numb to the doubtful thoughts that nag at you incessantly. “Do you remember yesterday, when we were talking about that rumor that went around about you?”
He furrows his brows, obviously caught off guard by your seemingly random change in subject. “The one about Cheryl giving me a blowjob in the prop closet? I already told you, (y/n), that wasn’t a rumor.”
Cheryl is Eddie’s acquaintance from his times working backstage for the school plays, and the thought of her flirting with Eddie with her high-pitched voice and bleach-blond hair makes you want to throw up. You hadn’t known she was the type to give blowjobs, and at school, no less; the information had been enough to make your head spin- was everybody at Hawkins getting more action than you?
“I know,” you say slowly, stretching your legs out to recline in front of you. “That’s the ‘other stuff’ I’m talking about. You actually have a sex life, I don’t.”
Eddie chuckles, looping his fingers into one of the frayed tears on the front of his jeans. “I’m not, like, a sex god or anything like that. I’ve just fooled around a few times, that’s all.”
“Yeah, but at least you have an idea of what you’re doing.” There’s a gnawing anxiety creeping up within you, and you want to smack Eddie over the head just for being so damn clueless. Peering at him from underneath a veil of dark-painted lashes, you can see the confusion in his face, but to your relief, he doesn’t seem upset by your persistence- maybe this won’t end so horribly, after all. “Sometimes I just get nervous, y’know? ‘Cause what if I meet someone I want to fool around with, but I make a complete idiot out of myself because I don’t know anything?”
Eddie lifts his gaze to meet with yours, a half-smile making its way across his full lips. Fuck- is he starting to pick up what you’re putting down? You feel your heart skip a beat, palms prickling with sweat as he opens his mouth to speak. “What exactly are you asking me for right now, (y/n)? ‘Cause if I didn’t know any better…”
His words trail off, pink tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip as he observes you quizzically; he’s unsure of himself, with a visible heat flooding the pale expanse of his cheeks. After a prolonged beat, you say, “maybe you could show me how to do it right? So it feels good?”
For the first time since you’ve met, Eddie Munson is speechless. His skin darkens to an even more conspicuous shade of burgundy, his arm lifting to scratch at the back of his neck, and you begin to wonder if you made a mistake.
“Do…what right?” he asks you, though the tone of his voice tells you that he’s already well aware of what you mean. “You want me to tutor you in-“
“-blowjobs. Yeah.” You cut him off without really meaning to, but it’s not like your mind is focused on trivial things like manners at a time like this. “I mean- only if you want to, obviously.”
He stares at you blank-faced before breaking out into a wild grin, amused giggles bubbling up from the back of his throat. “You want me to repay you- by letting you give me head? Kinda sounds like more of a benefit for me than you, hon.”
“Just ‘cause it benefits you doesn’t mean it won’t benefit me, too.” You subtly inch your way closer to Eddie until your hips are side-by-side, encouraged to continue when he doesn’t back away. “I wanna know what it’s like.”
“You sure you’re in your right mind right now?” Eddie says wryly, sizing you up, adorning you with goosebumps at the invisible sensation of his dark eyes dragging up and down your body. “You didn’t get into my stash or something while I was in the bathroom?”
“I’m very much sober, Eddie,” you assure him, hesitating as you prepare to go even further, your palm finally dropping to rest on his thigh. He stirs ever-so-slightly at your touch, although he manages to keep his excitement contained for the most part. “I really do want you to teach me.”
“I don’t know how helpful I’ll actually be, but…” he gestures down at his crotch, where his erection is starting to press through the front of his pants obscenely. The view is satisfying, knowing that you’re the one responsible for it- if you’d have known it would be this easy to get Eddie Munson in the mood, you probably would’ve tried your luck with him a long time ago. “I’d definitely be willing to give it a try.”
“Really?” you say hopefully, letting your fingers trail in the direction of his hard-on until you’re toying with the front button of his jeans. “You’re sure?”
His eyes shoot down to where your hand is, your thumb and forefinger playing idly with the metal zipper. He nods rapidly, allowing you to proceed in unfastening his pants, your hands shaking as you do. “Are you sure about this? I mean, damn, you really wanna get blowjob lessons from the freak of Hawkins high?”
You don’t respond, rolling your eyes dismissively at his frantic line of questioning; nudging his bent legs so that he stretches them before him, you start pulling his pants and boxers down to pool around his hips. Eddie lifts himself up to assist you in the task, and in a matter of seconds his thick cock is on full display for you, flushed and thick and leaking.
“Holy shit…” you murmur, in a daze; it’s the first dick you’ve ever seen this close-up, and it’s so more intimidating than you could’ve ever imagined. You wonder if all dicks are this massive, or if Eddie is just particularly well-endowed, as you extend your arm to feel along his length experimentally.
“Was that a good holy shit, or a bad holy shit?” Eddie asks bashfully, nodding his head forward so that his long hair can obscure part of his face.
“Eddie, your dick is huge,” is all you say to shut him up, and he’s unable to resist the cocky smirk that teases at the corners of his lips.
He dips back against his bed so that his head is nearly flush with the mattress, pushing his hips out to elongate his body. He groans and stretches, his t-shirt hiking up around his midsection to reveal his soft belly, your gaze lingering there for far longer than it probably should. “Ah, c’mon. I’m not that big.”
The smugness is palpable within his protests, and you narrow your eyes as you position yourself on all fours next to him. “Just tell me what I should do first.”
“Well…” he looks at your face for awhile, before switching his attention to your cleavage, which is completely visible now that your baggy sweater is hanging off your body. Pretending not to notice, he says, “Usually you’d, um. Want to get it wet. Maybe stroke it a little with your hand before you put it in your mouth.”
“Like this?” You shift your weight onto your knees so you can sit upright, holding your hand out in front of your mouth and spitting into it crudely. Eddie inhales sharply, closely examining your every motion as you draw your arm away from yourself, a string of spit connecting your palm and bitten lips.
His cock is warm and silky to the touch as you wrap your fingers around it, and you take note of the way he hisses when you begin to move your hand up and down his generous length. “Y-yeah. Like that. That’s- fuck- good.”
You quicken your pace, a triumphant feeling washing over you as his head lolls back towards the ceiling, his stomach clenching and releasing in direct response to your manipulations. “And then what?”
Sinking down until your elbows are on the carpet and your back is arched up high, you bring your face closer to his cock, blinking up innocently in wait of his next set of instructions.
Eddie clears his throat, obviously making an effort to come off as unfazed, although neither of you are strangers to the truth. “You can, uh, put it in your mouth now.”
You’re perhaps a bit too hasty in your movements, because by the time Eddie’s cock is halfway in your mouth, he eases you back by your hair, stinging your scalp.
Rather than pissing you off, however, the sensation travels straight from your head to your cunt, and you let out a strangled moan.
“Shit- sorry,” Eddie says, his big hand stroking your skull where he’d tugged on it. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
You take him out of your mouth but remain close by, your spit-slick lips hovering mere centimeters away from the tip of his cock. “You didn’t. I, um, actually liked it.”
He raises his eyebrows, seeming equal parts surprised and pleased by your declaration. “Oh yeah? Guess I’m helping you learn a little more than just giving head, huh?”
Flicking out your tongue, you administer tiny licks to his slit, lapping up all of the pre-cum that’s gathered there; Eddie really seems to like this, because he fists your hair in one hand, a string of profanities spilling out past his lips. “F-fuck. Yeah, atta girl. Gotta take it slow at the beginning.”
Greedy for more of him, your tongue begins sweeping up the side of his dick, tracing lazily alongside the veins that travel throughout. When you’re certain you’ve covered every square inch of him with your hot tongue, you return once again to latch your mouth over the tip.
“Damn. No fuckin’ way you haven’t done this before,” he manages to say through grit teeth, fisting a clump of your hair to give him better control over your actions. “Yeah, that’s a good girl. Nice and easy.”
It’s undeniable what his praise and guidance does to you- your thighs are clamped together in a desperate attempt to create friction between them, hips rocking back and forth as you try in vain to rid yourself of the hungry feeling that’s taken you over. You bob your head down to usher a couple more inches of him into your gaping mouth, flattening your tongue against the side so as to fully embrace his salty taste.
“Ahh, shit. Fuck yeah, (y/n). That’s so fuckin’ good,” he urges, applying some pressure to the back of your head so you can swallow another several inches of his length. “Little less teeth. ’S’it. Yeah, see how deep you can take it.”
He gathers up your hair to keep it from getting in the way as you start to take him into your throat, your nose almost up against his pelvis as you choke and sputter around him. It’s difficult to breathe with your mouth this filled, but Eddie’s raspy words of encouragement serve in keeping you motivated.
“Keep going, sweetheart. Doing such a good fucking job for me,” he groans, his grasp on your hair loosening to that you can do as you please. With tears leaking from the corners of your eyes, you work to take in the entirety of his cock, gagging noisily when you feel it brush the back of your throat. “Your mouth is like fuckin’ heaven, babe.”
Your lips curve upwards at the compliment, but you’re incapable of thanking him, your mouth overflowing with nothing but him; as an alternative, you focus on bringing Eddie to his orgasm, painfully curious to discover how he’ll look and feel during his moments of release.
“Put your hand underneath. Yeah, right there,” he sighs approvingly as your fingers cup and massage his balls, bouncing them lightly in your palm as you continue to suck him. You’re on autopilot at this point, your rhythm impeccable and unrelenting; the noises of your wet mouth working at him are vulgar, your head plunging down on him again and again like you’ve been starved for a year. “Good fuckin’ girl. Yeah, you like choking on my big dick?”
You whimper at this, the vibrations from your throat transferring straight to his cock. Eddie’s grip on your hair tightens as he bucks his hips up underneath you, causing you to drool uncontrollably all over his thick length.
“Mhm. Take it nice and deep for me,” he mutters lowly, his head tilting upwards so that you're only able to see his parted lips and sculpted jaw. “Gonna cum in your mouth now. Think you can handle that, babe?”
You nod weakly, speeding up until his breathing becomes choppy and irregular. Your jaw is aching with exhaust, but you don’t dare stop- you’re too close to the finish line to start showing any slack now.
“Fuck, (y/n)-“ he gasps, and then his cock twitches, a spray of hot liquid coating the inside of your mouth as his veined hand keeps you securely in place. You find yourself struggling against his tight grip as the bittersweet taste of his cum paints your tongue, but you steady yourself enough to swallow it all.
Eddie takes in a shaky breath as he combs his fingers through your hair affectionately, giving you the opportunity to sit up and recover. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, (y/n). Now I really feel like I owe you something.”
He shimmies his clothes back up so that he’s covered again, his tongue sticking out thoughtfully from the corner of his mouth. His face is flushed and rosy, forehead kissed with the soft glow of sweat, and for the second time today, all you want is to kiss him.
“So… I did okay?” You wipe your slick face with the back of your sleeve, running the fingers of your opposite hand through your unkempt mess of hair. Sure, it’s pretty clear that he’d enjoyed himself, but there’s still a part of you that craves his verbal confirmation.
“Are you kidding? That was some A-plus head in my book. You didn’t even really need me to help you,” Eddie smiles, casually looping his arm around your shoulders, the basic act of which fills your abdomen with butterflies. “But y’know what? I realized that I kinda like being a teacher.”
You poise an eyebrow, a suggestive glint in your big doe eyes. You've got him. “Yeah? Why don't you show me what else you can teach me?”
#eddie munson#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x you#eddie munson imagine#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson fanfiction#mine#joseph quinn#stranger things#stranger things imagine#eddie munson smut#stranger things smut#stranger things x reader#stranger things x you#eddie munson blurb#stranger things blurb
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Swallow
Swallow
Summary: Sherlock allows you to sample his favorite brandy. He has you drink it in the most unusual way.
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader
Warnings: 18+ smutty content, petplay? (use of the terms “pet” and “master” but that's about it), consumption of alcohol, spitting kink (spitting drink into mouth), praise kink, a little bit of dumbification, hinted blowjob- Let me know if I forgot anything!
Word Count: 800ish
Any typos are my own!
A/N: YAY! 211 followers!😆 Thank you all so much! I wanted to get this little oneshot posted before I go to bed, just to keep your desires satisfied until I can put together something a little longer hehe 😉 Enjoy everyone!
Your head was resting on his knee as his fingers buried themselves in your hair, massaging your scalp. He chuckled when you purred at the spine tingling sensation. Sherlock gazed down at you as you pressed your cheek into the fabric of his trousers, your eyes closed in bliss.
“Does my little rabbit enjoy it when I give her pets?” He hummed, tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear.
You peeked at him, nodding bashfully. You did enjoy his gentle caressing, perhaps even too much. You knelt at his feet as he reclined in his favorite armchair. He cradled your jaw as he grinned once more. His thumb rubbed your cheek.
“How sweet you are, pet. Such a good girl.” He murmured as he reached for his brandy on the side table.
You watched him take a sip, wondering what it tasted like. You had never been allowed to taste his favorite brandy before. He raised a brow, smirking as you gazed at him curiously.
“Are you thirsty, pet? I suppose a little sip won’t hurt you.” He cocked his head to the side. “What do you say?”
Sherlock was always adamant about using your good manners.
“Please, may I have a sip, sir?” You sat up straighter as you looked into his eyes.
“Good girl. Just a sip.” He tugged lightly on the back of your hair, making you lean back. “Open your mouth.”
Without hesitation, you opened your lips. Sherlock smiled at you, still tenderly stroking your cheek.
“You will take what your Master gives you, pet. And you will be grateful.” He reminded you of your place.
You nodded. The detective hummed and raised the glass to his lips. He took a big swig, holding the liquid on his tongue as he bent down. Your eyebrows shot up in surprise when he spat the brandy into your open mouth.
The action was humiliating yet so arousing. He emptied his mouth into yours, making you shiver. The brandy was strong and made your taste buds tingle as it coated your tongue. He licked his lips as he pulled away, cradling your jaw.
“Good rabbit. Now swallow.” He closed your jaw with his hand, watching you carefully.
You did so. It burned your throat and settled in your stomach warmly. You hiccuped, biting your lower lip as you coughed softly.
“T-Thank you, Master.” You rasped.
Even though the drink wasn’t great, the fact that it came directly from Sherlock’s mouth made your pussy pulsate in need. He tossed his head back with a soft laugh.
“It is too strong, darling?” He watched you shrug. You didn’t want to seem ungrateful for not liking it.
“How about another sip?” He offered with a smirk and you hesitated. You squirmed, trying to get any bit of pressure on your aching cunt.
After a pause, you nodded. Without being asked, you opened wide for him. He grinned and took another sip. He spit it into your mouth again, this time tugging at your hair.
“Swallow.” He growled.
You obeyed, moaning as it burned all the way down. He snickered a little. You pinched your eyes shut, throbbing between your legs once more.
“Thank you.” You looked down, trying not to let him see you wince.
“What a good little pet I have. Taking what her Master gives her without a second thought. All you want to do is please me. Oh, yes. That’s all that tiny mind of yours worries about. How to please your Master. It’s your only purpose, isn’t it?” He cooed, setting the glass down so he could bring your face up.
“From sunrise to sunset, all you think about is me. What a loyal pet you are, sweet rabbit.” He purred, holding your face in his hands.
His praise made you squirm and nuzzle his palms. He smelled so good. The detective hummed as he watched you lean into his touch. It made you open your eyes when his hands fell from your cheeks.
“Look at what you’ve done.” He clicked his tongue, pointing to his lap.
You followed his finger, gasping when you noticed the bulge he was sporting. His finger snapped, bringing your attention back to his face. He shook his head scoldingly.
“What am I to do with this? Who will take care of this need I have?” He sighed dramatically.
You jumped at the opportunity. Tugging on his pant leg, you whimpered desperately. The need to please him filled you. You sat your chin on his thigh, waiting for further instruction. His permission was needed before you could make a move. Sherlock laughed at your eagerness.
“My pet, will you take care of me? How sweet. Go ahead, unbutton my trousers. I have something else to slip into your sweet mouth.” He reclined and nodded for you to continue.
“And don’t forget to swallow what your master gives you, darling.”
A/N: Love you all! Goodnight 💜
Taglist: @sunshine-with-daisy @leigh70 @islacharlotte @lysarria @kebabgirl67 @pandaxnienke @identity2212
Credits: Divider- @firefly-graphics
#sherlock holmes x reader#sherlock x reader#henry!sherlock holmes x reader#henry!sherlock x reader#sherlock fanfic#sherlock imagine#henry cavill fic#henry cavill smut#henry cavill characters#henry!sherlock#henry!sherlock x y/n#henry!sherlock x you#masterlist
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vi. the puzzling case of clara grace and intricate, convoluted emotions
summary: there are a few ways that you and sherlock reconcile. one involves a bed, the other involves a carriage, a dance, and then there's the matter of the revolver. what was once unclear begins to be disclosed, but it can only be unveiled to a willing, open, and observant eye. you're going to find what's there as well as what you want to be there (cavill!sherlock x afab!reader)
reflection: i apologize for how long it took me to write this chapter. i also apologize for the behemoth that this installment is, but i had a certain vision that i wanted to portray so desperately. i pondered breaking this chapter up into several parts, but seeing that i intended this as the end, i kept it as is. i have been planning to write more involving this relationship, but i am not sure if i should. if that is something that any of you are interested in, please let me know. i intend to work on other projects as well from a geralt fic and a new idea that i have. thank you to everyone who has read. as always, feedback is always appreciated and encouraged and i hope you all enjoy!
warnings: seamstress!reader, emotionally-stunted!sherlock, reader has a nickname, close proximity, investigation, murder mystery, original characters, enemies to lovers, vulnerability, near-death scenes, sexual tension, kissing, dirty talk, praise, vaginal penetration, vaginal fingering, loss of virginity, implied breeding kink if you squint, rough and soft, grief, past deaths briefly mentioned, angst, fluff, revelations, overthinking, flashbacks (please let me know if there are other warnings i need to add)
word count: 19,551
previously: concealed feelings and abstract attitudes
( this work has been cross posted to ao3 )
Teeth, lips, tongue—you’re acquainting yourself with the mouth of another, greeting your moans that Sherlock swallows incessantly, almost like he’s gulping for air. He’s a wall of muscle mass visibly speaking, but it’s a different phenomenon to experience said muscle mass pressing you back into the actual wall of this flat behind, the door nearby since your shared eagerness only carried you both in by a few steps. You’re hardly concerned with how far you’ve made it in, instead wrapping your legs tightly at Sherlock’s waist as he supports you and holds you up. The surface gradually fades away as he deposits you from it to then walk blindly to his bedroom. You’re still hanging on, secure he’ll protect you, and miraculously through listening to his instincts (he’s always right, you’re not shocked), he pushes the door open, his forearm strung around your midsection as he uses his other hand. You can sense his desperation’s desire to cling to you and not let go for a moment.
You’re still connected with him as he lowers you to the mattress. There’s conflict heavy in his shoulders because he’s caught between meeting your affection bar for bar and standing straight up to get a better look at you. You gradually make the decision for him, hands landing on his chest to lightly push him up. You sit up on your elbows as he lifts away from you, his chest heaving in his departure, eyes scanning you over with interest you can only describe as lust. Sherlock removes his undershirt that he was clad in, the buttons already undone, and drops it carelessly to the floor. You’re familiar with the image of Sherlock shirtless, but it doesn’t mean you’re not any less astonished. You’re gazing up at him in awe, awe that is seemingly swimming in his eyes the very same as he turns his attention to his robe adorning your figure. Except where part of the fabric is hanging off one shoulder due to your combined efforts. And said exposure beckons Sherlock in closer; he reaches for the robe’s belt sitting atop your waist, your hips jutted out, body language’s permission granted for his exploration.
“You’re not…” he inhales deeply, like he’s preparing himself. Sherlock knows something and you know it too. You can’t help the sly grin threatening to take over your expression breaking free.
“You’re not wearing anything underneath,” he resigns, saying it as he says every conclusion he comes to as a statement, as a cold, hard fact. Albeit he’s not revealing a mystery’s answer to a curious audience, he’s confirming the thought that crossed his mind at the initial sight of your bare shoulder. He would’ve guessed it earlier if he wasn’t so preoccupied with entangling his mouth with yours. His adam’s apple slowly rises and sinks as he restrains himself, as he allows his hand to divide the seams of his robe, as your naked breasts become visible to him for the first time.
“Surprised?” You tease, but it’s more breathless than you care to admit because of how Sherlock’s drinking you in. Your flesh rises as he offers you solely his fingertips. He lets them linger from your neck to your collarbone, hesitantly traveling down the curve of your left breast.
“Pleasantly,” he finally replies and you think To hell with it and lift yourself up enough to wrap your arms around his neck and pull him back into another searing kiss. His chest hair tickles against you, the thick patch sliding over your quickly hardening nipples. He surrenders to your invitation and follows you up the bed as you scoot up its length in the meantime, until your head meets one of his pillows above.
Sherlock descends and mouths along your jaw and then your neck, he takes advantage of the dip there to suckle onto a spot and taste your skin. Your breath catches in your throat, your mouth falling open as you whimper in reaction, hypersensitive to his every touch and graze. If you thought the light stubble stimulated you before from just kissing, then you’re critically mistaken when it catches on your susceptible flesh as he lowers his head to your clavicle. From gripping his hair for some kind of purchase, you let your hands wander down the width of his back, not wanting to claw down it in your attempts to remain in a semblance of composure. That’s when you feel the waistband of his trousers, the reminder set of how you haven’t seen him without them there, hiding away the arousal you felt heavy against your inner thighs earlier at Mrs. Thomas’s. Depraved, but careless regarding that truth, you whine out your displeasure and snake your hands beneath his frame to work the button of his trousers open. Unlike Sherlock’s sixth sense (learned from the structure of his well-developed cognitive map), you’re not gracefully unlatching the damned thing despite your previous experience with this detail of clothing. You fumble and clumsily brush your yearning knuckles along his bulge by pure accident, fleeting warmth you crave but are unable to indulge in further because Sherlock abruptly pulls his hips away like he’s been stung by a wasp.
Your mouth goes dry watching him rise up from your neck, his jaw hanging slightly open. Your throat wishes to beg for his return back, but you stop yourself from doing so seeing his fingers clutch at the fabric bunched at his crotch, his hips bucking in efforts to readjust himself. You’re affecting him greater than you initially thought. You feel rather petulant under his gaze right now, small for being selfish and pushing, an impatient brat flushing in a richer pigment from your head to your toes.
“Can’t think, can you?” Sherlock asks, but you both already know the answer. “Everything’s done with great difficulty. Breathing, holding still, practicing restraint.” He trails off, observing your features and especially the way he notices your eyes trace down to where his hand is slipping the button of his trousers properly out of its position. He continues to speak with you, intent on watching, commemorating the intrigue in your hungry pupils as he removes the next button, then the next.
“In your case, undoing a pair of trousers…” It’s a whisper and the air of it hits your cheek from how close he is. “You’ve rendered me a mindless vessel for weeks,” he confesses, to which you had no knowledge of, and then he follows it with a gritty promise that has your spine arching, “I’m going to do the exact same thing to you.”
A reply barely has any time to form because you’re being kissed again, your vision blocked from viewing his length. With your fervor and effort, you use your calves to push the material down his waist to his thighs and thankfully, Sherlock pushes them out of the way alongside you until they’re being kicked and shucked away from his legs and ankles. You try to kiss Sherlock back, but your leaking center comes into contact with the crown of Sherlock’s length suddenly and your lips come apart in a gasp, one he takes advantage of by shifting his tongue into the space as if it was his invitation. He grunts in response to the whimper that leaves you as you greedily attempt to roll your hips up to gain friction. One particular roll accomplishes the goal, your weeping slit running up his shaft in one fluid motion, surprised noises vibrating against your mouths from how good it felt, from how needy you both are for each other.
But, much to your dismay, Sherlock removes your legs from his waist to press them down into the mattress at the apex of your inner thighs, preventing you from continuing your forlorn, silent pleas. There’s a slight stretch in the muscles and in a way, you feel shy from how your most sensitive area is being displayed so lewdly, sure to try and close your thighs if Sherlock glances down for a peek. He doesn’t, as much as he wants to seal his mouth around that tender pearl, instead glowering at you with sincerity in his eyes.
“We’re going at my pace,” he warns. You feel like you might lose your mind if he doesn’t fuck you this instant, your lip tucking away in a pout you would normally be ashamed of. Though, currently being at his mercy is making your cunt spill over with desire.
“But, b-but, I can take it—” You babble and protest, to which Sherlock squeezes your thighs to admonish and quiet you down. It achieves its desired effect as you clamp your mouth shut and stare up at him with pleading flutters of your lashes. He almost caves.
“I know, I know, believe me, slow isn’t easy for either of us at this moment,” he breathes heavily, his voice sounds like sex, “but I won’t risk hurting you. You’ll take what I give.” He’s stern and to the point and it offers you a bit of clarity. You completely forgot about your virginity, how this is not only your first time with Sherlock, but your first time with anyone ever. That’s why you’ve felt guilty during this ordeal, because you’ve been rutting up into him for more and more while he’s been successfully supervising his control. It’s not because there’s a lack of longing on his end, his protruding length and orally fixating mouth prime examples, but because in all of this, he’s recalled the seriousness of the situation. Clearly, he holds a candle above you in knowledge of this as he does in everything else, besides sewing, so of course he surmised you a virgin ignorant to the incoming physical and emotional sensations involved with this plunge. And yet, as you watch the dilation of his pupils in real time, the way his biceps flex as he holds himself back, and the light glistening of every sinew and bulk of him from the pure heat radiating between you, you brace your hands at his shoulders and allow need to talk for you.
“Please, Sherlock, I don’t think I can go on any longer without…” Fuck, you’re realizing this is harder to say with his intense gaze fixated on you. Have his eyes always been that shade of deep royal? “W-without you inside me,” you stutter. Your face washes over with fire and you would’ve been embarrassed if it weren’t for the same fire you see flash in Sherlock’s eyes.
“Fuck, stop talking,” he mutters, but there’s extra motivation that trembles the shoulders you’re holding onto as he reaches down to grasp himself at his base. You catch a glimpse, careful not to linger in staring because then you’re positive a fear would grow from his size. Like the rest of him, it’s impressive to the point of where it could possibly cause you to question his insertion, so you focus on his features and wait in pure anticipation.
No matter the speed in which Sherlock complied with your request, he’s still maddeningly slow dragging the tip of himself up and down your entrance. It sears you from the outside, your legs twitching from how badly you wish to slither them back around him, how they convulse from how fervid it feels to inch away from the sensation and conflicting it is to chase it all the same. There’s one hand still wrenched onto your thigh so there’s little motion that you can do. The worst part has to be how you can feel him pulsating repeatedly. Sherlock ignores primal instincts urging him to slide right in, his underlying wish in all of this being your absolute pleasure. He gathers your slick on himself and you’re close to begging him again when you begin to feel a decisive push forward, a spreading sting passing throughout your core as he settles in deeper, slow on his intrusion. You bury your head into his neck as you squeeze your eyes shut, yelping from how the action involuntarily caused your resisting walls to clamp down on him at the same time. Sherlock chokes and finally releases your thigh to slam his fist down into the pillow adjacent to your head, like he did with the desk, a tell in his supposed composure much like the one in his throbbing cock stretching you with every pulse that alerts you how he’s still fucking growing whilst inside of you.
“You feel… so warm. So, so tight,” he gasps, perhaps in a bit of shock of his own, “Relax. Breathe for me, yes, yes, just like that.”
Your inhales and exhales come at his command, but each one is shakier than the last. Due to how lubricated you are, and how Sherlock cradles you caringly against him, the pain from all of this fades into a dull ache. With your attention on your breath, a blissful sigh manages its way through as Sherlock shifts himself, discomfort there, and then beautifully replaced by something you believe feels heavenly. A harp’s twang echoes in your head. Your taut limbs slacken and you didn’t even know how rigid you were until then. Sherlock did, he’s been in tune with every nerve, every flex, and every sound that’s come from your body, willing himself to not only satisfy you, but to act on those pesky fantasies that have snuck on him for almost as long as he’s known you. It’s indecent to think about your estranged neighbor bent over the desk you’re supposed to be attending to professional work on. Sherlock’s immunity to your charms is and was nonexistent and honestly, everything could’ve been easier if he just left the two of you as enemies and ignored your existence until you inevitably moved away. But what a crock of shit that is. He’s nestled so deeply in your folds that he doesn’t care how lost he is, if this is a distraction from getting his much needed night of sleep, he just has this parroting thought blaring in his mind to move, move, move.
Your head slips from his neck, forehead pressing against his. There’s a shyness in how you enclose your arms around his broad neck and shoulders. Maybe, just as he has, you’ve come to the crashing revelation of how intimate this really is, how ultimate and permanent he’s now etched himself into your life. He’s wedged inside of you and whatever is to happen next, it can’t subtract away this physical connection, it can’t be denied that Sherlock Holmes is your first lover. Sherlock listens to his brain and pumps gently, slowly inside of you, groaning like your cunt’s the first he’s ever filled/stuffed. Surely, the ache subsides but battles with another, and that’s the ache of wanton need, each push inwards and each pull out gratifying and yet not enough to kindle the overwhelming shrill of the flame bubbling within you.
“God,” you peck Sherlock’s lips despite the oxygen being driven from your lungs with every undulation of his hips, “please, please,” you say for the second and third time tonight. He acquiesces enough to push in just a little faster, your throat catching on a whine as you tremble from the pleasure overtaking you. Sherlock plants his mouth on yours, halting any other pleas that transform into hiccupping moans against him, such that he captures and reignites with every thrust he offers. You can’t help the yearning in you that increases, working on Sherlock’s time and pace like he promised, so you know he’s drilling into you so sweetly on purpose.
Logically, to you, he did so because he didn’t want to hurt you. You appreciate that sentiment, but from how your heart is racing to the point of where you can hear it reverberate in your ears, slow is winding you up tighter and tighter. It wrings your body up like a rag being twisted and turned to release the moisture sitting in its cloth. You need more and more, stretched and primed for him to speed up and show you what he held back. It almost felt like being let in on a secret, like how you wanted to know about the details of his investigation. You want to know what Sherlock will do if he gives in to his own pleasure, if he will become as single-minded as you are, let feeling and emotion instruct him rather than the inquisitive nature of his mind. You don’t want parts of him—you want all of him.
You lift a hand to cup Sherlock’s cheek, among your continuing please, please, please without anything specific in mind, the holy word chipping his resolve away by the passing minutes, between the kisses Sherlock’s mouth steals from you after each one. They linger, either short or lasting, varying in time, varying in pressure, but never relenting. Using your hold on him as he exchanges a particularly sharp thrust, you mutter an impassioned “uh” against him having not expected it (it elevated you to a new height), one leg coming up at his waist to hook around his hip. Just as you theorized, and just as he knew, it sinks his tip to the hilt. In reaction, he grunts, “how the fuck did you get tighter,” under his breath and you feel prideful for throwing him slightly off track. Using this to your advantage, your thumb presses into the gentle divot in his cheek, and then you experimentally tug his bottom lip between your teeth. He pants and you hear the masculine noise pour out of him at an increased volume. It’s then that Sherlock creates distance between your heads, his forearm tucking under your thigh to lift it higher on his torso, his hand coming to rest at your side from underneath.
“Couldn’t help yourself, could you?” His thumb digs into your hip bone, his fingers clutched into the flesh gathered at the side of your waist. The new angle begs a deep stretch in your thigh, but he exacerbates the test of your flexibility by using his other hand to pin your opposite thigh to the bed much like he had done earlier when he deprived you. Your walls quiver around Sherlock’s cock, constricting him because of how accommodating to him they’ve become. He fucks you harder, an accumulative speed and pressure that doesn’t have any obstacles or road bumps, just a smooth crest upwards that has you keening beneath him, arching and praying his name to the ceiling. He’s no longer purring out short grunts, but allowing them to slip past his parted lips as he pounds you into the spot you slept in that morning.
“This is what you w-wanted?” He’s completely breathless, but he still manages coherence, not that you’re jealous of it at the moment because you may be forgetting grammar and basic linguistics, but you’re also forgetting your own name. You recall it when Sherlock moans it and you cry out from the utterance, from how he fucks you closer and closer towards mania.
“yesyesyesyes,” you repeat, your blunt nails scraping over his shoulder as you reach a peak, something washing over you like an eruption. Your arms cling to Sherlock, holding him close as you confine your face back to his neck and feel the shudders of your first orgasm. You don’t understand it, you’ve never experienced anything like it, but you tremble as you feel soft tears gather in your lash line. Sherlock curses from how your body convulses and how it does so around his girth, but he generously fucks you through it.
Your hold loosens on Sherlock, but your clinging remains. You’re clutching him like a savior, whining as he continues to pump in and out of you. He might have continued if he wasn’t so fucking exhausted, close to his climax himself, but he can’t be that irresponsible as much as he wants to fill you with his seed. You gasp as he slips out of you, your channel clenching around nothing, your bud swollen and sensitive. You watch as Sherlock grasps his length and immediately releases himself onto your stomach, his hands detaching from your body to press into the mattress below, to stop himself from crushing you because his frame slumps forward and he has to give in as he lowers himself to his forearms caging your head in. You’re both gasping, inhaling and exhaling air by the mouthfuls, and Sherlock is pressing a majority of his weight into your frame. Somehow, you don’t feel boxed in, but safe and protected. You appreciate how he didn’t roll away from you, how his sweat slick skin glistens with his lamp’s light, how he looks at you in awe and slight worry.
“It was… wonderful,” you say in efforts to appease this aforementioned worry, and you absolutely fucking mean it. It’s not because you’re saving his ego, but because you’re satiated, boneless, floating despite being firmly underneath him in space and time.
“You did perfect,” he whispers, again not because he’s coddling your brain or even heart, but because he’s proud of you, in pure astonishment of you, hopelessly enthralled by you. At the praise, you feel this urge to intertwine yourself further with him as if he isn’t already as close as he is. Your hands cradle his face as he smiles and leans in to kiss you.
Sherlock yanks a bedside drawer open and removes a handkerchief from it, then he lifts up away from your body to clean your abdomen. He’s delicate as he attends to you and then himself, the soiled rag set aside so he could get back to being settled in with you. Something in Sherlock feels awfully drowsy, the sleep deprivation and his stolen remnants of energy to blame, and he can’t envision laying anywhere else other than where his head sits on your heaving breasts. You run your fingers through his curls, spent, your eyes heavy. Someone should say something in the afterglow, but it’s not about thinking right now. You could feel the silence getting louder, your eyes slipping closed and then gradually coming back open to relish in how Sherlock’s mass blankets you with weight and heat. You only finally let yourself sleep when you can hear the light snores coming from the detective laying atop of you, his rhythmic breath nuzzling the swell of your right breast, content that he’s getting the sleep he’s missed out on for weeks.
Sherlock gingerly rolls to his back when the sun decides to beam its light through his curtain. It disturbs him, but with how high it is in the sky, he wonders the hour of day and how long he had been asleep. Clarity finds him like an old memory. It’s in bits and pieces and then it comes crashing in altogether. He’s missing that impending stress in his neck and shoulders that would usually wake him with a startle when his body felt he slept for too long when he could be tangled with his work instead. He should be plenty able to solve his case like he told himself he would and now his brain is back to its optimal setting and functioning, reset presumably from the mind-blowing sex, but he instead remembers your beautiful face, your harmonic moans, and your welcoming legs.
He sits up and realizes you’re no longer in bed with him at this. He scans along the length of the room, the robe you two got rid of at some point in the night on the floor next to his trousers. Sherlock groggily stands to his feet, he flings on the robe, and then opens the door of the room, the smell of food wafting through the air. His stomach growls, but he’s not padding towards the kitchen because he’s hungry, but because he’s searching for you. He ultimately comes across you there, your back to him, his button-up on your frame that goes just past your posterior. You soon turn around to lay the eggs in the pan on top of the toasted bread on the counter. You both lock eyes and you could feel the blood rising up to your cheeks with how he glances at your choice of outfit. If he could call it that.
“Are you going to be a thief and ransack my closet later, as well?” He wouldn’t be that opposed to the idea. Thus far, you modeled his coat, his robe, and now his undershirt better than he did. There’s also something particularly domestic about how you don his clothes. He feels an inkling of possessiveness. The gestures unspokenly cement you as his in some form and for some reason, that thrills him.
“I don’t have to ransack anything to get into your trousers, Shoulders,” you reply. Your voice is a lot more airy than it usually is no matter the teasing tone you adopted. You’re rather confident for someone who’s still behaving so coyly, especially with the way Sherlock’s jaw slackens at the implication.
Sherlock chooses not to answer verbally. Instead, he slowly approaches you until you could feel the counter press into your back from how you went the opposite direction. It’s not in avoidance, the same goal present to tease as before, and it’s displayed with how you initiate the kiss he intended on doing himself at this close proximity. He hums his approval, lifting you immediately by your thighs. If you’re not mistaken, you’re not, he seemingly has an affinity for your legs wrapped around him. You comply with this silent desire and earn another noise of approval, sighing against his mouth as he leads you to his kitchen table. Sherlock lowers himself to sit into his chair with you in his lap, his hands settling at the small of your back as you use the leverage to press your mouth against the sharp lines of his jaw. Your mouth relocates his in no time, his manspreading legs creating distance between your own as a consequence.
There’s a collective soreness from your affairs, you’re thoroughly reminded from the stretch currently sitting in your hovering thighs, but it doesn’t hinder you from attending to Sherlock. If anything, you wish to guide his hand down where you need him most, shifting your hips against the quickly hardening length underneath. His hands don’t halt your motions, perfectly fine with your bucking movement as it’s allowing him friction. The morning wood he woke with is particularly sensitive so he will indeed be susceptible to receive whatever you could possibly offer him at this moment. As far as aspiration goes, he’s thought about having you in his lap this way countless times. In fact, the thought recently snuck up on him only yesterday while he paced the floor and you laid in his bed completely unaware of the daydream haunting him, the murky image of your frame rising and falling on him while his head and mouth buried into your chest.
He thinks about sex more than one would presume and with you, it crept up on him and stalked him after you met, attacked him while he bathed, while he read, while he was supposed to be deciphering this puzzling case he had no choice but to bring you into. So, now that he’s practiced a mere fraction of these wants and vicious reveries, he’s no longer resisting their insistence and no longer censoring the depictions of your bare form or muffled moans. He’s a primary witness of real stature who holds a firsthand account of how supple your naked breasts are, how you babble nonsense lost in the throes of passion, how you climb octaves when you crest and how marvelous your walls feel through the process. If he thought it difficult to think before, he’s surely in for a debacle regarding anything productive from here on out harboring this intensive, yet fascinating, insider knowledge.
A stomach growls. Neither of you are sure who it came from entangled this heavily, but you sigh out against Sherlock’s mouth and depart from it with great reluctance through pressing your palms against his shoulders.
“Breakfast first,” you murmur, cupping his jaw and stroking his cheek. On the upstroke, your thumb meets the scratch of his stubble.
“It could wait,” Sherlock insists. It’s enough to convince you, really, but then you hear that growl again and now you’re both certain of who it came from. Especially when said perpetrator closes his pretty eyes in defeat. You smile before you steal another kiss.
It’s difficult standing from where you sit, but you do eventually detangle yourself from Sherlock. He relinquishes you as you clamber back to the food you left behind on the counter, adjusting himself in the process to will his current… dilemma to go away. He attempts to shift his focus after he realizes his eyes are lingering where his shirt ends and where your flesh begins, turning his head towards the table in his efforts. His gaze lands on the discarded letter from yesterday that he somehow read a numerous amount of times without absorbing any information. He recalls his humanity during issues like this, scorned by his lack of energy and by his betraying insomnia, by his overactive mind trapped inside a body with physical boundaries despite purposely exercising to combat that. But now that the temptation is there, he reaches for the letter, a glance taken from it to you who returns with two plates, one steaming in front of him. The Sherlock from yesterday most likely would’ve put this away, or perhaps excused himself to read it alone, but after his behavior, and the proper sleep to assess said petulant behavior with clarity, he believes it necessary to at least give you a choice.
“Do you still wish to know the details of my investigation?” He asks, and expectantly, you snap your head in his direction in the middle of placing your own plate down to the table. A clink of the glass resounds and then there’s a beat of quiet, your stare on him searching his face for a sign of regret, for jest, for anything negating his words. As always, he’s as serious as serious gets, never one to mince his speech, compassion embedded in how he uplifts the inner corners of his eyebrows.
You’re blindsided. After yesterday, you were certain Sherlock wouldn’t divulge anything related to his case. After last night, you pushed the concept into the far recesses of your mind to focus on him and solely him. As your head travels back to your interactions together and how he closed himself off, you’re not positive you want to open Pandora’s box. But you would also be deceptive if you didn’t admit to your ever-growing curiosity.
“If… if you want me to, then yes,” you begin, trusting his judgment, “but only if you do. I never wanted to muddle your work. I just wanted to help.” And you still do. You hope that your cautious glances at him can convey that without putting yourself out on a limb in the position of a fool.
Sherlock slowly nods his head and his eyes divert from yours to stare at the letter in his hand. You were tempted to read it, but you didn’t have any time to do so at Mrs. Thomas’s considering your previous predicament leading to her arrival, nor did you in Sherlock’s company traveling back to your shared building. If anything, you quickly disposed of it to quench that temptation and leave the arguments from before in the past to carry on with this intimate connection you and Sherlock transparently have with each other. Whatever it is, it’s deeper than the contents of this letter, than the aspects of his case, than losing his… friendship. Or whatever you two are calling it now.
You almost rush syllables out to deny the question seeing the visible contemplation on Sherlock’s features. This is a vital decision and it could very well be life threatening, because at this point, you’ve educated yourself on Sherlock’s previous cases through small talk with your clientele and old newspapers, all of which he closed in due time despite the danger surrounding. That’s not what scares you. What scares you is becoming privy to this part of his livelihood to then be ostracized, pushed away by his inability to accept succor, by his inability to properly undergo the emotions flitting throughout you and himself. Say, that bullshit you convinced yourself before is wrong, you do have a grasp of how to read Sherlock. It’s that grasp that urges you to waive this all away, eat your breakfast, and distract your earnest thoughts from their incessant need to know more by straddling Sherlock’s lap and having him instruct you when to surge and when to plummet.
Great, now that’s firmly back in your mind. To appease your overthinking, you grasp your toast and take a bite. The crunch is louder than initially thought, but it makes sense since neither of you two are saying anything. You chew slowly to ease the tension, startled when Sherlock suddenly speaks.
“Clara Grace of Beckenham, age fifty-three, was pronounced deceased at the scene at 6:43 pm on Wednesday, September 3rd, 1884. The murder instrument? Presumably, to the police anyway,” he gives you a knowing look, “a simple revolver. To me?” The correct observation, his eyes convey. “It was the revolver M1882, produced exclusively in Switzerland. There were remnants of black powder and the 308 diameter bullet left behind a clean orifice in Clara’s chest. Which would mean our suspect most likely shot her at a close distance, face to face, and they may have an affiliation with the Swiss army and such an outrageous claim could be enough, and was enough, for our dear police officials and her family to subtract yours truly’s aid moving forward in the investigation.” He clears his throat at this, his gaze set on the table, on the food, but you know he’s looking right past it.
So, not only is Sherlock’s involvement unwanted by the police and unwanted by the victim’s family, he carried on with an investigation of his own. Sherlock didn’t tell you these details because of his ego (okay, maybe a small part of it was that), but because he doesn’t have proper authorization and from how he won’t meet your gaze, it’s possible he’s embarrassed. You don’t say anything, waiting for him to continue and leap over this disappointment he carries in his features.
He eventually does with a shake of his head. “Clara’s parents were sparing in their accounts. They left for the theater, came home early, and then found Clara dead. Her father was in shambles, sobbing as they covered Clara’s body with a sheet. Her mother was quieter, however, less hysteric. When I resolved the matter of the murder weapon and how it could have possibly been someone Clara knew given the close proximity, I was soon told by her father, once he calmed, that I would no longer be needed. Thus, I no longer had access to their home nor possible suspects.” Sherlock’s tongue runs along his upper row of teeth, sucking on them so harshly that his jaw pops. You’re not sure what to say to him. The only dead body you had seen in your lifetime belonged to your father and it was after his heart afflictions, not due to someone inhumanely claiming his life. You grieve for Sherlock’s frustration. He barely had anything, it seems, and yet ironically more than the police.
“Regardless,” he continues, “I acquired evidence. A piece of fabric, fabric that you seemingly specialize in because I was unable to locate it in over thirty establishments,” he clicks his tongue at you, to which you shyly grin because he wouldn’t have had to take that journey if you had helped him from the beginning, “and this fabric came with dried blood. Clara’s blood, I’m sure of it. Now, believe me when I tell you that nowhere on this woman’s outfit did it appear to be missing even a loose thread. Which means this fabric came from—”
“The suspect,” you breathe, pieces falling together in your head. You look at the letter and then the other piece of fabric on the table that you.. that you took from Mrs. Thomas’s. The implications of this… you can feel your head reeling.
“Yes… the suspect. This entails the suspect to be wealthy as that factor is the commonality amongst your clientele and as agitating as it was visiting all those businesses, it has narrowed down the possibilities and confirmed it for me. This does not mean that any of your clients are murderers,” Sherlock reaches for your hand. He seems to know what’s currently lurking through your head as you level him with teary eyes. Your trust is breaking the more he explains this. You don’t know what to think having visited these homes so recently of people you thought were at least good natured. While he’s reassuring you of the likelihood, it’s not completely unfound and he knows that. Anyone and everyone could be guilty.
“If they are not involved themselves, then they might have connections to the true culprit. Remember, your clothing is not solely worn by the retrieving consumers, but also by their friends, by their family, by the complete strangers they may have donated it to. Though,” he sighs, his thumb repeatedly stroking back and forth on your hand. There’s always a catch. You squeeze his hand back to try and lessen his worry.
“Though this line of thinking may all change if I read you this letter. I attempted to do so last night, but… I faced distractions.” His grip tightens a fraction on your hand. It’s a lovely memory to recall and since it happened so recently, both of you succumb to the fragments that hit at you. Still, you gesture to the letter.
“You can go on,” you bravely reply. He slants his mouth.
“Are you certain? Whatever may lie in this letter could be telling of your companion and the state of your companionship with—”
“Please, Sherlock,” you contest. You gradually remove your hand from his so you can sit taller, your expression morphing with confidence other than the blemish of ignorance. “I have to know.”
It’s heavy being here at the table with Sherlock like this. The letter you stole from Mrs. Thomas could unveil more than you could bargain for, but there’s this white knight in your heart craving the truth, craving justice for a woman you didn’t know even if it comes at the cost of erasing the idealized image you held of someone you thought you did.
“Very well,” he relents. He flips the letter, “For Blanche, with love,” he announces. A bit of relief floods you at this because it means that this letter is addressed to Mrs. Thomas and not something she wrote. You still prepare yourself as he reads.
“My dearest Blanche, this is quite possibly the longest we have undergone without seeing one another. I know we have faced our trials and distances in the past, but this certainly feels different. If I were to be honest, I would tell you how it feels as if a part of me is missing. I would tell you how lost I am, how heavy I carry my heart, and how I think of you every day. It has worsened the longer we have been apart. This rail system has stolen plenty of my time from you and so I am proposing a plot that requires your initiative and word.
“I have pondered retirement. This would mean we would see each other daily, no longer concerned with distributing our activities, reconciling at our own pace to do our own biddings. I know we were reluctant in our youth to even think of such an endeavour, but now we are blessed with enough wealth to last us and then some for the rest of our lives. I made a vow to spend that measure with you and I hope you share this ambition. I am ready for this next chapter and to say goodbye to the last one, but I can only do so with your hand in mine.
“I ask you to contemplate this decision well. There are many ventures we can accomplish together with this newfound time. We could travel anywhere, we could move to a different country, we could settle down further where we are. We could renovate the house or keep it as is and go on those peaceful strolls that you love. There are endless prospects. I won’t officially retire until I have your input. Seeing that I will be returning Saturday, October 25th, I do anticipate our reunion. Forgive me for being unable to be there earlier in the day, but I am sure I will be arriving just in time for our planned outing. We can continue this discussion then. I will see you at the ball. Travel with caution and mind your surroundings. Love, Edmund.”
The absence of sound is prevalent when Sherlock finishes reading the letter. Truthfully, a portion of you feels corrupt and unsettled for listening to it because of the intimacy the letter described. You hardly knew Mr. Thomas, having only met with him twice in your tenure, once at your family home, and another when you stepped up to take over your father’s business. You don’t know how Sherlock could stomach disrupting the privacies in the lives of others, but it doesn’t leave you with a pleasant feeling. You feel guilty for even thinking Mrs. Thomas could commit such an atrocity when she’s actually a lonely woman away from her hardworking husband. At least, that’s how you view this. You don’t see the connection that Sherlock does so you’re incredibly surprised when he instantly stands from the table, the legs of his chair screeching on the floor from how suddenly he pushed it backwards. You watch with confusion as he knits his eyebrows inwards.
“The rail system. He wasn’t talking about the Metropolitan Railway,” he proclaims out loud. As many of his discoveries are, Sherlock says it more to himself, but he corrects this immediately after and looks to you. You’re still not following, but you do stand from your chair and lean over it to try and grasp ahold of what he means.
“Then which did he imply?”
“The railway network being attended to elsewhere… in Switzerland.”
The hesitation in Sherlock’s voice depicts to you how he must’ve figured this out already while he read the letter. You hold a hand to your mouth at this startling revelation, the familiar lines and wrinkles of Mr. Thomas’s facial structure coming to your head as you think about what Sherlock is leading you towards. That guilt from seconds ago manifests into denial, your head shaking back and forth as you wordlessly stare at Sherlock. You know he’s right in his assumption, and that’s what exacerbates it for you, unable to believe that Mrs. Thomas’s husband could execute someone. There still isn’t a motive, you tell yourself. Maybe on the offhand chance, Sherlock is wrong for once. The connection to Switzerland is a coincidence and Mr. Thomas did not have a revolver specially akin to the nation.
However, as your head spins back to the content of his letter to Mrs. Thomas, you glance down at the lone piece of fabric you found alongside it locked away in that desk full of cat figurines. Your heart thuds faster, your head whipping back to Sherlock who appears as if he’s thinking of comforting words, anything he could do or say in this situation. While you appreciate the sentiment, you tap the surface of the table.
“Where’s the fabric you found?”
“Lily, I know this is a plethora of information, but—”
“Where’s the fabric from the crime scene? I need you to bring it to me at once.” You demand. He seems to catch on to your urgency and he starts to move as he calls back, “In the study,” on his way out of the kitchen.
You ground yourself to reality by placing your palms facing downwards on the surface of Sherlock’s kitchen table. The events from yesterday replay in your mind, the elite class referring to the same ball both Mr. and Mrs. Thomas will be present at. Then you think back to the specific purchases you’ve relayed in the past two months or so, but there’s no direct confirmation when the fabric in question was sold or what it specifically belonged to since you have a scrap and Sherlock presumably also has one too short to recognize. In your desperation, you recall the first time you met Mr. Thomas. He stopped by to greet your father, all smiles, a comical top hat on his head which he removed with enthusiasm as you practically bounced into the room for a better view.
You were too young to understand the business lingo they engaged in, pieces and sentences of their conversation lost, but you weren’t too young to understand the blissful expression on his old face, how he spoke of love and its rekindling because he mentioned struggling at the time with his wife, Blanche. He kneeled down to your level, insisting to your father that you hadn’t interrupted anything important. He beckoned you to come closer with his hand, but as a shy child, you remained in your spot unmoving. That’s when he reached for one of his coat’s pockets, a coat your father made, and then retrieved a handful of farthings that glinted under your home’s lamp. Your eyes widened with intrigue, possessed by your childlike curiosity and greed as you thumped over and took the farthings from him. You counted them as he chuckled over you, still relatively hulking even bent down. His knee popped as he slowly stood and told you the history of farthings and how they were made, much of which you tuned out to stare at the currency in your little palm. When you looked up, you noticed the handkerchief sticking out of the pocket that held the coinage and the way he smoothed his vest like a gentleman.
Sherlock returns into the kitchen and noticing your current gaze, he places the other scrap of fabric alongside the one you’re staring intently at. Side by side, you know what item of clothing these scraps came from and while there is more missing, you don’t require it to comprehend the weight of this observation that Sherlock couldn’t have caught on his own.
“What is it?” He asks.
“The fabric is from a handkerchief. Mr. Thomas’s handkerchief.”
The horse’s hooves of your carriage trot nonchalantly along the busy streets of London, and you assume there are other carriages nearby from the sound of offbeat steps creating something resembling white, background noise. You cross your leg over the other, the heaviness of your dress’s layered skirt becoming apparent during the action since the material ruffles and bunches in the process. Sherlock glances at you at the contention point of the noise and then he awkwardly reverts his gaze forward again to the curtain concealing away your coachman. You wish he would talk to you instead of entertaining this silence you accidentally fell into, but you also understand how there’s an upcoming event you two must remain focused on. It’s vital you don’t stray away from the objective, the possible perpetrator of a murder case Sherlock’s chased at this ball you two were currently en route to. You probably should’ve denied Sherlock’s invitation that he felt he owed you after roping you into his investigation through releasing the nuances and details, but you couldn’t withstand the idea of waiting at home in anticipation as Sherlock brought an old family friend to justice on his lonesome. That’s if Sherlock could find anything through questioning Mr. Thomas directly, the very plan of your night. Sherlock explained to you that he was still missing a motive.
In a twisted way, it offered you the opportunity to get dressed in your best attire. You don’t recall when you last wore something this extravagant, when you last were able to choose from the assortment of clothing at your disposal for your own prerogative. Secretly, you also wished to pick an option that would be eye-catching not only for the ball’s attendees, but for Sherlock. You got your wish since he froze in his spot once you opened the door to your flat and stepped past the threshold. To him, you floated further into his sight as if you had wings, the obsidian bows and tule dipping around your biceps in gentle sleeves connecting to your sweetheart corset brushing him as you walked past and reminded him of the carriage ride you both had to catch if you desired to arrive on time.
Sherlock wore the suit you tailored for him as well as the tie you picked out. The difference became all clear to his regular clothing because of how it hugged the hard lines of him while still highlighting his frame and bulk. It took extra time than your other projects did and you realized you ran low on azure products while placing it together having adjusted an already-made-suit, but the end result was worth it. How you found the time in the midst of developing deep feelings for him, embarrassing yourself to him in a drunken manner, arguing with him, fucking him, and deciphering a mystery case’s answers is beyond you, but you worked miracles in the past before.
“You look…” Sherlock breaks the silence, but his voice is uncharacteristically soft. You turn towards him and he still faces the curtain as he wrestles with what he wants to say. If he looks at you, it’ll be worse for him. You’ve stumped him of his speech and his mind is currently blanking as he tries to locate the words conveying how you make him feel, how one glance robs his breath, and how your appearance commands full attention. As clever as he is, in all his wits and skills, this is seemingly a game he doesn’t excel in. His attempts come with strain, his emotions crumpled for what reason you don’t know, but you nudge your shoulder against his and he looks at you with admiration despite it all.
“Thank you,” you respond to the unsaid compliment that hangs in the air. You slyly grasp his hand and lace your fingers together, the hold led into your lap. His knuckles linger on the golden lace adorning the opaque tule of your skirt beneath it. “So do you,” you finish in a whisper.
You two remain that way. Sherlock’s grateful for how you don’t press, albeit a touch disappointed in himself for not being able to fully articulate what’s in his head. Frustratingly, he doesn’t fully comprehend what’s going on with him, either. There are feelings, that’s already a realm he’s unfamiliar with, but to add further to it, he doesn’t know what these feelings are. They don’t logically spell out their motives nor their purpose like everything else he approaches in his life does. Humanity is exceedingly simple, driven by its selfish nature and complex emotions and so he shouldn’t have any issue with unraveling whatever it is he feels for you, and yet the gossamer web has no rhyme nor reason. It taunts him, it laughs at him, it encircles his head in a vague question he barely can read despite it entrapping him for what feels like ages now. The puzzling case of Clara Grace is coming to its solution, undeniably because of how all answers reveal themselves in time, but what of the puzzling case involving him and you?
“We never slept together, did we?” You question, saving him from his thoughts while simultaneously ushering in others he thought you wished to avoid. He looks at you quizzically and you quickly correct yourself even though he already knows what you’re referring to.
“I mean, before. When I fell asleep in your flat. We didn’t do anything of that nature, did we?” You’re sheepish as you stare at your hand in his, the unit you’ve created still in your lap. He doesn’t know where this is coming from nor if this is the appropriate time to discuss this, but he might as well if you’re willing to no matter the hour or where you two are heading.
“Did you believe we did?” It’s a logical assumption if you wake in someone else’s bed after a night of consuming wine.
“Perhaps. I thought we did something, but I didn’t know what. You approached me with such seriousness and so I attempted to connect lines that weren’t there and..”
“You came to the conclusion that we had intercourse and I was searching for a way to reject you?” He continues for you. You meet his gaze then, because that implies you thought him as someone that sleazy and you quickly clear the air.
“No, no, well, yes, but not exactly,” you clarify and Sherlock furrows his brows in rare bewilderment. “I thought that the conversation could possibly lead there and I wasn’t ready for it. Whatever we did while I was drunk, I wasn’t ready for the consequences.”
Understanding now encompasses Sherlock’s features, much to your relief. He seems to be thinking of something, “That’s why you wanted to pretend as if nothing happened. Self-preservation.”
You chew on your lip. This definitely isn’t easy, almost as difficult as you foresaw it before just as he did. But if you’re going into a mission with grand players and high stakes, you don’t want anything possibly holding either of you back sitting between you any longer.
“And I didn’t want to lose you,” you confess quietly and you can see Sherlock’s shoulders lower in surprise. That’s not what he expected. His mouth parts like he could add something, but he doesn’t. You sigh, your head tilting down in shame. “I’ve lost my father, I haven’t seen my mother nor my sister in months, the friend I made in Mrs. Thomas came because of work and now I’m about to have a hand in possibly sending her husband away to prison. You’ve been a steady factor during this time. Forgive me for trying to hold on as best as I could manage.”
That’s who you are now. You don’t want your world to crumble all over again so you must tighten your vise on what’s present to prevent it from happening again. Yet, the guilt from attempting to control life and its ups and downs, from attempting to control Sherlock and his appearance in your day-to-day activity, it’s catching up to you. You gradually pacify the pressure you have on Sherlock’s hand, because as much as you would hate it, it’s not up to you whether or not he stays or doesn’t. He has his own autonomy and if he believes it as correct, then he can walk away from you when all of this is done and you have to stand by and let him. Not wanting to ruin your makeup by thinking of this, you breathe evenly to halt the tears threatening to fall over your lash line. You only gasp when Sherlock reinforces his hold on your hand, his grip now the dominant one.
“You asked me to lay with you… that night. I didn’t know if it was you or the alcohol in your system speaking, so I chose to forego the opportunity, but believe me, it was with great, great reluctance.” His jaw hardens, his mind begging him to stop talking because of how he’s discussing with you what he held back for days, private information that he wouldn’t tell to anyone else, not even to himself out loud in front of a mirror. “While you slept, I couldn’t bring myself to. My mind preoccupied itself with your safety, with what your reaction would be in the morning, if there was a way to salvage our,” he loses his speech then, not sure of the label he could give the two of you. He settles for gesturing back and forth between you and him in the miniscule space among your bodies with his opposite hand. You get it immediately. “I planned to encourage nothing but friendship. You’ve been a distraction to me. Doing anything with you, whether it was as simple as laying at your side and falling into a shared slumber, I needed to establish our boundaries.”
For a split second, Sherlock notices a tendril of emotion cross your face. He’s never been good at reading these allusive signs, but he recognizes the antecedents before particular behaviors. That tremble of your lip and how you rapidly blink your eyelids, he’s seen you do it. He’s seen you do it before you’re about to cry. That means you’re hurt. He’s not sure why a sense of panic envelopes his chest, hurriedly tucking his knuckles under your chin with his free hand to rectify his words.
“But then you dismissed it and… and I was… I believed… I wanted… ah, fuck,” he blurts. Seldom is he this tongue tied. Seldom is he at a loss for words, able to direct an audience as they hung onto every syllable he uttered. You’re attaching yourself to every one he currently struggles with all the same, but it’s somehow harder. Everything is with you. He can’t think properly, evidently can’t speak properly, but goddamn it, you pull him back with how you flutter your glassy eyes at him, and how you maddeningly tilt your head at him. Enola was right. You’re pretty. You’re so, so fucking pretty. It makes him stutter. It makes him stupid.
“I thought you regretted it. Not just the alcohol intake, but… I thought you regretted what you asked of me. I thought you regretted being with… with me.” It’s Sherlock’s turn to be contrite. He doesn’t do this. He doesn’t talk about the things that make him.. human. He doesn’t expose his weaknesses and this is surely one, his flesh peeled back for your discretion, to pick at his bones, and he’s ashamed of himself to feel anything that isn’t confidence, self-certainty, or inquisitive. But after you laid out your fears, the overbearing trepidation of loneliness that he can relate to (though, he would never say it), he couldn’t remain quiet of what his subconscious desperately needed to release itself of.
Much to his surprise, you don’t stomp on his confession and its vulnerability, you don’t judge him for his antics as Mycroft would, and you don’t tease him for his revelations as Enola would, either. Instead, you smile, and it feels as if the carriage ride stops. You kiss him, his knuckles still along your chin, the movement causing them to touch the delicate, silk choker’s eggshell rose replacing your usual charm necklace for the night. He changes his hand’s position to cup your jaw, inadvertently deepening the kiss by shifting your head for better leverage. Your hand kneads his, your other reaching for his wrist. It doesn’t pull it away as he initially thinks, but it maintains his hold, ensures he remains there. It’s completely unnecessary to him. He’s not going anywhere.
Neither of you have the time to escalate this as much as you both desire it. The door to your carriage comes open to the left of Sherlock and he retracts his mouth from yours. It’s not because he’s embarrassed to be caught like this by the coachman who clears his throat awkwardly in front of you and the carriage, but because Sherlock hates being interrupted. He huffs out his displeasure, releasing your jaw and hand as he straightens his coat and thinks to himself, I surmise the carriage did actually stop.
He descends the single step, peering at the coachman who won’t look at him for some odd reason. Before Sherlock extends his hand out to you, he lifts an eyebrow in question at the other man.
“Does something concern you?”
“No, Sir, I,” the coachman trails off. He glances at you and then back at Sherlock before he ultimately stares at the floor again. “It’s… her lipstick is all over you.”
“Focus. Am I losing you, Lily?”
“I am focused!” You lie, swiftly tearing your gaze away from his sculpted jawline to the crowd of people watching the couples who litter the dance floor, you and Sherlock among said couples who practice the same choreography. Being this close, his scent permeates your nostrils like a pheromone, beckoning you closer to his neck that your lips crave to kiss and drag along. You didn’t know that dancing with Sherlock would rile you this way and render him so desirable, but it’s probably also the alarming fact that he prohibited any other forms of affection since you stained him so horribly and thoroughly back at the carriage. He eventually got himself clean, with the help of the coachman, and he glared at you for snickering to yourself, accusing you softly in your ear of allowing him to enter this event without giving him notice had the coachman not said anything. You protested that your own lips had to be salvaged by the concoction you brought along in your purse, but he’s been weary ever since.
It must be because he’s now in detective mode. As much as your heart soared when he asked you to dance, he reassured you it was because it was the best way to survey the ball’s participants, scope who came in and who went out. Regardless, you couldn’t refrain from swaying to the music, leaning into him closer than necessary, your hand lingering on his chest and shoulders as he pulled you into him after twirling you at a distance. It’s not like he’s in any better shape. You’re so concerned with trying to maintain your composure that you’re failing to notice how his jaw tightens and flexes, how his hands draw your hips in flush against his body, how he inhales your perfume indulgently with every lack of proximity. He’s never enjoyed dancing. Not like he’s enjoying it with you. He should’ve known this experience would be so distinct since you flip every assumption on its head.
“I see Mrs. Thomas,” you alert when your heads are centimeters apart.
Your gaze is over his shoulder, his own in the opposite direction. He nods, still searching through the crowd. He only has your description to go off with Mr. Thomas and his memory of a photograph that sat at Mrs. Thomas’s shared residence. You would definitely know him and could assess if you saw him, but Sherlock knows how dangerous that could be and he’s not letting you anywhere near the man if he can help it. Your part in this is to lead Mrs. Thomas away while he confronts and restricts Mr. Thomas without making a scene. He did tip the police off of his discoveries, but with how they excluded Sherlock from this investigation already, he doesn’t know what time they will show up if they even decide to. Like most things, which were more apparent when he started this career, he has to do this all himself. In all his credibility and fame, it’s been ages since he’s been shunned this way. It proves to him that he only has himself to count on.
Well. Himself and you. You, who looks up at him, ready and willing to carry out your set duty while he carries out his own. He’s suddenly regretting that rule he implemented, reluctant to depart from your frame. He eventually slips his arms away and fights off the demand within him urging him with great pressure and insistence to kiss you.
“Good luck. Find me if you feel anything is wrong or if you happen to run into Mr. Thomas.” He walks with you from the dance floor, a few glances taken your way that have been conducted from the moment you stepped in here together. It’s probably because Sherlock is such a renowned and “eligible” (according to the papers, anyway) bachelor. Pride sinks into your posture.
“I will. Be careful, I’ll see you soon.” Although you two can’t kiss, you do embrace Sherlock. It’s decisive and as quickly as you slotted yourself into his arms, that’s how quickly it’s over. He yearns for the attachment, your lips close to his ear as you murmur “time will explain” and flee from him thereafter.
He soundlessly parrots your words to himself and watches as you cut through the sea of people. He weaves among the patrons himself to ensure you find Mrs. Thomas with his own eyes. From this distance, he sees you greet her and she beams when she recognizes you. After a bone crushing hug, she looks around and then stares at you, presumably asking about where Sherlock is since this is not an event you attend alone and only days before, you lied to her and said you were dancing with him. He can only imagine what the conversation is between you as you hook your arm with hers and begin to walk her away from the thick of the people. He cranes his neck to view until you’re out of sight and while he would rather be in your company, he braces himself for what’s to come.
Sherlock is unable to pass through the attendants unnoticed. Without you at his arm, the attention from unmarried women comes in heaps, one after the other asking him to dance, some not-so-subtle caresses of his biceps as he does his best to appear dapper and without an ulterior motive for his visit. Then there are the officials who realize it’s him, among them by the name of Inspector Lestrade, whom Sherlock doesn’t recognize, who tries to apologize for the expulsion he had no part in, to which Sherlock asks if Lestrade received his note from the night prior. Lestrade confirms it, ready for Sherlock’s signal, and then they part as Sherlock continues his search. At least more than two individuals are searching for Mr. Thomas and he notices other police officials sipping away at glasses of champagne. It’s both irritating and relieving to see. Irritating because this case could have possibly been solved sooner had they just involved Sherlock from the beginning. Relieving because their presence and abundance means your safety is guaranteed and for once, his top priority isn’t bringing someone to answer for their crimes, it’s you.
He grows impatient as he scans more faces, greets people with politeness Mycroft taught him, speaks fondly when they ask him about you since they saw you enter with him and dance with him. In his haste, he pauses at the glasses set for champagne and wine. There are usually service providers who pour and distribute, but he doesn’t see any in sight and concludes to himself that they must be attending to other elites and people of importance. So, he partakes in opening a bottle himself, the smoke from the chilled glass rising up and stroking the length of his nose in pure, fleeting cold. As he chooses a glass, he hears a nearby exchange between a woman in pearls and another woman in rubies. So much for scolding Enola about eavesdropping. What she doesn’t know cannot be used against him.
“Did you attend the funeral?” Pearls inquires, her hand tucked at her elbow, the other nursing a glass of champagne.
“No, her father wasn’t quite fond of inviting his ex-mistress. Or perhaps her mother wasn’t,” Rubies replies and Sherlock has to blink away how staggering that statement is. They’re in public, this should be the last conversation they engage in. He’s aware he shouldn’t continue listening, but he does anyway to occupy the void that comes with pouring his glass to his desired volume.
“Shame. You missed out on the entertainment.” Pearls slyly nudges her friend and masks a wicked grin with a sip of her glass.
“Oh, please. A funeral filled with weeping men and women over a harlot? How depressing,” Rubies mutters aloud. Sherlock can’t believe what he’s hearing. Well, he can. He’s heard outrageous sentences come from wealthy mouths. It’s the entitlement.
“Clara was not a harlot,” Pearls retaliates in a hushed voice through her gritted teeth. At this, Sherlock’s head snaps up. They still haven’t caught wind that he’s listening nor how invested he now is in this topic of discussion.
“That’s up for debate,” Rubies says, but she leans in closer. Like she wants to hear the secret Pearls desperately wants to tell her. “But go ahead. What was so entertaining? Did Clara rise from the dead?”
Pearls lightly smacks Rubies on her arm. Sherlock is sure it’s in good nature since they both snicker.
“No, no, no, nothing of the supernatural sort,” she drops her voice an octave. Sherlock has to strain his ears to hear. “Get this… I was sitting with Peter during the ceremony when suddenly he taps my thigh. He says, ‘Darling, darling look,’ and I look around and do you know who I saw?”
“Who?” Sherlock is not religious, but he finds himself praying silently as he steps closer.
“Edmund. Thomas.”
“No, no he did not,” Rubies gasps, and Sherlock’s eyebrows fly to his forehead. What the hell was Edmund Thomas, the possible murderer, doing at Clara Grace’s, the victim’s, funeral?
“He was standing like a ghost meters away and he had to be chased off by Matilda. It was embarrassing and even more so when she tried to explain herself to Nicholas,” Pearls continues. Sherlock recognizes those names. Matilda and Nicholas Grace. Clara’s parents that Sherlock barely had time to question before they and the police excluded him. Sherlock is no longer concerned with the glass of champagne he’s poured himself. He doesn’t even hide the fact that he’s listening now, his mind racing as he attempts to deduce why Edmund would possibly attend Clara’s funeral.
“Guess love really does make people do crazy things. I think Matilda is taking that secret to the grave with her before she tells Nicholas.”
“Hey, and so are we. Clara didn’t want anyone to know. Especially not Blanche.”
Both women abstain from their gossip at the sound of glass shattering. One even gives a shriek that Sherlock hears having rushed away from the table right after he accidentally bumped into the corner of it. Neither of them noticed him, their eyes locked on the puddle of champagne on the floor, heels clacking as they maneuver away from the shards of glass that burst near them. A servant hurriedly runs over and calls for help to clean the mess, and that’s the last that Sherlock hears because he’s dashing through the crowd now, his thoughts crashing against each other in waves grander than the ocean could muster. His heartbeat drums in his ears, his target in Mr. Thomas not his intent now because doubt is filling him. Not the doubt that Mr. Thomas is not the culprit, he fucking knows that now, but the doubt attempting to convince him that maybe he is and not the hunch Sherlock currently has. Sherlock is doubtful because for once in his fucking life, he wants to be wrong. He wants to be wrong more than he can feel his heart rate quickening.
If I were to be honest, I would tell you how it feels as if a part of me is missing, rings in his head, the convenience of finding the fabric in the desk, the disappearance of one old woman, being coincidentally locked in a room where said fabric and other evidence lied. Everything repeats itself and it doesn’t stop at one time. He can hear voices overlapping, his own, yours, Mrs. Thomas’s, Matilda’s, Nicholas’s, Lestrade’s, Enola’s, Mycroft’s. They’re all trying to tell him the same thing. Images flash, the letter, the fabric, the key, the blood, Clara, the letter, the key, Clara, Rubies, Pearls, Mrs. Thomas, Mr. Thomas, you, you, you, you, you, you, a handkerchief, Switzerland, the revolver, you, you, Clara, the key, the letter, Mrs. Thomas. Mrs. Thomas. Mrs. Thomas. Mrs. Thomas. Mr. Thomas and Clara. Mr. Thomas and Clara. Mr. Thomas and Clara.
I would tell you how lost I am, how heavy I carry my heart.
I am ready for this next chapter and to say goodbye to the last one.
How could he have been so blind? He has a motive now, perhaps the most important part of this investigation besides the murder weapon, which he still did not have. Love is a vicious motivator, he’s known this, and yet, he didn’t realize it despite reading the letter and dealing with the trapping door days ago. Edmund was talking about Clara in the letter, an emptiness referred to that had initially puzzled Sherlock, but it’s becoming clearer to him the more he runs around the ball.
I remember when Edmund and I would dance randomly. Being in love and all, made you spontaneous.
Mrs. Thomas. Mrs. Thomas. Mrs. Thomas.
He catches up to Lestrade, and Lestrade attempts to question what’s gotten into Sherlock, but Sherlock cuts him right off.
“What, what is it? Did you f—”
“Never mind Mr. Thomas, it’s not him, it never was.”
“But your note and explan—”
“I know what the hell I wrote,” Sherlock snaps and earns a few concerned looks thrown his way. He doesn’t care, his hand grasping Lestrade’s sleeve in a death grip. “It’s Blanche Thomas, she’s the one. She shot Clara, she… she…”
Sherlock abruptly stops speaking. He could hear his panting, but at the same time, he doesn’t feel any oxygen being driven out of him. Everything surrounding him goes mute, even Lestrade who pats his shoulders and demands he tells him why Sherlock thinks it’s her. He ignores Lestrade, his expression going blank as he contemplates what he had just done. He got the murderer wrong. Wrongwrongwrongwrongwrong. But as that word echoes through the recesses of his brain, he mulls over its implication. And that’s the horrid, stomach twisting implication that you’re currently with said murderer. In his diligence and caution to ensure your safety, he led you right into the danger’s arms. He did the exact opposite of what he originally intended and now Mr. Thomas is the last person on his mind.
Sherlock speaks your name. He says it again after Lestrade repeats it in complete confusion. Then, he’s gripping Lestrade again, fury in his irises.
“She’s with Mrs. Thomas, we have to find her!” He orders, breaking into a sprint as Lestrade stumbles backwards.
In the midst of Sherlock opening door after door in the building, Lestrade signals his men and then they’re on the hunt themselves, the entirety of the ball in shambles as women screech and men protest. There are slams of the doors they push open, others ushering out the people who fail to form single file lines marching out of the establishment. No one understands the fiasco that’s ongoing, but due to the police being frantic, every patron within the building becomes so. Eventually, Sherlock climbs up a staircase leading up two flights. He attempts to search through the endless amount of rooms, catching couples off guard who took to them to engage in what they should be engaging in their private houses. He rolls his eyes as they try to explain themselves, slamming the door to then do the same with the next and then the next and the next.
There’s one white door with a golden frame that he tries and as soon as he steps through, a gun points right at him. He stops in his tracks, his blood running cold and not for the plain fact of how Mrs. Thomas points a M1882 revolver at him, but for how she’s wound an arm around your waist, the two of you right up against the balcony’s handrail. He doesn’t move a muscle. At least, not in his legs or arms, but the ones in his jaw flex in unbridled anger, his stare intense as he locks it with Mrs. Thomas. Gone is the facade he first saw when he met her outside of your shop, gone is the forgetfulness she feigned when he broke her door’s handle, gone is the sweet and tender expression of an old woman, present is the slickness of a master manipulator and a scorned lover. She’s been right under his nose this entire time.
“You were right, dear. He did figure it out,” she states, hinting that she must’ve unveiled herself to you before his discovery. He wonders why you didn’t come find him, her patronizing tone causing him to step forward only for her to point the gun from him to you, and that alone tells him all he needs to know. The tip of the revolver presses into your ribcage and he once more refrains from coming any closer, every morsel within him screaming for him to think, Think of something, anything. He eyes the balcony, the revolver, and then your face. There’s fear, but there’s also disappointment.
“It’s over, Blanche. Release her, she has nothing to do with this,” he declares, willing for the police to not enter at the wrong moment. If she’s crazy enough to murder Mr. Thomas’s mistress at close quarters, he doesn’t put it beneath her to try and do the same to you. He has to separate you two first. It’s crucial you’re away from the mayhem before there is anything enacted.
She laughs. You once thought it to be sweet, but now you can’t think of any other adjective to describe it besides deranged. “She doesn’t? Isn’t she the reason you visited me two days ago? Isn’t she the one who stole from my desk?”
“You planted that evidence for us to find,” Sherlock spits, his teeth grinding as he watches Mrs. Thomas press that revolver into your covered flesh harder as a consequence. Mrs. Thomas clearly doesn’t appreciate being patronized. He wonders how she held herself back from people consistently underestimating her and fawning over her in her old age. You do nothing but grimace, pleading with your eyes for Sherlock to stand back.
“And who are you to judge me for it? Who are either of you to judge me?” She asks, her gaze hardening. Sherlock misses that confused elderly act she pranced around in before. “I wrapped up the evidence for you practically in a bow and both of you still managed to muck it all up. She could’ve left with you unscathed, but no, she had to guide me here. Ask question after question about my marriage, try to run off when she caught an unlucky glimpse of the gun in my purse that is now going to be acquainted with her guts.” Mrs. Thomas clicks the hammer back, her expression serious, although regretful. You gulp as you stare at Sherlock, the concern on his features ripping away at you more than this terrifying predicament.
“Stop, stop,” he bargains, his hands flying in front of him to indicate his surrender. “You don’t have to do this. You care about her, I know you do.”
“I care about her? Look at you, you care about her!” She exclaims in hysterics. “Here you are, close to groveling when you hardly know her,” Mrs. Thomas turns her head towards you, “Here he is attempting to save your life, he’ll promise you the world, dear, he might even marry you and kiss the ground you walk on for the first few years, but it all ends the same. You’ll find him years from now with someone younger, try twenty years younger, and you’ll feel the same rage that I do. Women in love never win. We lose. We always lose.”
She’s bitter and vengeful, it’s a dangerous combination. Sherlock hates how you’re caught in the middle of it and you hate that even though she’s pressing a gun into your ribs, you mourn for her struggle. She didn’t deserve what Edmund did to her, no one did… but Clara didn’t deserve to be hurt, either. You’re conflicted since Clara clearly knew about Mrs. Thomas and still met with Edmund anyway, from what you gathered from Mrs. Thomas’s ramblings before Sherlock arrived, murder and framing someone else for it couldn’t be the solution. You’re not sure what exactly that solution could’ve been, but if she had confided in you, maybe you two could have found it together. This is what you told Mrs. Thomas before Sherlock appeared. You attempted to reason with her and appeal to the scraps of humanity left within her, but Clara and Edmund have rendered Mrs. Thomas into something you couldn’t bargain with. The sole reason you kept up your efforts to persuade her into freeing you was because of the glimmer of restraint in Mrs. Thomas’s eyes. She didn’t want to do this. She pointed a gun at you and threatened you to be silent, but she did it with hesitation, with shaking hands, with longing glances confirming she thought of the same memories you had with her along with your father and mother.
Your empathy gallops valleys, it shouldn’t end like this, and you think you should say something else so Mrs. Thomas won’t take any drastic actions. You certainly don’t wish to die today, but it would be much worse to die in front of Sherlock, powerless despite his size and intellect, to which Mrs. Thomas knows because she’s not breaking her grip on the revolver for a second. If Sherlock gains any leeway, then Mrs. Thomas would not stand a chance. He’s stronger, younger, faster, and because of this, Mrs. Thomas digs her gun until it uncomfortably greets the bone underneath all your layers.
“You’re right,” Sherlock says, and you blink at him in reaction because of all the things he could’ve said, that’s not what you expected. He’s always so keen on proving himself right rather than declaring someone else with that title, so you and Mrs. Thomas stare at him dumbfounded. There were a string of things that Mrs. Thomas said as well so you’re both wondering which in particular he’s referring to.
“Not about the affair part, but about me… caring. I do care for her. Eminently. Undeniably. Profusely,” he looks at you, steady despite how hard this is for him. You think back to the carriage. How his lips moved, how no words came from his mouth, how his shoulders fell in defeat as he allowed you to take the reins. “You can condemn all men, brand and categorize women according to your philosophy, but I would never, ever do that to her. If you pull that trigger, you’re not punishing Edmund—you’re punishing me. You’re punishing her. And I will make sure that I thoroughly pay it back tenfold.” Sherlock states this as he states everything. As a cold. Hard. Fact.
Dissension collects on Mrs. Thomas’s face. Sherlock is sure he can see her bottom lip wobble, but then the gun is back in his direction. He sucks in his breath, straightening his posture to accept his fate because at least it’s not pointed at you. He readily stares at the barrel of the gun, catching through his peripheral as you begin to move and with a decisive push of your hands, you knock the gun right out of Mrs. Thomas’s hand. You don’t know what possessed you to act so bravely, but this is the leeway you and Sherlock needed. Sherlock cuts across in the opposite direction of its aim, a bullet shot at the floor and ricocheting into the wall behind. The gun hits the floor with a thud, and so does Mrs. Thomas, the force of your shove enough to propel her to the ground since she is still a feeble, old woman. Neither you nor Sherlock dive for the gun to get it away from her, instead running into each other’s arms. The breath you held sputters out sporadically, breathing as if you just ran miles upon miles as Sherlock cups your face into his large hands. He examines you for any injuries, tilting your head as you grasp his wrists.
“Are you alright?” He asks, but it’s rushed, almost pained. He presses his forehead to yours, eyes shutting.
“I… I apologize,” he croaks, the first time you’ve heard it from him, but it doesn’t even apply, “I shouldn’t have- I should’ve known-.. It’s all my f—”
“Don’t, you’re here now. I’m okay, we’re okay, it’s you and me.”
Sherlock latches his mouth to yours, breaking his own rule, his broad arms wrapping around your waist to haul you into him, distance nowhere to be found between your warm bodies. Your arms find their home at his neck, and as impassioned as the kiss is, it’s more than longing or desire. It’s all the things he can’t say, it’s trembling from how close you came to the worst, it’s his and your shared fear of losing one another when you just found each other. You’re so enraptured with Sherlock and he with you that neither of you notice Mrs. Thomas crawling for the gun. It’s the rotation of the cylinder that alerts the both of you, your gazes landing on Mrs. Thomas who aims the gun at you two from her seated position on the floor.
Sherlock steps in front of you, much to your dismay, his arms pushing you back behind him. You look over his shoulder, your head shaking for Mrs. Thomas to not do this, to have a second thought, and you can see her reluctance as her eyes meet yours. Then, the door bursts open, Lestrade leading the charge of men bolstering in with firearms. They push past you and Sherlock and surround Mrs. Thomas and from Sherlock’s sheer size, he can see over the officials and watch as she lowers her gun in defeat and raises her hands. Sherlock holds you in his arms protectively as they book her, even as he explains everything to Lestrade.
As they have her in bound wrists, that’s when the ever elusive Mr. Thomas arrives. He was late because he stopped to visit Clara Grace’s grave.
Blanche Thomas confessed to the murder of Clara Grace and to the attempt of framing her husband Edmund Thomas for it. Edmund had no idea Blanche found out about his affair, but she insisted this had been ongoing for years, solely acting out after he sent her a bouquet of flowers when she knew he was with Clara. She waited for him to leave for his job in Switzerland and then she struck once Matilda and Nicholas Grace left home to catch a train. She cleaned the revolver of Clara’s blood with Edmund’s handkerchief and intended to leave the gun behind, but couldn’t do so due to how Matilda and Nicholas came home early. Inspector Lestrade and the police force agreed that Sherlock would’ve solved this case sooner had he been granted access to the case’s witnesses and the preliminary suspects and because of this, they apologized thoroughly to Sherlock and after Sherlock told them of your involvement, they apologized to you as well. For having to become entangled as an expert advisor in clothing manufacturing and for not finding your location sooner. Clara’s parents, on the other hand, refused to comment. It was the sound of the gunshot that ultimately led the police to find you, Sherlock, and Mrs. Thomas on that balcony.
After everything, that’s the part that enraged Sherlock the most. If it had not been for their negligence, you could’ve possibly died, and he answered every question and remark with visible irritation he didn’t bother to hide. The self-blame bloomed throughout his chest, but you reassured him how nothing happened and how Mrs. Thomas’s deception was on her and no one else. A portion could be blamed on Clara and Edmund, but Clara met her bitter demise, and Edmund’s affair would be soon shared in the papers as there were journalists and reporters at the scene initially attending the ball for their own sake, later leaving with yet another one of Sherlock’s adventures, and another case closed. The masses would go wild when they found out about how Mrs. Thomas was skeptical about Sherlock when he coincidentally first appeared to ask about Mr. Wright’s beautiful daughter and how she counted on the both of them finding the planted fabric and letter in her desk drawer. They would get a kick out of how she shoved the end of a small fork into the keyhole of her door to trap Sherlock and you inside of her living area while she hid the revolver in another room. Sherlock wasn’t so pleased learning that certitude, either.
To appease the impact of Sherlock’s rage and gain his favor back, Lestrade recruited an officer with the task of giving you and Sherlock a carriage ride home. You accepted it seeing that he wouldn’t utter a word without agitation thick in his accent, hanging onto his arm as you were both escorted to it. The entire time, the rouge from your lips covered Sherlock’s mouth. He knew. You wondered how he could still be so intimidating to Lestrade in that state.
He doesn’t say anything during the carriage ride home. He’s not mad at you, more so at Mrs. Thomas for what she tried to do to you and what she did do to Clara, at Mr. Thomas for being unfaithful, at Clara for harboring the secret, and at Matilda and Rubies and Pearls and whoever the fuck Peter was for not alerting the police of this connection. At most, Sherlock grasps your thigh through your dress’s skirt and his hand never leaves until the carriage strides into a gradual and smooth halt. That’s when he acquiesces, slips his hand from you, and then offers it to help you out of the carriage. He doesn’t hold your hand as tightly as he held you back at the balcony, but his grip isn’t wavering, either. He walks with you to your flat, still wordless, still littered with worry as he looks at you, and as you unlock the door, you turn towards him.
“My bed isn’t as substantial as yours is,” you crack, playing with your fingers instead of meeting the intensity of his gaze. A storm’s actively brewing in his pupils, clouds of anger left behind from everything tonight, lightning flashing as he recalls. His knuckles uplift your head by tilting your chin up, steering your gaze back to his with tenderness contrasting the hurricane lurking in his eyes. While his irises are practically cobalt in his grudge, his affinity for you lingers there somehow, somewhere among the clouds and impending disaster. His care. Eminent. Undeniable. Profuse.
“But?” he resumes where you paused. Of course he knew there was a but. There’s also the diminutive victory that is his first utterance of the night since the fiasco absent of irritation and his temper, something for you alone to relish in. His voice is as velvety as you remember, and that sounds melodramatic, but considering how you faced death and escaped her clutches, you deserve to be.
“But there’s sufficient space for the two of us if you wish to come inside with me. I could utilize the help in removing my dress as I definitely required it by donning it earlier.” You deem this the correct response as Sherlock’s thumb traces your bottom lip, the leftover rouge on it staining his thumb just as it did his blemished mouth.
“Pity. I would’ve certainly helped. I suppose I could rectify it by aiding in your conundrum now, it’s only fair.” Your smile widens, removing his hand from your chin to guide him into your flat, the door shut and locked behind.
It’s dark in your home, so you depart from Sherlock to light your oil lamp nearby. Once it glows with life, you pivot on your heel and collide with his broad chest. Through the almost pitch black, he followed you here to this spot, and you can see the flame dancing in shadows on his features. The storm’s officially melted away and now, you sense the aftermath. There are hints of grief with how he drags you into him by your hips, and you understand him because just as he almost lost you tonight, you almost lost him. You want to ask him about what he said, what he declared to Mrs. Thomas with finality and belief in his words, but it’s transparent neither of you are going to be able to talk about this until you’re both comfortable again. That may be tomorrow or a week from now, but near death experiences don’t have specific timelines for how quickly one can move past their atrocities. For now, the both of you can indulge in one another’s company, indulge in what you both could’ve gone on without through one person’s skewed judgment.
You moan into Sherlock’s mouth, his hands on your hips keeping you flush to him while his body contrastingly backs you up until your dress meets your sofa’s back. He turns you around in one fluid motion, your hands grasping the edge of the backrest, pulse after pulse rapidly thrumming against your ass even through the layers of your skirt. You shudder as his hand traces the lacing of your corset, eager for him to release you of your clothed prison, arching as his fingertips draw along the lines of your shoulder blade.
“Fine, fine work,” he compliments your dress, or perhaps some higher power for your figure, two of his fingers maneuvering upwards until they’re able to tuck under the thick band of your choker and you inhale shakily, it holds your esophagus down just right for your head to become delirious with need. “I don’t think I can remove it. I think I want you just like this,” he breathes next to your ear, gooseflesh trailing your skin at the severe implication of what his words mean. He kisses the point where your neck and shoulder meet sweetly as his hands begin to toy with the golden lace. “I’ll be careful not to rip it.”
By the handfuls, Sherlock bunches the first layer of your skirt up until his hands meet the next layer of obsidian tule. Then that fabric starts to push up and in the midst of it, you attempt to step out of your heels and from how close Sherlock is and how he’s exposing part of your legs in this endeavor, he pinches your hip in warning. You freeze where you are, noticing how he’s stopped bunching the fabric up as he originally intended. You almost whine, but you remain quiet because you know from his arousal that he can’t wait for long.
“Leave them on. Like I said, I want you just like this,” he repeats and then to punctuate his sentence, the heel of his palm slides right between your shoulder blades and he pushes down on that spot until you bend at the waist and use the couch for support. You’re standing on your tiptoes, the heels of your shoes barely meeting the wooden floor beneath, but you consider this the point of Sherlock’s manhandling. He needs this sharp and he’s setting you up to where you will feel everything he wants you to, a thrill bubbling in your belly the more you think about it.
Once the tule is out of his way, next comes the fleshy netting, and then finally the silk that glided along your smooth legs with every step you took tonight. Those same two digits that further constricted your choker a minute ago find your dirty secret, and that’s how you decided against your bloomers, a hopeful feeling within you that something like this would happen. His reaction doesn’t fail to meet your standards, a curse flying from under his breath as he curls his fingers in the crevice between your outer lips. You whimper at the touch, bracing yourself on the couch because you have nowhere to turn to in this position.
“No undergarments, no decorum. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were scheming for me to fuck you in that carriage, or perhaps at the ball in some private room,” he circles your entrance with his index finger. The wetness that he collects is then properly used to smother your clit and you keen, desperately moaning his name, gravitating a majority of your weight on one foot.
“Shh, shh,” he quiets you. You do your best to lower the volume of your voice as he slips his finger away from your clit, back to teasing your clenching hole. “So, which was it? The carriage? The ball?”
Before you can answer, Sherlock’s index finger plunges home, your walls gripping it immediately. You rock your hips for friction, but he remains stagnant as he awaits your reply. You’re already wound up tight, maybe from the corset hugging your ribcage, or maybe from how you teeter on your footing, or maybe from how your cunt should be filled, but you’re not ashamed of succumbing so quickly to his teasing.
“Both, both,” you confess, your voice high pitched and strained. You sulk as he slides his finger out, panting along the sofa. This interlude of nothing doesn’t last thankfully.
“Good answer. I’ll save the knowledge for next time,” he whispers, and you would’ve ruminated with this imagery if it weren’t for how you peered at him from the side of your head and saw him undoing the buttons of his trousers. Unlike your coyness two nights ago, you opt to watch him free himself, but his opposite hand turns your head away, “just feel me” mumbled near your ear.
You oblige him, not just doing so by ensuring your head’s positioned forward, but by gradually closing your eyes shut. The low light and warmth of the oil lamp adds onto the experience, a mostly opaque void behind your eyelids as you hone in on how he skillfully holds the layers of your skirts at your hip and eventually guides himself to your entrance. The head of him breaches first, your lower jaw falling open with a hushed breath that remains that way through the entirety of Sherlock’s cock filling you. Your walls grip him with soft spasms, and although you can hear the hiss that comes from him, he doesn’t push in faster, nor does he halt, it’s just a smooth and perpetuated glide until he’s as deep as he can be, the action resembling a train pulling in to its station. You’re unbearably warm through all of this, warmed by the layers you still have on, by the layers Sherlock has on, by his frame curving along yours, by the overwhelming and comforting heat of his girth, by an invisible and unidentifiable wave washing throughout your chest. He expands further within you the more you two relish in and savor this moment, the time between each of his pulses increasing, but the pulses themselves are heavy and achingly acute against your stretching walls.
“Tell me I can move,” Sherlock heaves, his voice as strained as his control currently is, a sign he’s been holding his breath for as long as he’s been sheathed inside of you. Even now, he’s holding himself back. His feelings and where they are only presented themselves because of how dire the circumstances became, from how he viewed you as close as you were to that revolver and that balcony. Without saying it, he’s ushering his resolve into your capable hands, not willing to hurt you unless you ask him to do so. If today, and the days that have passed, has told you anything, it’s how almost everything is out of your control despite how both you and Sherlock have tried to hang on with gritted teeth. Him and the prowess of his intellect, you and the prodigal responsibility bestowed upon you. Your life hasn’t been easy and with the addition of Sherlock, it’s bound to become more difficult, but for once, as this man buries his nose into your neck to hold himself off, you don’t care about soft and easy. For the first time in a long time you’re in control and it’s your overwhelming aspiration to have Sherlock lose his entirely.
“You can move,” you swiftly grasp his hand on the sofa’s edge after you feel him slightly shift, stopping him so you can convey what you want. Sherlock stares into your eyes, confused, but waiting regardless. The pace of his pulsing speeds. “But no thinking. I want you to feel me, too,” your lips graze his, a trembling sigh spills into your mouth from him. You can feel that tremble in the hand you hold, the ensnarement on himself he won’t dare to release. “Give me everything.”
“It won’t be gentle,” he admonishes, catching onto what you’re implying and what you’re asking for.
“I don’t need gentle,” you rebuke, watching how his expression goes from confusion to self-discipline and finally to pure lust.
Something plays at his lips, but whatever it is he fails at saying, it’s soon forgotten as he presses his mouth against yours, his hips surging back and then forward with poignancy that leaves you teetering all over again. You break the kiss to cry out as Sherlock begins to do as he was told, as his instincts steer him and not the thrall of his all-too-consuming thoughts. Your hands find purchase on the edge of the sofa your hip bones are scraping against, white knuckling the backrest as Sherlock thrusts into you without abandon, with the pressure and pace he sets being above what you imagined. He pounds into your cunt without constraint nor pause, the sofa’s legs lightly skidding against your floor from the sheer force. You can feel your eyes rolling into the back of your head as your back arches and seemingly grants him the access necessary to thrust in deeper, your mouth agape to accommodate a succession of incoherent moans. As for Sherlock himself, he’s focused on fucking you into the same oblivion he finds himself in when you come across his mind, panting as he chases after what his body craves instead of what his usual contemplation convinces him into. The tule of one of your skirts scratches at him and in reaction, he juts his palm out to push it and the other layers up again, the provocative image of his cock spearing in and out of you greeting him in its tantalizing view.
“You have such a pretty cunt,” he mutters, much to your surprise. If the heat before was bad, it’s attacking you cruelly now from his praise, fire tempering within you, licking at your skin from underneath. Sherlock reinforces his grip at your hips, his hands claiming you under your dress on top of your bare skin. His thumbs stroke along the flesh of your posterior, over the top swells of your rounded cheeks because otherwise, his hips are forcefully clapping against them. The backrest’s edge has found the same thumb shaped bruises Sherlock left behind days ago, a soaring sting that you welcome with the influx of sensations that come with being railed wide open for Sherlock and his withstanding stamina.
“Pretty back, pretty hair,” he says, rambling on with items you never thought would come from Sherlock. He could barely compliment you back at the carriage, but then again, the circumstances are massively different. You can’t form your own words of praise and what you feel for him, not with how he’s thrusting into you, so you have no choice but to hear him, but to whine as one of Sherlock’s hands leaves from your hip, his digits tracing your bare shoulder.
“Pretty throat,” he gruffs, his fingers trailing higher and higher along your shoulder until they brush along your nape. You shiver at the touch, craning your head upwards. Whilst doing so, Sherlock’s hand rounds to the front of your neck, his palm pressing flat against your larynx, flat against the silk rose of your choker, smashing the fabric you cautiously sewed in place as his fingers drape and almost engulf your throat in the process. It’s not enough to choke you, the corset is doing a more efficient job of that, but when you swallow, Sherlock feels it. He feels the way it shifts your esophagus, and suddenly, he adds a guiding pressure to your neck, straightening your posture by it with your compliance.
You gasp for air as you stand taller, now more weight back on your heels that were teasing your floorboards before. Your head falls back into one of his broad shoulders as his hand remains atop your neck, the other abandoning your hips entirely to press into your abdomen, right above where the backrest’s edge digs into your corset. He can’t pull his hips back as much as he wants at this angle, but he’s now undulating them against you, the tip of his cock endlessly and frustratingly flirting with a spot inside of you that’s pushing you closer and closer to that unfamiliar euphoria you only felt once, and that was with Sherlock.
“Fuck, f-fuck, you’re so fucking pretty, it infuriates me,” his hand goes along the boning of your corset until it reaches your heaving chest, “it haunts me.” He dips under the corset, past the ebony fabric holding your breasts up, and the calluses meet your skin as he explores until he’s able to cup one of your tits from underneath. The lack of space already is propelling the air from your lungs, as is his cock and heavy hand on your neck, so this isn’t helping you any. But he soon grants you a semblance of reprieve by slipping your breast out of the corset, your reward in how his thumb rolls along your pebbled nipple.
You’re a goner. You’ve been a goner. Since the very moment you marched up the staircase and confronted Sherlock over his fiddle, you’ve been subject to falling. Now, you are subject to fall off the cliff’s edge he’s pushed you towards. He doesn’t cease the delicious thrusts he gives you, nor the soft hold he has on your larynx, nor the stroke of his thumb on your nipple, and there’s something about your head becoming dizzy as you near your climax. It could be due to how you can barely breathe. It could also be due to how your legs are shaking. Whatever it is, you stutter out a breath, his name, and squeeze your eyes shut as you hit your peak with something close to a shriek. You clamp down on Sherlock’s length, hiccupping and close to downright sobbing as you feel electricity in your spine, in your clit, tingling in spots of static in every portion of your being.
“That’s it, I’ve got you,” he says, supporting your weight as you drench his cock in your cum, as he continues to fuck you through it, as his hold on your breast keeps you from falling forward. You’re twitching, panting in the aftermath, bracing yourself on the sofa.
He can’t last much longer. Not at the rate he began, or the way your heat tightened around his cock. Once he’s certain you won’t crumble on your baby deer legs, he retracts from you, one hand bracing on the sofa’s backrest, the other pumping himself twice. Although he is no longer seated inside of you, he imagines your wet heat surrounding him. He imagines shooting his seed while sliding his cock inside to your hilt. It’s not the same, but it’s over for him. He cups what he can in his hand as he finishes himself off, inhaling and exhaling deeply behind you. To appease his breaths, he rains a trail of affection with his lips along your shoulder. Both the air he expels and the drag of his mouth kiss at your sensitive flesh.
“Are you alright?” God, his voice still sounds so heady, most likely hazy from his orgasm, and from what you two just did. It’s deeper than it usually is. “Didn’t hurt you?” He speaks against your skin, unable to truly depart from it.
Adrenaline is what helps you pivot back around. You’re still wobbly on your own two feet, but you gather enough strength to grasp his tie and pull him in for a kiss. He sputters, but returns it. Your arms wind around his neck and one of his attempts to wrap around your waist, but it stops itself. His other hand lifts near the space away from the both of you and even though your eyes are closed, you can feel the motion. It causes you to cease your kissing, your eyes finding his stained hand that he sheepishly glances at and then back at you.
“As much as I wish to hold you,” he gestures, though, he seems bashful of the pearlescent mess there and on his fingers. Sherlock fully expects you to sneer or at least mimic the bashfulness he’s sinking into, but you don’t. He’s in the midst of lowering his hand when you reach for his handkerchief, the one in his pocket matching his tie, and then utilize it to clean it. Sherlock observes as you cleanse his hand of his cum, perturbed by the benignity, by how many strands of defiant hairs have slipped free from your updo, his doing. He’s staring at you in fondness, with a soft grin on his features, and although you want to ask why he’s visibly jovial, you’re too pleased with the fact that he’s assuaged in the rage built from tonight. Besides, you don’t need to be a detective of his skills to understand what possibly conciliated his irate mood.
“Thought I said no thinking,” you pipe up, discarding the handkerchief, your gaze looking up at him from under your lashes.
“How do you know I’m thinking?” He hums as you begin to remove his tie. Then the buttons come undone to his vest by your fingers.
“Well… you get this far away look in your eyes. Your eyebrows pinch together… the bridge of your nose slightly scrunches, your lips fall into a flat line. I can see your dimples flash as your jaw tightens—”
“Are you deducing me, Lily?” He narrows his eyes at you, shrugging the vest off as you push it off his shoulders. He feels far more liberated by the action. You busy yourself with the buttons of his undershirt now. It’s possible that an image of you and him undressing one another in a domestic routine floats by.
“Funny way of pronouncing seducing, but yes, I am. I’ll be sure to welcome you naked in my bed if you would so kindly take this off,” you remove the last button of his shirt, and there isn’t any hesitation in how Sherlock removes that next as well. It falls to the floor as forgotten as his vest is. He gently laughs at your cheeky response, a bit of pride in him that you’re starting to pick up on his habits, nevertheless if you use them against him. It’s quite possible you’ve been looking at him as much as he has you. Then again, he’s vastly attuned to you, so you have some competition.
“You think yourself clever,” he muses, “In my defense, I presumed the no thinking law only applied to the sex we just had.” He watches as you are in the midst of removing a clip from your hair, your head slightly jolting from the blatant use of that word. But there isn’t any reason to be vague, you two have now seen each other naked, and he knows what your face looks like when you cum. Regardless, he revels in the pigment of your skin adopting a rosy hue. The clip in your hair is removed and then another, and another. Soon, it’s down, free of any tools, of any worries. You stretch the choker around your hands and then pull that over your head. Then you gesture for him to help, turning your back towards him. He begins to undo the lacing of your corset.
“No, it applies when I opt for it. And I am currently opting for it. You’re much more carefree when you think less.” You breathe correctly and evenly for the first time since you adorned your dress, each lacing that he pulls free giving you relief. The soreness settles further in so you know you’ll have to deal with that in the morning. You don’t think Sherlock would oppose relaxing for a day after everything you’ve both gone through tonight. He might need some convincing, but you’re learning what exactly persuades him and how you can institute it.
“If I thought less, the world would tear itself apart,” he replies, finally reaching the bottom. Then he aids you in its elimination. You’re pivoting on your heels, stepping out of your skirts, and then your shoes. During this, Sherlock is dropping his trousers to become as bare as you are. The sheets are going to be incredibly warm tonight. You lose the height that brought you closer to Sherlock’s face, but unlike when you first met him, you’re not intimidated. You stare up at him with the same gleam in your eye that you find in his.
“Ah, ah, there you go, easy, detective,” your hand pats his bare chest, but it lingers there once it touches. “Don’t think about the world. Think about me.”
“I was thinking about you,” he says before he can stop himself, clearing his throat at the intimacy his confession entails. It seems as if thinking less prompts the vulnerability he hates to display to anyone. Except, you aren’t just anyone. He sees your gaze soften, your hands cupping his cheeks.
“Thinking of how pretty I am?” You mean it as a tease, a reference to how he babbled on and on about how pretty you were during sex. But with how he’s looking at you, it came out a lot softer than originally intended. Tenderhearted. A whisper, even. You didn’t know you could feel so cherished in something once described to you as uncomfortable, the source being an elderly woman who wanted to advise you about the affairs of man and woman. You’re glad Sherlock’s proved her wrong.
“Yes,” he confirms and your head swims. “I’m thinking about how pretty you are.”
There isn’t anything else left to say. You can see and feel the sincerity radiating off him. There are a number of ways that either of you could ruin this, but you’ve had enough of the talking, instead reaching up to kiss him with fervor. He kisses you back, naturally, his arms lifting you as he clumsily navigates the space of your flat. He’s unfamiliar with the floor plan, so you’re kind enough to whisper directions along with sweet nothings into his ear, giddy that he follows and lowers you into your bed. You shift the blankets so you can travel underneath them, holding the sheets away from your body as an invitation for Sherlock to join in.
He doesn’t tell you the truth, the full truth, behind his thoughts, the ones that formed as he gazed at you with post-orgasmic clarity. Sure, he knows you’re pretty, that’s something he’s always known, and it snuck up on him heavily while he buried himself inside you and allowed his hands to roam your body through their own discretion, but there were other ideas bursting into his head. Concepts, really. He couldn’t decipher them and their complexities still, but whatever it is that you make him feel, it’s beyond answers, it’s beyond concrete and definitive laws. There is not one straightforward result nor explanation for him to pick apart and analyze as a scientist, or a physicist, or a chemist, or even a logician. Deductive reasoning can only take him so far and if he is to look back on the year he’s had, there are limitations to how he views the world despite his heightened awareness and inability to miss the details. This is raw and indistinguishable for someone like him. You’re a woman who he’s drawn to magnetically, a phenomenon he never thought would happen to him. And as he looms over you, those… concepts spring back to life. Admiration. Wonder. Affection. Worry. Care. Avidity. Humanity. Beauty. Lust. Luck. Loss… L…
He normally would scrub his brain if it dared to consider that last thing. But here you are, blinking up at him with those long lashes, nuzzling your nose against his, kissing his mouth with enthusiasm and adoration he hopes he replicates, gratifying him with the parting of your legs so he can be as close as your bodies can warrant, and he thinks he can. He can let his brain stray there. He thinks he might be in…
He doesn’t know if he is. But as his cases have taught him, anything is possible.
#henry cavill#l4l.writes#sherlock holmes#enola holmes#henry!sherlock#sherlock holmes x reader#beyond answers#henry cavill x reader#henry cavill imagine
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How 'bout some real sex with Sherlock and Irene Adler? If you don't do ships, that quite alright you can do it with reader. And these prompts 🛐🛐21, 62 Thank youuu ❤️❤️
Heyy anon! Thanks for the request! I included a song that I thought for the vibe of this piece… hope you enjoy 😉
A Three-way Break ~Dom!Sherlock Holmes(BBC) xDom!Irene Adler xSub!Fem Reader
Mommy…Master List
Requests & Prompt-List
#21. “You know what, fuck it.”
#62. “I might do something I’ll regret…”
Warnings: NSFW, 18+!!!, smut, threesome, kissing, fingering, eating out, face sitting, overstimulation, mistress kink, praise kink, more implied smut, etc.
Enjoy (;
You were in Sherlock’s flat as he was pacing back and forth. You were flipping through the case files of a particularly sticky cold case that Sherlock had picked up.
“Sherlock?”
No response. You continued looking through the many pages.
“Sherlock.”
Still no response. Finally you looked up. Sherlock had stopped pacing and was on his phone.
“Sherlock. What are you doing?”
“What? Nothing. Find anything?” Sherlock tutted you off, still typing on his phone.
“No, Sherlock, we’re stuck. We’ve got nothing.” You huffed.
You had no idea why he would request you for this case… You were a low key detective at Scotland Yard… You were no Lestrade…
No response.
“Sherlock!”
No response, Sherlock walked off into his room. You sighed in frustration. You were tired. You needed a break. A break from work. A break from Sherlock.
You placed your hands over your head. At least ten minutes went by when Sherlock finally came back and went straight to the window. You didn’t even try this time. But then you heard the door downstairs open, and footsteps started to grow. You head picked up the door opening.
In walked a hypnotizing, stunning brunette with striking eyes and plump, red lips.
“Her?” The woman said.
“No not her.” Sherlock stressed the last syllable, his hands balancing against his lips, “Me, I… I need a distraction.”
“Well, Why not her?” The Woman toyed, making direct eye contact with you.
“I’m sorry, who are you?” You finally interjected.
“Because she’s too fragile.” Sherlock answered the woman’s questions, ignoring yours.
“I’m sorry, what?” Your head swiveled over to Sherlock who was still looking out the window.
“I don’t think so. Why, really…?” The woman continued having a conversation with Sherlock while never breaking eye contact with you.
“Irene Adler.” Sherlock said.
Now you were really confused.
“What?? Can somebody please explain to me what’s bloody going on?” You exclaimed.
“Her name is Irene Adler. And I said No.” Sherlock repeated in annoyance and with strain in his voice.
Irene beat you to a reply, “Yes, but why?”
“Because I might do something I’ll regret…!” Sherlock practically yelled.
Silence ensued.
You huffed in frustration, “Well I’m leaving for the night. Good Night.”
You grabbed your bag and prepared to leave.
As you walked towards the door, Irene purred, “But wouldn’t it be just so much fun?”
You walked to go through the door, but Irene grabbed ahold of your wrist, stopping you from leaving. You looked up to just about yell at her but then you met her eyes. Something inside you just rolled over for her and you did nothing. Irene smirked at your reacting and turned her attention back towards Sherlock.
“Sherlock…” the woman purred in a hum.
As she did so, she pulled you flush up against her and her lips grazed your ear.
“I’m going to kiss you now, dear. Is that alright?” She purred in a hushed tone.
You blushed furiously at her words and speechlessly nodded. At that, the woman closed the gap, attaching her precious, dominating lips to yours. A tiny gasp came from the other side of the room, as Sherlock had turned around to see you and Irene kissing. Irene was quick to slip her tongue inside your mouth, making you whimper.
It was very evident from the get go that she was in charge. So naturally, she dominated your tongue and explored your wet cavern with ease. So entranced in the kiss, Irene was easily able to pin you against the wall next to the door, deepening her bruising kiss.
“You know what, fuck it.” Sherlock seethed.
Sherlock had had enough.
He was quick to move Irene out of the way, entrapping you in between the wall and his body. You stared up at him with your puffy lips and glazed over eyes, and you were met with dark orbs of lust… and maybe even some jealousy…?
His lips crashed into yours without another thought between the both of you. Sherlock was feistier and more impatient than Irene was, but he was still very much dominant over you. His tongue slid into your mouth with ease as he explored and dominated your wet cavern.
At your eliciting a moan, Irene had had enough… She ripped Sherlock from you and smashed his lips into hers. And the fight for dominance ensued. Teeth clashing, tongue fucking, growling, whimpering, just to find out who would be charge. While you leaned against the wall breathless, pupils blown wide, watching the events unfold in front of you.
At one point, the woman went to whisper something in Sherlock’s ear, apparently calling a cease fire. Sherlock nodded in agreement to whatever she had said, and then not their attentions turned to you. You gulped.
Irene came up to, took your hand and led you into Sherlock’s bedroom. She pushed you onto the bed, crawling on top of you, while Sherlock was looking around in his drawer of toys.
“Red is for stop, yellow is for pause, and green is for good, understand?” Irene paused her sloppy markings on your neck to check in with you.
“Yes…” you breathlessly panted.
“Yes mistress…” the woman threateningly growled.
You gulped yet again.
“Yes mistress…” you whimpered.
“Now, Let’s take these clothes off…” she purred into your ear, beginning to remove your shirt, then your bra, then your trousers… Until you were left in nothing but your knickers…
Both Irene and Sherlock took a moment to drink you in. Your face flushed red at their staring, so you naturally tried to cover yourself.
“Oh no… none of that.” The woman tutted you off.
At that, Sherlock was by the bedside, grabbing your left wrist and tying it to his bed post. You yelped at his action.
Irene stripped quickly in front of the bed and to both your and Sherlock’s pleasure.
“Color?” He asked, while not stopping his administrations.
“Green.” you confirmed, causing Sherlock to smirk.
“Good girl…” he praised, which sent sparks directly to your core and made you blush deep fusia.
Irene who was straddling your form chuckled, “Looks like someone likes to be praised…” she teased, continuing her markings along your collar bone making you whimper and whine.
While Irene continued, Sherlock came along side the other bed and took your right wrist to tie against the bed post.
Now you were stuck there.
At the mercy of the woman and Sherlock…
The woman’s teasing tongue made it down to your sensitive bud, which she happily twirled her tongue around, causing you to arch your back and whimper in pleasure. Sherlock came to the edge of the bed and tugged you down a bit, making both you Irene yelp.
Sherlock chuckled, “Spread your legs for me…”
You did as you were told, and Irene caught on quickly, moving herself to your upper torso so that Sherlock would have the room needed for his administrations. Irene continued to tease your breasts, as Sherlock practically ripped off your knickers and attached his lips to your clit.
You cried out in overstimulating pleasure as Irene was pinching your nipples while sucking on your pressure point while Sherlock was ravaging through your folds. You were a goner once Sherlock slipped a finger into your aching cunt…
You came in an overwhelming, euphoric orgasm cloud, curling your toes and pulling against your bonds with both your lovers names rolling off your tongue. But neither of them stopped no… Sherlock added another finger to your throbbing cunt and Irene began sucking and biting your pressure point.
“Cum for your mistress again, love…” The Woman purred into your ear.
Her words sent you toppling over the edge once again, as Sherlock expertly curled his fingers inside your clenching cunt. You tugged against your restraints, desperately wanting to touch the beautiful woman who was straddling you.
Irene chuckled at your neediness, “If your a good girl and let me sit on that pretty face of yours, then maybe I’ll free you from your bonds, yea love…?” Irene purred.
You eagerly nodded and panted, “yes mistress please mistress…!”
The stunning brunette then moved to straddle your face and lower her soaking cunt onto your face. You gladly accepted, lapping at her folds immediately. While you were doing so, Sherlock didn’t stop in curling his fingers inside you. He quickly added a third, making you yelp as he stretched you out even more. You groaned out in pleasure, as you were brought to yet another climax, while being suffocated by your mistress cunt.
That being certainly not the last time you came at the hands of those two…Safe to say, you spent your night with little to no sleep…
~~~
#sherlockbbc#sherlock x y/n#sherlock smut#sherlock x reader#i am sherlocked#sherlock bbc smut#bbc sherlock#sherlock holmes smut#sherlock fanfic#sherlock bbc#sherlock x irene#sherlock holmes#sherlock holmes x reader#sherlock holmes x you#sherlock holmes x irene adler#irene adler x reader#irene adler#irene adler smut#sherlock x irene x reader#irene x reader#irene x sherlock x reader
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Heyy!Can i please request some smut headcanons for louis with a fem s/o? What is he like, his kinks and turn ons and all?
X-RAY: Louis J. Moriarty In Bed
✧ ⚠️: general summary of louis's sexual desires, turn-ons, kinks and how he is like during intercourse.
KINKS — (what is he into?)
✧ Sensory Deprivation: Louis is more on the sensual side when getting intimate with his partners. Sensory deprivation provides just that along with a flicker of excitement and anticipation. He's a big fan of blindfolding because the way you gasp softly when he drags his fingertips lightly over your body makes him cock throb.
✧ Wax-play: He's very attentive to how your body reacts to his touches. He likes to drip wax slowly down onto your body, watching as your back arches off the bed momentarily before setting right back down or how your lips purse into a little 'o'.
✧ Praise: I feel like Louis absolutely loves to praise you and be praised himself. Let him know how good he's doing in bed, dipping his cock in and out of you in slow, steady thrusts and you'll hear the most prettiest moans escape his lips.
✧ Dacryphilia: The way tears begin to pool your eyes and they glisten, listening to you sob and whimper because of how just good he feels and how it rights just the right spots inside of you makes him go even faster, thrust even better. He'll kiss your tears away, telling you how good you're doing and how much he loves you.
TURN ONS — (what turns him on?)
✧ Knee high socks,
✧ Having a good connection with his family,
✧ Complimenting his food,
✧ Praising him,
✧ Flirting with him,
✧ Kisses,
✧ Lingerie or any exposed clothing,
✧ Basically any form of skin contact. (This man has not felt the touch of a woman and would probably cum in squirts almost immediately if you kissed somewhere lower than his neck)
APPEARANCE — (how does 'it’ look?)
✧ His cock is just the right size, both in length and girth. He probably also has light moles on it. #DE8277.
RANDOM NSFW HEADCANNONS
✧ Louis loves thigh fucking. Feeling your plush inner thighs around the length of his cock as he snaps his hips is something he definitely enjoys.
✧ Louis is also very fond of body worship. He wants you to know how every single inch of your body is beautiful and he's always kissing every single body part of yours during intercourse or running his hands against them.
✧ Louis has orgasmed eating you out before - the way your fingers twisted and tugged at his soft blond hair as you rode his face, moaning just so prettily for him made him cum earlier than you, without being touched. He was pretty embarrassed and will deny it ever happening if anyone asks about it.
✧ Louis is very shy so you'll have to be the one taking the initiative. That's until he's frustrated, of course — then he'll ram into you like there's no tomorrow. You can either thank or scold Sherlock for getting him in that state.
✧ He loves, loves holding onto your hips as he fucks you. If you're on the chubbier side, he absolutely loves love handles as well and it makes gripping onto you even easier.
✧ His moans are very soft — almost whimpers. He tries not to be audible since he thinks it's embarrassing but if you encourage him enough, you can hear how pretty his moans are, so pretty that they're almost melodious.
✧ Using ice cubes on either his or your body gets him so, so very aroused. He'll rub them against your nipples and watch as the ice melts and trails down your stomach, almost until you feel them going numb or swollen.
✧ Sex with him is for the first few times is awkward with him not knowing what the hell to do. The two of you will cling onto each other, a clump of bodies rubbing against one other if you don't guide him until he learns.
✧ His favourite positions are missionary, cowgirl, CAT, mating press etc.
#moriarty the patriot#yuukoku no moriarty#louis james moriarty x you#louis james moriarty x reader#louis james moriarty smut#louis james moriarty x reader smut#louis james moriarty#moriarty the patriot x reader#moriarty the patriot x you#yuukoku no moriarty x you#yuukoku no moriarty x reader#moriarty the patriot smut#yuukoku no moriarty smut#mtp smut#x reader smut#serraaphim answers
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Hello! I really luv your work so maybe could you do more smutty sherlock stuff? Maybe dom!sherlock and a reader with a praise kink?
‘Distraction’
Sherlock x fem!reader
- I’M BAAAACK w another smutty ass sherlock fic. i swear all my sherlock fics are always so long, i need to get a grip but i really enjoyed writing this one. love u xx
Sherlock's mouth was twitching and his mind was in a constant state of strained unease. The world was asking too much of him and it irritated more than anything, Mycroft was breathing down his neck with a mountain load of cases he would never even get around to looking at and sometimes Sherlock just wanted to kick someone in the teeth, feel the blood pumping through his veins in a way a lousy case couldn't satiate. He was angry, annoyed, restless and uneasy.
Sherlock put himself in that situation though, he was being a hermit hiding out in his flat and he didn't even let John come in to entertain him- Sherlock could only think of you.
This was bad. He was in demand...but he didn't know what he was demanding for…you? He didn't know how to control his emotions, he felt something heady and particularly intoxicating about you, he was almost drunk off it. You were insatiable and it piqued his interest, you were a curious little thing, always poking your nose in places it didn't belong- including just Sherlock. Sometimes he just wanted to scold you for being too daring and risky, he didn't like the idea of you putting yourself in a dangerous situation for the sake of it...but you liked the danger of it all just the way Sherlock did. He didn't like that at all, it was like you could see through him in a way no one else could.
Sherlock knew you wanted him. It was obvious by the way you would eye fuck him in socially inept situations, in a crowded room- he admired your callousness although deep down he wanted to put you in your place. His accolades made you blush, his praises made your eyes gleam slightly, you loved him complimenting your work and he knew it was a big weakness within you. Your breath halted everytime you were near him and your mouth would pry open slightly and he had to surpress the urge to close your pretty little mouth for you- it was adorable and distracting at the same time. The universe was determined to pull him next to you...or was that Sherlock himself admitting he wanted you...in more ways than one? The calculations of it didn't make any sense and it was clouding his head, he didn't know how to make any of this go away, if only he could show you instead of talk.
You were bored of his moping, you wanted him to have some fun with you on another case and it was to cheer you up more than him. You just wanted to know what he was up to, Sherlock was always up to something, in a grey area of nothing inherently bad but nothing inherently good. Although he wasn't allowing anyone to visit him, you took it upon yourself to tease him out of hiding. You didn't really care for the ramifications, you never did.
You trodded up the stairs of his flat and you open the door slightly to let yourself in. Sherlock was pacing around, messing with the multiple experiments he was conducting at the same time. He was just trying to take his mind off of you, but these little thoughts kept meandering into his head.
You. Just you.
Sherlock heard the tremble of your breath first and he could practically hear your raised eyebrow at his strange but not infrequent behaviour- it was endearing. He got up from looking at his microscope when he heard your footsteps enter, he scrambled to look at your face again and it was etched in judgement but at least it was that of endearing judgement. He felt his ego straighten up, Sherlock couldn't remember the last time his ego was shaken, he was always so sure of himself but you obviously had to fiddle with things that best be untouched. Including Sherlock's innermost desires.
‘’You've been busy.’’ You remarked with a quirked eyebrow and a small smirk.
‘’Get out, I'm still busy.’’ Sherlock said breathlessly and it made him straighten his posture, he didn't like how uncertain and certain he sounded at the same time. He definitely didn't want you to go, but like always he had to act as if he didn't care for anyone or anything...especially something as useless and pathetic as desire and sex.
God he really wanted it though. You were wearing a skirt.
He could just hike it up and easily…
You interrupted his wayward thoughts as his blank face met yours.
‘’You're not busy, you just want a distraction. Any other day conducting this many experiments would've made you lose your mind. How can you be so detail oriented when you've got so many things going at once?’’ You walked around the room, tapping on the things Sherlock wouldn't let anyone touch. He was actually thinking of an answer to your question, though.
‘’I multitask. It can challenge narrow minded people.’’ His eyes thinned as he squinted at you intently, you twirled around and you met him with a knowing flirty half smile, scoffing at his insult.
‘’So snippy, need a distraction? Got another case.’’ You offered as you walked over to him to stare into his dark cerulean eyes, Sherlock was glaring down at you as your face was near his.
‘’I'm already distracted.’’ Sherlock admitted way too hastily and it made your eyes prick up.
Sherlock Holmes? Distracted? You were half joking when you said he just wanted a distraction, but he was? Even though your eyes were widening in surprise, you couldn't help but provoke him even further. You felt incredibly special seeing him so frail.
The things you wanted him to do to you was unspeakable and you felt a heated blush creep on the back of your neck and your cheeks.
‘’Wow. I never thought I'd live to see the day.’’ You smiled at seeing his hubris crack before you.
‘’Yes. It's a novelty for me too.’’ He said plainly, trying to hide and feign his hidden desire for you.
‘’What's got you like this then?’’
‘’You.’’ Sherlock blurted, but it felt deliberate. The perfect opportunity to just finally admit with a heavy heart that he wanted you, feel the weight of his innate desire free from his broad shoulders.
‘’It's your fault.’’He muttered.
‘’My fault?’’ You repeated.
‘’Yes.’’ He breathed as his fingers fell and brushed against yours and you felt your heart halt in its beating, scoff catching in your throat.
‘’Who do you think you are?’’ Sherlock's lips were dangerously close to your ear and it made you still against him, body heat merging with one another as you slowly pressed yourself against him.
‘’Who do I think I am?’’You scoffed as you blinked up at him, being a flirt as always. ‘’What about you….Sherlock.. what do you want?’’ Your voice was low and less immediate, stretching out whatever this was as a means to revel in it.
His hands travelled to cradle your face softly, large hands feeling the skin of your cheek as his thumb grazed the soft pink flesh of your lips. Sherlock felt oblivious to the world around him when all he could see and feel was you in his palm.
‘’I want to feel you. Naked. Beneath me.’’ His words were potent, dense and you felt like you had to pinch yourself, it must be a dream. Your heart was pounding in your chest and Sherlock could feel your sweet breath fan his face, eyes fluttering a little as you registered his words.
Sherlock Holmes...having a dirty mouth...is something that felt fictitious and delicious. The man was divine, so intense and brutal when he wanted to be- exactly your type. Your mouth was dry, the functions of your tongue forgetting how to move as his stare was that of raw intensity and pure longing. Mind racing and unable to pump the breaks, you were wondering how he would be in bed as of this moment. It wasn't an infrequent thought but you never in a million years thought it to be a reality, only to be conjured in your wildest and wettest dreams. You contemplated if he would be a dom or sub. It honestly could be either, he was so damn unreadable, you didn't know what was going on in that beautiful mind of his. You were keening to find out. The posh twat always loves the divine feminine dom, maybe that's a clue. Although, the way his eyes were scorching into yours made all of your thoughts draw to a blank.
‘’Are you going to talk sweetheart or are you just going to stand there gawking at me so vacantly?’’ His fingers jutted your chin up so he could make you squirm.
Sherlock loved it when he got that bodily reaction from you, it just confirmed that it was definitely not one sided and you were thinking of the lascivious things that best left unseen.
‘’I think I'm enjoying my mindless gawk thank you.’’ You flirted but he wasn't in the mood for any of your games. He's come to love that look in your eyes, the one of need, desire, to put it so crudely- eye fucking. Sherlock grabbed you by the cheeks, his fingernails indenting into the skin of your face, you were taken aback when he finally made his intentions clear. You honestly thought this was a part of a sadistic sort of experiment, but now it was actually piecing together- he wanted you. Sherlock Holmes wanted to undress you, feel your skin, fuck you in his bed.
‘’Don't be difficult, you surely can't be after your incessant need to catch my attention. Well, consider my attention caught...I'm simply asking because it's polite. Do you want me to put you out of your misery and make you finish or not?’’
‘’So vain.’’ You muttered, chewing on your lip slightly unsure of what to say without sounding like the thirstiest person ever.
‘’Do you want me to fuck you on the stairs because right now I will.’’ Sherlock was deadly serious, he didn't care if it was uncomfortable for you, he would take you in any shape or form, pin your hands behind your back, pull your hair make your brain melt with how good he made you full but you were still staring at him blankly.
‘’For fucks sake.’’ You finally breathed out before colliding your lips to his.
Like two magnets, like a moth to a flame- you simply just couldn't resist each other. Your fingers were in his hair as your body moulded to his, Sherlock was also quite surprised with himself, he'd never let anyone touch his hair but when you tugged on his curls he let out a delectable hiss. He really liked that. He wanted you to do it again. His kiss was passionate, certain and beautifully cruel.
‘’Tell me you want me.’’ You hummed against kisses, your fingers immediately crowning from his hair to his blazer and button down. Sherlock's hands were roaming around your body as if he owned it, his insanely large palm went to your ass and squeezed tightly over the fabric of your skirt. He was feeling brazen. His fingertips toyed with the hem of that skirt he just wanted to rip off, and felt at the skin of your ass under it. You shivered into his touch, every single feeling driving a new unforgivable sensation.
‘’I'll show you. Forgive me if I'm not polite about it.’’ Sherlock had never been this desperate before, to openly obey an order was foreign to him but you could pry just about anything out of him.
Sherlock clasped your hand and quite literally dragged you to his room, you had to suck in your squeals of delight, you couldn't believe any of this was actually becoming a reality. Your reality. He fucking wanted you. He slammed his door and pinned you up against it, lip to lip. Your moan echoed through his entire body, his soul rocked at the sensation. His lips found that spot behind your ear where your pulse was hammering, Jesus your heart was beating fast. It brightened his mood and amplified his ego.
You went to shrug him of his blazer but he got there before you. Sherlock ripped off your top with his bare hands, you inhaled sharply as the cool evening air hit your torso. He quite literally tore it off, the look in his eyes were that of ash and fire. Your lip quivered and your eyebrows tensed with that one look. The fact that he was the only one that got your legs wobbly and your heart stuttering was making him so insanely happy. The reaction to his kiss allowed hiim to deduce that you've been kissed before...but not often. The thought pleased him.
Nimble fingers went to unbotton his button down. You took your sweet time with this just to be a teasing little bitch. Your eyes went doe as you gave him a look of foax sincerity and sweetness
Oh...so that's how it's going to be.
You finally discarded it and the bulk of his biceps alone could crush you, his arms, his hands, his chest were so finely crafted he was akin to that of a Greek God. Sherlock pulled you from the door frame, he sat on the edge of the bed and you were standing infront of him.
‘’Strip for me.’’
He whispered, the fated words making the atmosphere damp and heavy and you enjoyed revelling in it. The way he said it made your mouth pop open slightly.
You were more than happy to oblige with his delicious demand. Your dignity was deteriorating with every moment you spent with him. Sherlock's blue eyes darkened as your fingers went to the zipper of your skirt, your intense gaze met with his, unwavering, downright carnal. His jaw clenched when you teasingly shimmied your skirt down your long, smooth legs. Your frame was fucking remarkable. Dear Lord it looked like you were crafted by the angels in heaven above. His stare fell to your feet, he smirked when he still found you in your impossibly high heels, he wanted to feel them dig into the small of his back when he finally fucked into you.
Sherlock wanted to paw at you like a filthy animal, his inhibitions fleeing him the longer he gaped at you. You bit your lip sweetly as your fingers fell to your back as you began the slow pace of unclamping your bra. You were so deliberate and he wanted to just fuck the pettiness out of you. Sherlock watched intently as you flung it to the other side of the room to care about later, your tits fell free and he just stifled the urge to grab you right now.
He just had to remind himself: patience is a virtue.
Giggling, your fingers hooked on the lace of your underwear and shimmied it down. He let out a scoff, almost entranced and confused at how beautiful you looked. Sherlock gripped onto your waist and tugged you between his legs, his fingers pinched onto the bare skin of your hips. His lips met with your soft lower stomach and he planted a kiss there.
‘’Beautiful...’’ He exhaled as he breathed in your intoxicating scent.
‘’So you can be nice.’’ You smirked down at him.
‘’Only to you. Only. You.’’ He said deadpan, you gushed when he emphasised the word 'you.' You tucked your hair back behind your ear bashfully as the waves of anticipation began creaking back into the airwaves. You weren't sure where he was going next with this.
Sherlock's grip daren't soften, he pulled you down onto the bed, your head hitting the pillow allowing your hair to sprawl out, he thought you looked like an angel- hair casting a halo like figure in your stance. He kneeled between your sweet thighs to stare down at you, face contorted in pleasure already. He hadn't even done anything yet, it made him chuckle lowly. Mocking you condescendingly but you didn't have it in yourself to care or argue.
‘’You've been begging for it haven't you? Just admit it. It's only us. Only you and I here...together. Don't be coy now.’' Sherlock was just revelling in your desperation and it made your insides sizzle and burn, it was almost unbareable. Your lips twitched as you flushed, unable to control how your body was reacting.
Sweet. Jesus. The effect this man had on you.
‘’You're quite the distraction.’’ You said meekly, they were the only words you could muster up. Your voice wasn't a reflection of your actions though, your hands had a mind of their own, flying to his zipper and roughly undoing his pants. Sherlock caught onto your wrist to stop you in your tracks, he would be lying if he said he didn't like the direction in which you were going in. Images of you choking on his cock flashed through the forefront of his mind, his breathing became heavier. His tongue glazed his lower lip as he let out a breathless scoff.
Yeah, maybe later.
‘’Ditto.’’ He muttered.
Sherlock pinned your hands against the bed beside your head, excitement thrumming through your veins at whatever delicious torture he was bound to inflict. His fingers pinched and palmed at your tits, a broken moan fell from your lips as his long thick fingers travelled down the skin of your stomach to your glistening pussy. You threw your head back. He swiped up and down before finally inserting a finger inside of your wetness, you squirmed under him as he bent down to kiss at the crook of your neck.
‘’Fuck...Sherlock.’’ You moaned out, physically incapable of keeping it in anymore.
‘’You can take it.’’ Sherlock reassured deadpan and impassive, almost like an
You huffed as he pistoned another finger inside of you, he was delighted with how wet he got you. It was an indicator of the amount of pleasure he was drawing out of you, his ego boosted tenfold. You exhaled as he finally pulled his fingers out, in the pale moonlight his fingers glistened. Giving him a perplexed look, Sherlock wanted to rattle you even more, drag it out, surprise you.
‘’Open your mouth. See how sweet you taste.’’ He chuckled, so obviously pleased with himself.
Your eyes widened slightly at his request but his hard glare made you believe that it wasn't a request but an undeniable demand. You couldn't say no to that look, that scorching, firey look. You opened your mouth and he was beaming at the sight. He stuffed his fingers into your wet mouth, suckling on his fingers to taste at yourself. Humming against his fingers, Sherlock felt his body buzz and his cock harden. You gawked up at him through your lashes, the look of neediness etched all over your face- the cherry on top of the cake, his fingers in your mouth. He wondered what you looked like on your knees. You let his fingers go with a pop.
‘’Good girl.’’ He praised and it made an incredibly obvious blush stain your face.
Oh, you loved that.
Your mouth slanted against his, tongues dancing against tongues as you felt your heartbeat hammering against your chest. Tugging his pants down, Sherlock's cock finally sprung free. You glanced down, eyes unable to comprehend how fucking big he was. It was curved, thick and leaking. You felt yourself salivate at the sight of it.
‘’Sherlock...please.’’ You begged and he decided to give you the mercy.
He pushed himself inside of you, clinging onto him for dear life. Sherlock burrowed and nestled himself in your hair and your skin, spiralling wih the fact he got you like this- this has to be a dream of some sorts. It simply cannot be real. Fingernails digging into his shoulderblades, he hissed into your skin as he rutted in and out of you. Your moans and groans creating a symphony of euphoria. Sherlock gazed into the vast planes of your glassy eyes, he could simply get lost in them forever. Your heels dug into his back and the pain was stunning.
‘’You make me weak...pretty girl.’’ Sherlock admitted breathlessly.
The whole world stopped. It felt like it was tipping on its axis. You made Sherlock Holmes weak. You couldn't fathom the power you held, you were drunk off it and it made you moan loudly against his lips. It felt like music to his ears.
‘’Sherlock.. you're a God.’’
‘’Not quite, but almost.’’ He teased as he kept up the brutal pace.
Sherlock just kept going and going. His libido was undeniably high. His stamina unrelenting. He was lost in the sweet sounds you made, the quirk of your body with every thrust was something he committed to memory. You felt yourself spiralling out of control. The intensity increased tenfold, the intimate eye contact the driving force of it all. You couldn't hold back. You were right at the edge. Euphoria hit you like a ten ton truck, waves of pleasure like lightning down your thighs; your knees buckled under the pressure as you gushed onto him, coating him in the generous amount of wetness he so easily illicited out of you.
‘’Stunning…’' Sherlock murmured before he was cut off by a gutteral groan rumbling from the insides of his gut. He stilled as he finished inside of you, completely and utterly spent. You grabbed his face and planted a kiss on his lips, curls wild as you carded your fingers through it.
Pants covered the room. Air thick with post coital bliss.
Sherlock rolled off of you and lay beside you in attempt to regain his breath.
But you were far from done. You darted your face to the side to remark at him.
Without thinking, you impulsively clambored onto his lap and his eyes widened in surprise. Fucking hell, you were insatiable. Your lips shattered against his again, his large hands roamed the expanse of your back and goosebumps littered your skin.
Sherlock spanked your ass and it made you rip your lips away from his.
‘’Christ. So insistent aren't you?’’
#sherlock fanfic#bbc sherlock#sherlock holmes x reader#sherlock holmes smut#sherlock angst#sherlock x fem!reader#sherlock fluff#sherlock smut
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can someone please suggest me the dirtiest sherlock fanfic they’ve ever read ?? hahahaa thanks
Hey Nonny!
OH GOSH, let me direct you to my KINKS and SMUT list found on my Johnlock Fic Recs Permalist Page 1:
PWP / Smut (Sept 2016)
Toplock / Bottomlock (Sept 2016)
Johnlock Body Swap (Jan 2017)
Body Swap (Jun 2020)
Trapped and/or Dirty Talk
Sherlock’s Military Kink
Psychology or Classic Conditioning
Threesomes (updated May 12/22)
Morning Sex (Short Fics)
Rimming
Rimming Pt 2
Food Sex
Lingerie / Undergarments (Sexy Fics)
Bottomlock (April 2019)
Bottomlock Pt 2
Bottomlock Pt 2.5 (Thirsty Bottomlock)
Bottomlock Pt. 3
Toplock (Mar 2020)
Toplock Pt. 2
Praise Kink (Dec 2017)
Praise Kink (Aug 2019)
Fingering
Rough Sex
Dirty Talk
Hair Petting/Playing/Pulling
Butt Plugs and Dildos
Masturbation / Frottage
Other Kinks
Oral Sex / Blow Jobs
Comeplay
Short PWP Under 15K
Porn With Plot
Porn Without Plot
Medical Kink (June 2022)
If there's something specific you'd like, please let me know and I'll compile a new list! <3
And if anyone has something they want to suggest, please do!
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Part 16
Masterlist
Series Masterlist
Part 15 🟣 Part 17
A reverse harem vampire AU ft. Mikey, Marshall, August and Sherlock
Series summary: Somehow, you've managed to live with your boyfriend and his roommates for months before finding out they're vampires, but the real shock first comes when they find out you have a special quality. A quality the guys would love to make use of...
Warnings: Ongoing vampire shenanigans, mentions of blood, biting, angst. SMUT, NSFW, 18+, MINORS DNI, fingering, p-in-v sex, feral Mikey, vampire!Mikey's semi-nursing kink. I think that's all necessary warnings, but as always; tell me if I missed something, please!
Word count: 2999 (..... Not sure if satisfying or no.)
A/N: Sorry it took so long. Life got in the way. And I mean really in the way. It's probably going to be like that for a while. Anyway. Enjoy Mikey and vampire shenanigans.
@geralts-yenn @deandoesthingstome @summersong69 @mis-lil-red @ellethespaceunicorn @sillyrabbit81 @livisss @itsrubberbisquit @ktficworld
He opened the door hesitantly. “Eh, Sweetcheeks?” The trembling of his voice made you freeze up under the blankets. “It’s, eh… It’s okay. I’m gonna take a shower and I could really use a hug. Hi, August. Sorry to interrupt your moment.”
“Don’t worry about it, Mike,” August answered to your surprise, and even with a light chuckle to his voice. “I get why you were keeping her to yourself now,” he added, “she’s incredible.”
His words made you blush, especially when Mike grinned and doubled down on the praise. “Yeah, she is! And those little noises she makes are so cute.”
You didn’t quite know how to react. Normally you’d have berated him for sharing those intimate details with others but, put bluntly, the ‘others’ in question had just fucked you to the moon and back.
Too.
Also.
Before you could gather your thoughts enough to give Mike an answer, he turned back. “Anyway, see you in a bit, yeah?”
“You hurried because you knew he was coming home?” you asked August when you heard Mike turn the water on.
“I could tell he wasn’t feeling so great, and I figured he’d need some comfort,” August said, omitting a direct ‘yes’. “Go join him.”
You searched his face for any sign of disapproval or disappointment at leaving him now, but you found nothing but a gentle smile and a strange, lingering sense of appreciation radiating from the way he looked at you.
It should have felt weird to climb out of August’s bed and wander towards the bathroom, not even bothering to put on any clothes, but it didn’t — although it proved to be a relatively poor decision when you ran into Marshall in the hallway, who didn’t quite know where to look.
“Wow, she’s fit.”
“Excuse me?” Your eyebrows shot up in surprise as you asked your question — and so did his.
“I didn’t say anything,” he said with a shrug. A brief pause followed, filled with the single most awkward silence you’d experienced in your entire life.
“No… You were thinking it…”
“God, first time this happens and that’s what she catches?”
“Yes, Marshall. That’s what I caught,” you said with a grin before walking towards him. Without thinking, you put a hand on the side of his face. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your turn.”
One second your hand was on his cheek, the next he had it pinned to the wall, over your head. Marshall held both of your hands there with one of his, with insufferable ease.
“I can smell him on you.” It was a growl — and a particularly gritty one at that — and an accusation. “Why should I wait any longer?” Your heart pounded in your chest as he lowered his head to nip at your neck. “I’m not going to watch from the sidelines forever, love. I want what’s mine.”
“And you’ll have me,” you said, shocking yourself with your newfound confidence, “but Mikey needs me, and I made him a promise. So be a good boy and let go of me. Oh, and work on this temper.” You stared into his eyes, almost losing your nerve, but you managed to last until Marshall slowly relaxed his grip on your arms until they dropped to your sides. What he didn’t do, was move away.
“Don’t start something now that you won’t be able to finish later,” he snarled before disappearing into his room.
You weren’t trembling when you resumed your way to the bathroom, which was strange, because you felt like you should have been doing just that. There had never been any tension with Marshall before — except maybe for that incident when he’d ripped your arm to shreds by accident. Other than that, everything had been especially easy with him.
Until now.
What had changed? Was he upset with you because he thought he was last, in some way? Technically, he wasn’t. You’d never slept with Sherlock — which was something that irked you in its own right, but those feelings were hardly relevant at this point in time.
Well, what did he expect you to do? Show up at his door wearing nothing but a pair of heels and beg him to take you? No. You couldn’t quite imagine that he felt legitimately entitled to you in some way, despite his words from before. Besides, you didn’t feel much for that scenario, or any other scenario where you boldly offered yourself up on a silver platter for him to enjoy.
Maybe — just maybe — Marshall had to take a second to get over himself.
You shook your head, as if to cleanse it of your thoughts about Marshall — which, you only realized now, he had indubitably heard — and focused on the blurry shape of Mike behind the fogged-up shower wall.
“Hmm, did I just hear you put the big bad wolf in his place?” Mike asked, no doubt with a huge grin on his face, but it was impossible to see.
“I could hear his thoughts,” you half-chuckled in complete disbelief. Marshall had mentioned the projection of gifts could persist beyond feedings, and you weren’t surprised he was the first with whom it happened, but… you were just a little floored it had happened at all.
“Look at you becoming a force to be reckoned with,” Mike said as you slid the door open and joined him in the shower. He was definitely grinning. Mike wasted no time to pull you in, wrapping you in a massive hug. “Alright, so… I’m toast for the semester. Only one of my professors will allow me to do a make up assignment for the labs I missed… The other two I’ll have to retake next year.” He hid his face in your neck, pulling you even closer.
“Mikey, I need to breathe,” you managed when Mike continued to crush you, but as soon as the words left your mouth, he relaxed his grip.
“Sorry, Sweetcheeks, just… rough day. I really fucked up by leaving, and… I know it’s fair that it’s coming back to bite me in the ass, but it also hurts.” There were tears in his eyes, he sounded tired and he felt cold, despite…
“You didn’t get enough yesterday, did you?” you laughed. Mike shrugged and smiled apologetically.
“I’ve never felt that level of thirst before… it was excruciating. Yesterday I took everything I could without getting sick. If you’re up for it, I could definitely use a little more, later.”
“Of course, baby, I’m all yours!” You kissed the tip of his nose and rested your hands on his lower back. It was just impossible to keep them from gently stroking the dimples in it, the soft curve of his ass — tight and round and so perfect you were the one who would love to get a bite for a change…
“How was August?” Mike asked, nothing but mischief in his eyes. Were you imagining things, or did he really want an honest answer? Alright then…
“Fantastic,” you muttered, heat creeping up to your cheeks as you spoke. “Are you sure you want to hear about it?”
Without warning, he turned you around and shoved you into the dark-tiled wall. “I’m sure I want you back…” The way he inhaled deeply through his nose held something primal, something almost violent, as he took in your scent, and no doubt August’s as well. “I want to… compete with whatever of him is left on your skin.” Over your shoulder, you noticed that he flashed fang on his next smile, making you bite your lip in anticipation. “You’re in for it now, Sweetcheeks.”
You thought the hand that closed around your throat did so in the shower, but when you opened your eyes you were on your knees on Mikey’s bed — still wet from the shower, your hair dripping everywhere. He didn’t care. His breathing was fast, ragged, with little snarls escaping him on almost every exhale — and every last one of those sounds sent shivers down your spine.
His free hand traveled down your side, following the curve of your hip before moving over your thigh and slowly trailing back up. With his leg, he effortlessly pushed yours apart, giving his hand space to gently explore your pussy. Not that there was much exploring left for him. By now, he knew that particular area of your body about as well as he was ever going to.
He lightly circled your clit with a single finger, making you whine as he played you like a fiddle — then whine again, louder this time, when he abandoned his pursuit to slip his fingers into your wetness. As he did, a growl escaped him — a sound that was followed by a gentle nip at your earlobe.
He was impatient, which — of course — wasn’t unusual for him, but today it was definitely worse than ever before. His fingers moved almost erratically, and abandoned you after only a short time. It didn’t matter much; August had taken good care of you over and over and over again… You could do without an orgasm on this one. Nevertheless, you moved your hips in search of more friction, smiling coyly when you felt his hard cock grind into your ass from behind, and soon, your movements were about teasing Mike rather than chasing your own pleasure.
He didn’t like that much.
“You know, you managed to tell Marshall off today, but when he just decides you’re his, what are you going to do?” With a single move, he pushed his cock into you, making you swear under your breath as he stretched you out.
“Mike, are you wearing…”
“A little trust, Sweetcheeks. I’m horny, not an idiot. Okay, I am an idiot, but not... you know what I mean.” When you both laughed, his grip around your throat slacked. “Sorry about that,” he whispered, pressing soft kisses against your shoulder while he gently rocked his hips against your ass.
“No, I think I like feral Mikey,” you chuckled, running a hand through his still soaking wet curls. He laughed and nuzzled your neck — it was adorable.
“It’s weird…” No, what was weird was having a whole ass conversation while getting railed from behind, but go off. “I’m not jealous. It feels like I should be, but I shouldn’t be, and I’m not. I just want you too.”
“So, take me.” Excuse the fuck out of you? Where did that come from?
Mike seemed to think the same thing, because he paused, and a curious little whimper escaped him. “What?”
“Mike,” you said, your tone serious, “I want you to fuck me hard.”
“Oh.” He nipped at your earlobe. “I can do that.”
And then, playtime was over. You grabbed his hair and threw your hips back to meet his thrust, his arms snaking around you, holding you in a vice-like grip with nowhere to go. It was raw and passionate, and undeniably hot, until…
“Mike, don’t lick me!”
“Well, what are you going to do about it?” Fuck. You hadn’t thought about that. Vice-like grip. Nowhere to go. And he wasn’t going to let go of you.
“I can think of something,” you growled. A lie. There was nothing you could think of to do to him that wasn’t either really cruel or he wouldn’t enjoy. Unless… “No boobies for you,” you said sternly, making it — hopefully — very clear what you meant.
He picked up on the hint. “You’re not supposed to deny us feeding over petty squabbles,” he helpfully reminded you. As if you’d forgotten that rule.
“No. But I can tell you it’s wrist or bust, Mike.” Shit. Not quite the right moment for that particular expression.
“And I pick ‘bust’,” he laughed, licking your neck. It sent shivers through your entire body. Sometimes, the licking wasn’t really so bad at all…
“Mike!” you warned.
“Okay, okay,” he grumbled, clearly very displeased — and very adorable. From then on, he stuck to squeezing your boobs and nibbling on your neck and shoulder while he kept pounding into you.
“Good boy,” you said in a half-mocking tone — which made it all the more surprising when Mike’s hips stuttered, and he came as if on command.
“Shit,” he muttered barely loud enough for you to catch it. Next, he disappeared. For a moment you were scared he wouldn’t come back, but he appeared next to you on the edge of the bed as if he’d never left the room.
“So,” you said, putting a hand around his shoulders, “I take it you liked that?”
“Babe, please don’t tease me,” he said, something wobbly and confused in his voice. He seemed a little lost.
“Get me a towel, clean this wet mess up, and meet me in my room, okay?” The look in his eyes was a sincere expression of gratitude.
Of course it took him all of two minutes to get the room cleaned up — and, as a rather frustrated Marshall apparently pointed out, half of the hallway. You hadn’t even finished drying your hair when he showed up behind you, wrapping you up in another massive hug.
“Hi,” he sighed before kissing your neck. “Can we cuddle?” Whatever had been keeping him going before had now faded, and he was the regular, puppy-eyed boyfriend radiating the golden retriever energy you were used to. Without saying a word, you wormed your way out of his embrace and scrambled to get under the covers.
“Wanna watch a movie, baby?” you asked, already knowing what the answer would be. Before he even answered you, Mike disappeared for a moment, and returned seconds later with a bunch more pillows in his arms, and your favorite blanket from the living room. You’d always joked with your friends how you stayed with Mike specifically for his nest-building abilities, and although it was an exaggeration that you were with him just for that, it was certainly a factor in keeping you as happy as you were with him. Plus, he was fast. Definite bonus.
“Lock the door,” you said with a wink, “I don’t think we’re going to leave this room any time soon, and I really want you to myself for a bit.” Mike chuckled when you raised your voice on that last bit, making sure everyone in the house had heard you.
“Then we’ll need snacks,” Mike concluded, and without waiting for your reply — which would have been affirmative, because (let’s face it) watching a movie without snacks was just… significantly less awesome than watching a movie with snacks — he disappeared again.
“You and these jellybeans,” you laughed when he returned with a bag of your favorite popcorn, tortilla chips and cheese dip, and a large bag of jellybeans. He definitely wasn’t eating as much as he had been, but you couldn’t exactly say he’d really been kicking the habit. “Door,” you reminded him when he tried to get in bed with you.
“Already locked,” he chuckled, but he walked over to it — slowly, even — nonetheless to show you it was really locked.
“Alright, now get over here!” Never tell a vampire that; the way he slammed into you when he did what you said immediately actually hurt.
He couldn’t sit still; the whole time, Mike was squirming against you anxiously, holding you tighter, his grip slacking again, wriggling, wrapping his legs around you. Not watching the movie for a single second. It was odd. Normally, Mike’s hands would have been exploring whatever bit of skin of yours he could reach — and absolutely some places he couldn’t reach without removing an obstacle like clothing first. This time… None of that.
“Mike you can’t crawl into me, what’s wrong with you today?” you laughed quietly as you stroked your silly boyfriend’s messy dark curls.
“Missed you,” he muttered, pulling you closer again. “I left and then you were angry and now you’re not angry, but you didn’t sleep next to me and I missed you.”
“I’m here now,” you whispered, still stroking his hair, “I’m not going anywhere tonight.”
“Babe,” he whispered after a while — he’d been trying really hard to sit still and watch the movie, but was ultimately very unsuccessful, “I’m really fucking hungry.” There was a tremble to his voice, and it took an encouraging nudge from you for him to move down until his face was level with your boobs. He hesitated.
“It’s okay, I know you want to,” you said. And it was true; you knew he wanted to. You really knew that he really wanted to bite you — and not just for food, but for comfort too. That’s what he was hesitant about. You chuckled softly. “I can feel it, Mike, there’s no need to hide. You’re home, you’re safe… and you’re loved.”
When you smiled down at him, you saw the tears in his eyes as he gently bit down on your boob. He fed slowly, drawing it out as much as he could. Of course you didn’t mind; you felt as amazing as you always did when someone fed on you. And then there was the added bonus of feeling Mike slowly settling down next to you, becoming calmer with every passing second. Some time after you’d watched him close his eyes, you felt his fangs retreat, but his mouth did not leave its post, and you chuckled as you let your own eyes fall shut and quietly enjoyed the sensation.
“I’m—”
You didn’t let him finish his sentence. “Mike, don’t apologize. I wouldn’t have agreed to it if I wasn’t okay with it. It was quite nice, actually.” He quietly smiled up at you before snuggling into your side again, and you felt his desire to be close to you flare up as he did. You wrapped your arms around him as tightly as you could manage and turned your attention back to the movie.
You were lucky to have him — and for the first time you were truly certain you’d never lose him again.
#mike hellraiser fic#mike hellraiser#mike (hellraiser)#hellraiser mike#mike hellraiser fanfiction#henrycavill fanfic#henry cavill fanfiction#henry cavill#henry cavill characters#walter marshall#hc sherlock#henry cavill sherlock holmes#sherlock holmes#august walker#august walker fanfiction#natural fic#naturalfic#mike hellraiser smut#mike x reader#hellraiser mike x reader
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NSFW alphabet with Sherlock
So the NSFW alphabet is also out! I hope you like it!
A-after care:- I believe Sherlock would kiss reader's whole face, and even pinch cheeks and all and ask "you okay?" With a pretty smile.
B-body part:- tough one because Sherlock isn't really into physical appearance, I guess he'll love all body parts of reader equally, with every flaws and perfection.
C-cum:- he likes to cum on pussy, you can't convince me otherwise, either in or if out then pussy or lower tummy of the reader for sure.
D-dirty secret:- ooohhh I think he has weakness for the faces and little sounds reader makes while he fucks hard, the helpless, pleased baby girl under him at his mercy.
E-experience :- I don't think he has much experience, he can be a virgin as well, but he's a fast learner so you know...
F-favourite position:- missionary hands down, he likes it classic, but he doesn't mind reader riding him either. Whatever it is has to be slow sensual and loving.
G-goofy:- oh he's very goody, he'd often make comments that can be funny or sexy, he likes to make reader laugh too. He's serious other times but not with reader atleast not during love making.
H- hair :- he's not well groomed all the time, the man drowns himself in work but maybe once in a blue moon he plans a romantic night for reader and that's when he likes to be well groomed.
I-intimacy :- as I said he's into missionary, he loves the intimacy. It's just reader and he. He can't have sex without love and trust. He's a man who has guards on. He'd only be intimate with reader because he only trusts and loves reader, whom, he knows won't take advantage of his vulnerability.
J-jack off:- I believe he watches porn to let his frustration off sometimes. But he does it rarely, he is into his works more.
K-kink:- I think he has praise kink, he likes to show off and likes to get compliments, also he likes to hear 'daddy' from the reader. So maybe age play. As he is the one to have the control.
L-location :- his bed ofcourse, but he can be very naughty, he'd love to fuck reader at her place, also his chair? Oh and against the bookshelf.
M-motivation :- reader wearing something that'd make her look elegant, nothing revealing, he's very much into respectful appearance and elegance so something beautiful that he'd die to touch her, readers whimpers and maybe a smirk by reader too, anything that he likes about reader.
N-no :- he dislikes BDSM, he hates to hurt the reader, he will never to anything extreme.
O-oral:- he likes to give and receive it both, that's it.
P-pace:- hmmmm, depends on how much time he and the reader has, if it's in the flat where no one will disturb them slow and sensual is his preference.
Q-quickie:- he doesn't gets much time off cases, and when he does he likes to have a slow sensual sex but there are times he would go for a quickie maybe most likely not. He doesn't have sex for the sake of having sex.
R-risk :- he likes risk in life but with reader he just wants a loving time, he may experiment with positions though, he would love to try something new (I have fascination for his handcuffs though).
S-stamina:- oh he will go for many rounds, as I said sometimes he doesn't have time off his cases but when he does he will go for rounds and rounds.
T-toys:- he may surprise reader with toys, and he'll love to try them.
U-unfair:- he's a little prankster boy, it's like after an argument he'll deny reader a good release just to punish her for being rude to him.
V-volume:- he's not loud but when he's close he can be loud.
W-wild card:- I think he'd praise reader after sex alot like "that's my princess" or maybe "you're beautiful".
X-xray:- he's probably big, but not that thinck, but who cares, when the man is this lovely.
Y-yearning:- he's not sexually driven, even in the least, since reader, he considered even having sex, but it's not his priority.
Z-zzz:- nah! This man has work, he'd cuddle reader to sleep then go out and take one of the cases that has been lying there.
#sherlock x reader#bbc sherlock#sherlock x y/n#sherlock holmes x reader#sherlock fanfic#sherlock fanart#sherlockbbc#sherlock smut
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I’ll Take Care of You
Kinktober: Cockwarming
Relationship: Strawberry!Sherlock Holmes x fem!reader
Warnings: 18+ SMUT, cockwarming, soft sherlock, gentle praises, tooth rotting fluff involved (lots more than smut probs)
Summary: You grow desperate for Sherlock’s presence and when he’s not in bed with you the early hours of the morning you start to worry, but when you wake the second time, you are pleased to find him safe and sound in your arms. You then decide to take matters into your own hands and show/tell him how much he means to you.
All writings belong to me @bakerstreethound (Do NOT claim, repost, copy or translate my works to other sites. I only publish here and on A03 under the same username)
Word Count: 1.2k
A/N: Going forward I am making these prompts a mix of fluff/kinktober, but they will still be rated 18+ due to the nature of the kinks. I hope you guys enjoy some soft Sherlock. He is addicting in so many ways. Please keep in mind that Strawberry!Sherlock encompasses the gentler side of Sherlock no one sees except for those special few close to him. As always, I do my best to remain in character as to maintain the integrity of Benedict’s Sherlock. This wasn’t beta read so there may be errors.
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“Sherlock…” You murmur sleepily, reaching out for him and his warmth, only to be met with cold emptiness. You sigh in exasperation, wiggling out of the cocoon of warmth so carefully crafted hours before. The clock blared at you, its face reading 1 am. Your stomach flopped, turning into knots.
Where was Sherlock?
You were used to this but surely, he would be back at a reasonable hour, ruffling his fingers through your hair, before pulling you in for a kiss and promptly burying his face in your neck, wrapping around you to cling until you drift. A yawn overtakes you and you ignore your twinging heart, clinging back to your body pillow once more, which offers you some solace. You still crave for his touch, to wrap him in your arms, to bury your face in his hair, savoring his scent and his warmth. These thoughts guide your eyes to droop, falling back into the familiar rhythm of sleep.
Your arms reach out again, and the soft material of your body pillow is now solid, more real as you nuzzle against it, inhaling sharply, warmth spreading through your body making you tingle. He was back, safe in your arms. Even in your sleepy stupor, you can’t help but smile, ruffling his curls with your free hand, the other still wrapped around his waist. You sigh in relief, groaning softly against his ear kissing along his neck. He squirms against you a bit, mumbling incoherently, something about Anderson no doubt.
Then you pull him closer, stroking his sides, loving the way he responds to you, the way he leans into the palm of your hand, nuzzling it in the way he does his muscle memory finely tuned to your touch. You savor this, this gift he gives you of seeing him at peace utterly vulnerable and content with the world. With you near he can sleep, feeling more refreshed than he had in weeks prior. Your hands run lower, and you gently kiss his neck, leaving a few marks as you do so and he gasps, his eyes fluttering open, adjusting to the soft lighting of the rising sun. He grumbles huffing, reorienting himself to the closer position, to you doting all over him before bringing him in for a gentle kiss, the brush of your lips against his tempting, drawing him further under your spell.
“Wha-What are you doing?” His cheek quivers as if in challenge, but partly in confusion as he puts two and two together.
“I’ve missed you and want to make it up to you, show you how much I adore you, my boy.”
He swallows, eyes widening with each word you speak, his grip on your waist tighter.
“I don’t have work tomorrow, either it’s okay I promise. I want to reward my hardworking boy. Is that too much to ask?”
When his lips part, exhaling shakily and he kisses you with fervor and underlying desperation, you know, oh you know he’s given in, ready to accept anything you freely offer him. For you already gave your body and mind to him, things he never considered precious before, but that was before you and John entered his life. Now, he can’t comprehend life without either of you in it.
Softly, you tug of his shirt, admiring his alabaster skin in the light highlighting his beautiful chest, those gorgeous cheekbones you’d willingly cut your fingers on any way, illuminated perfectly in the shadows contrasting against the lighting in the room. He looks close to a greek god in the moment, his curls ruffled, falling against his brow, bedding tangled, all in disarray.
Fuck he looked so irresistible so ready for you.
His hand cups your face as you trail your index finger along his jaw, enjoying feeling of the blossoming stubble as your thumb brushes along his lips. A wet droplet falls from your eye no matter how hard you try to stop it. “I’m so lucky to have you, to call you mine.”
His lips find yours with practiced ease, bringing you in for a kiss and you taste a thousand memories, particularly the time where he first kisses you in the rain, so elated and overcome with the outcome of a particularly baffling case. You’d held the umbrella, fumbling it like a fool when he bent down to kiss you, enveloping you in the Belstaff to keep you safe and warm. You thought it was a joke at first, another in his never-ending line of experiments, but when he pulled away from your lips gasping softly, a tint of pink flushed on his cheeks, you knew that couldn’t be the case.
“Please…” his voice anchors you back to the present and your fingers tangle in his hair tugging his neck back, exposing the soft hollow flesh of his neck, which your lips attach with fervor. You dare to grind against him searching for the friction you had long denied yourself, unwilling to admit the sight of him this way does unspeakable things to your body, making you want to claim him over just to feel him inside you making you whole again.
So, your fingers tug his curls harder, eliciting more gasps and whimpers from his pretty face at both touches from you. With his head thrown back further, your lips kiss and suck, navigating the soft spots on his neck, nipping before gently kissing over the marks properly.
A soft whimper falls from his lips once more as you stroke his straining length. “Will you let me warm it for you, Sherlock? Think of it as other experiment. You can do that for me, right? I want to feel you again, it’s been too long.”
“Yes,” The broken answer falls as you finish tugging off his sweatpants and underwear, stroking him, making him desperate for more, his hips desperately thrusting into your hand.
“It’s okay I’ve got you, that’s right.” You continue with your ministrations, already growing wet at the sight of him. When you finally settle down on him savoring the stretch quenching your ache, he’s panting slightly, eyes glimmering and blown wide in awe blown wide in awe and ecstasy, glancing at where your bodies are joined. His already fucked out look awakens something feral in you, yet you rein it in, wrapping your arms around his neck still straddling and laying on top of him, savoring how he fills you up in all the right places.
“You feel so good, Sherlock.”
“S-so do you, hell,” he swears, drawing in a shallow breath, tempted beyond all measure to move and feel you make you fall apart for him. “C-can I?”
You stroke his cheek lovingly, pressing a kiss there. “Not yet my boy, perhaps in a couple of hours, but for now, I want to hold you and feel you.”
He nods, running a hand through his curls as he sighs in defeat, carefully maneuvering the both of you so you are on your sides spooning each other, gazing into each other's eyes. You pull him in for another slow passionate kiss, eager for the impending hours and oh, what a time that will be.
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@bakerstreethound @disneymarina @groovy-lady @viper-official @lilythemadqueen @sherlockfanficwriting @frostandflamesfanfic @feral-for-strange
Sherlock tags: @coping-via-clint-eastwood @andreasworlsboring101 @ilovefanfictions @clussysposts @ravencatart @starks-hero @alienoresimagines @aephereal @turkisherlockian @evelynrosestuff @french-vanilla-in-the-clouds�� @classickook @sherlocksgirl91 @battledress @azu21 @sylvieofasgard @strangelockd
#Sherlock Holmes#sherlock x reader#sherlock holmes x reader#strawberry!sherlock#strawberry sherlock#sherlock holmes x you#sherlock holmes imagine#bbc sherlock imagine#sherlock fanfic#bbc sherlock#benedict cumberbatch#sherlock tv#sub sherlock
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What do you think of Sherlock with a crybaby reader? The reader is very sensitive, anything someone says or any situation that is a little embarrassing, the reader starts to cry a lot. Although Sherlock is always defensive when she starts to cry, he can't deny that he is always turned on with her little eyes filled with tears (Maybe a smut with dacriphilia and size kink. I'm sorry I'm making so many requests about Sherlock, I just love this man too much, and so little dark content about it :C)
Crybaby
AO3
Pairings: Yandere/Dark! Sherlock Holmes X gn!Reader
Summary: His reaction to a crybaby reader.
Warnings: Smut, +18, non-con/dub-con, yandere, dark, obsessive/possessive, kidnapped reader, taking advantage of the naive reader, manipulating, dacryphilia kink (?), praise kink
When Sherlock is busy, his intolerance to the people around him doubles. People are intolerably idiot, blind and sentimental. Their brains can't process obvious evidences, their eyes are blind to facts and their hearts are their biggest weakness. Sherlock is a strong man isolated from all those dangers. He doesn't let anything get in the way of his logic and facts.
John's unnecessary sentimentality towards the victims bothers him. He told John many times that he's being useless, citing crying over patients who were dying in hospitals won't help them. The fact that John sees him as a monster or a robot just proves his logic.
It's a big shock to him that such a sociopathic guy is attracted to a crybaby like you. Although he may try to deny at first, he accepts your sensitive nature over time. His disregard for emotions was the big reason why he didn't want you because he had never felt such intense emotions before and you were scaring him. But his twisted feelings for you overcame his fear and he embraced you with all your disadvantages. Now you're the only person who can be there even when he's busy.
It confuses not just Greg and John, but everyone including Mrs. Hudson that you're the only one who doesn't piss him off. You're supposed to piss him off the most! You start to cry easily because of something you've watched, heard or read, and Sherlock patiently takes you in his arms every time. His voice is kind when he asks you what happened. He knows it's nothing serious and you're just upset over something silly, but he's never spoken down to you. No matter how small it is, he nods, confirm you with his words and comforts you.
He thinks your mind is too sensitive. It's not conducive to rationality and is doomed to remain completely erroneous. You are like that, very sensitive and it's his job to protect you. It's not just because he's obsessed with you that he keeps you by his side all the time. He keeps you by his side as much as possible to make sure you're okay rather than leaving you alone.
When you cry, he caresses your hair and looks straight into your eyes, even if you're not looking at him. All this crying is so nonsensical to him, but he's so exciting to watch you. It's perfect to observe a different situation and it relates to you. Normally he can't stand crying people and finds it so boring, but everything is just so interesting with you.
It's okay for him to stop his work to comfront you. When Greg witnessed this, he frowned and opened his mouth in surprise. Half a minute after Sherlock insulted his intelligence and told him not to distract him, he walked over to your trembling body and asked in a soft voice what was wrong. He took you in his arms, placed multiple kisses on your cheek, then pointed Greg to the door. "Leave. Your presence bothers me."
And one day, of course, Greg would say something to upset you, and Sherlock knew this moment would come. John knows how protective Sherlock is about you, and he learned the hard way not to mess with you a long time ago. Someone like Sherlock gets so possessive over someone like you, of course it leaves questions in their little minds. John knows how much Greg will regret making you cry. Oh, he's going to regret it so much.
Sherlock hides all this cruel and violent side of himself from you. It wouldn't just make you cry, it would also traumatize you. He secretly deals with the situations and people you cry for, and loves to see you waiting for him when he gets back to his flat. It must be a terrible thing to have nowhere to go and be so helpless, luckily you have Sherlock. You may cry because you're being shy when he looks at you while talking to you, or when you see him bleeding for some reason. Sherlock will always smile at you, looking into your eyes as if he can see what's on your mind.
In fact, there are times when your crying gives him some kind of pleasure. If you're crying from pain or serious sadness, he hates it. But if you cry when you're angry or embarrassed, because of something insignificant, he finds it quite... arousing.
At such times, his steps are slower, his voice is deeper, and his breathing is heavier as he comes to you. As he picks you up, his hands roam around your body longer than they should, he brings his face close to your neck while looking at you, and starts kissing your tears from there till he reaches your eyes. He feels his body burning as he asks what happened. He loves to listen to your sobbings so closely. He loves your trembling and high voice as you speak.
He takes you to his bedroom every time, saying he'll make you feel good. You whimper as he takes off your clothes and tell him to stop but he tells you to trust him. He makes you feel so good every time, doesn't he? You're his, don't forget that.
Your reaction when you see his big cock never changes. You gasp and cry more. You remember how he fits into you so hard and you're so scared, perfect. Each time, he leans over your face and places kisses all over to shush you. He knows you'll never stop crying and he doesn't want you to stop anyway. It's just his instinctive reaction based on your own reaction. Nothing makes his cock throbbing so hard but you begging him to stop and sobbing. Your screams as he thrusts himself in and your miserable cries that follow is delightful.
He doesn't know why your cries turn him on so much. He doesn't know why he secretly wishes you not to stop crying while he comforts you. He must hate your crying in every way. It should cause him pain, not pleasure. Well, he doesn't have time to think about that as his cock explores your tight walls again. Why do you have to be so sweet and sensitive?
He always makes sure you cum too. Makes sure you enjoy it. Even with sobs, you have to cum. Afterwards he kisses your trembling lips and presses your body to himself. You're so tired and too scared to move.
He's so careful and gentle while washing you. He makes sure to be quick. Your cries turn into soft sighs and you hold on to him. He always praises you while he washes you. He tells how brave and a good baby you are for him that he's so proud of you, that you make him feel so good and you're so special. He puts you in his bed and tells you how much he loves you before you fall asleep.
#yandere sherlock holmes#yandere sherlock holmes x reader#yandere sherlock#yandere bbc sherlock#yandere bbc sherlock x reader#dark sherlock holmes#dark sherlock holmes x naive reader#dark sherlock holmes x reader#yandere sherlock holmes x naive reader#yandere sherlock holmes smut#yandere sherlock holmes x reader smut#dark sherlock holmes smut#dark sherlock holmes x reader smut#sherlock holmes x naive reader#sherlock holmes x reader smut#sherlock holmes x reader#daddy sherlock holmes x age regressed reader#daddy sherlock holmes x reader#sherlock holmes smut#sherlock holmes#sherlock#crybaby
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*sighs* Here I am again. I was wondering if you write kinks...If yes, could you do praise kink with Sherlock Holmes? Visual representation of me being on high need for some hot smut 👇🏻 Needless to say that I love your writing ❤️ I think that coming back for more shows how much of a simp I am.
ONLY THE BEST - SHERLOCK HOLMES X READER
Warnings : nsfw content, praise kink, blowjob and deepthroating, handjob, implied dacryphilia, mild gagging, Sherlock has a big dick in this, masturbation, facial and cumming in mouth, cum-swallowing, this is not proofread, use of “pet” as an affectionate term but NOT pet play, top!Sherlock, bottom!reader, reader is gender-neutral!
Genre : filth smut but they’re in love
Word count : 1.0K words
Additional notes : Thank you for checking if I was okay with kinks! Most people don’t bother 🥹 I love praise kinks! Personally I’m not a big fan of degradation or humiliation or anything of the sort, and praise is just so sweet and comforting to me. I’m so happy to hear that you enjoy my writing 🥰 Aren’t we all simps for him?🫣 Hope you enjoy this one too!💗
Requests : Are open! Check the rules over here.
Want to support me financially? Here’s my CashApp!
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“There you go,” came his soft voice from above them, as gentle hands carded through their hair and fingers lightly dug into their scalp. Sherlock’s voice was infinitely tender as he spoke to them, completely contrasting the brutal way he had them drooling around his cock.
They’d taken him to the hilt, lips struggling to wrap around his massive girth and throat fluttering with his length. He was too big and too much all at once, and yet they couldn’t even take him all in. Batting their eyes as tears dotted their lashes, they’d used their fist to fuck through what remained of him that they couldn’t throat.
“Don’t you look so sweet?” he cooed in adoration, hand trailing down to stroke their hollowed cheeks. “Taking me so well, angel. ‘S like your mouth was made for my cock.”
No further encouragement needed, they pressed their tongue down to the floor of their mouth to make more way for them to suck on his cock. The wetness and warmth of their mouth, and the perfect way they bobbed their head up and down on him had Sherlock throwing his head back at the sheer pleasure of it all.
Tugging at their locks, he desperately pulled them in closer, forcing his way down the muscles of their throat. When they gagged around him and choked on his length, something carnal inside him awakened, and he could’ve sworn that he only got harder. “The only one for me, I swear it,” he groaned out, eyebrows furrowed as his hips jerked forward suddenly, “Prettiest ‘n filthiest mouth.”
His words were only incentive for them to moan around him, the vibrations as he fucked into them absolutely sinful. Seeing them with tears running down their cheeks, a hand buried in their underwear as they sought their own release and the slick sounds of it loud in the room, he had little to no self control. Their other hand reached down to fondle his balls, just the right of pressure being used to knead and squeeze how he liked it. They knew him so well; knew how he loved that slight pain mixed with the pleasure.
“Aren’t you just fucking perfect, taking me like that and trying to get yourself to cum?” he managed to whisper between pants, chest heaving and eyes dazed but so utterly lovesick as he lounged in his seat. Perhaps he got off a little on the way they were down on their knees in front of him, in a frenzy to cum as they fucked themself with their own hand just to sight of their lover enjoying using their mouth. Or maybe he was just so in love like that. “‘S alright, luv. Know you can’t cum without my cock and fingers. Or maybe you’ll like me to take you with my mouth too?” Their answering whine around his cock was enough for him to weakly grin down at them. “You like that? Want me to return the favor ‘n have you screaming my name when I spell yours with my tongue?”
Releasing him with a pop, they looked up at him with a pleading look in their eyes. “Please, Sherly,” they whimpered, voice scratchy as they choked out a sob and fucked him with their fist, the wet sounds of using his own precum and their spit so erotic, “Need you so bad.”
He was so so close. How could he not be, when their small hands struggled to fit around him? When his slick dribbled down the corner of their mouth? When their fist felt so good stroking his length, tight enough to make him feel like he was losing himself? When they rocked pathetically against their hand, sobbing as they tried and failed to reach their orgasm on their own? It was all too much for him.
And when they swirled their thumb around his leaky tip, he couldn’t help the curses that tumbled from his mouth and the needy moans that left him. “‘M all yours, sweetheart. Fuck, gonna drive me mad. You’re too good to me, feels heavenly.”
Only a couple of more perfectly timed twists of their hand and he was cumming, ropes of his cum spurting out and landing on their face. They hurried to stick their tongue out, eyes fluttered shut as he made a mess out of their pretty face and their eager mouth. Jerking his hips forward as he fucked himself on their hand through his orgasm, he could swear he felt his toes curling with that burning, intense pleasure no one else could give him.
“You gonna be good and swallow?” he sweetly asked between breaths, struggling to come down from his high. With a nod, they tucked their tongue in and swallowed. Lustful and needy eyes trained on his, their fingers swiped at his release on their face, before their tongue poked out again to lick at it all while maintaining eye contact.
Sherlock swore, feeling his cock grow impossibly hard again and his hands fumbling for the towel beside him as he rushed to wipe their face a little cleaner. “Good pet,” he purred, sweet half-smile on his lips. He wasted no time at all in pulling them up to the bed, snatching their hand from between their thighs.
He tutted as he saw them glistening with their slick in the light of the room. Very carefully, he began to lap at them, taking each digit into his mouth and sucking them clean—all while his dark eyes bore into theirs. Something about the intensity of that look only fueled the sudden eroticism of that simple gesture, and they couldn’t help but let a moan escape from the back of their throat.
“Tastes so good. My sweet darling,” he mumbled after he’d licked every finger, kissing the tips of them and placing their hands on his thighs. His half-grin was full of naughty promises; promises they knew damn well he’d keep—and then some. “I’ll be sure to make you cum, though. Your hand can’t do a good job, now, can it? And I can’t have you unsatisfied.”
Taglist: @sherlockscumslut @lilias-highlights @thispersoniscrazy
#imagine#oneshot#anime#smut#moriarty the patriot#mtp#yuukoku no moriarty#ynm#yuumori#sherlock holmes#sherlock#holmes#sherlock holmes x reader#sherlock holmes smut#sherlock holmes oneshot#sherlock x reader#sherlock smut#sherlock oneshot#ynm sherlock holmes#ynm sherlock#yuumori sherlock#yuumori sherlock holmes#yuukoku no moriarty sherlock#holmes x reader#sherly
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Finally, he picked up his hunting-crop and struck Napoleon a sharp blow on the top of the head. The figure broke into fragments, and Holmes bent eagerly over the shattered remains. Next instant, with a loud shout of triumph, he held up one splinter, in which a round, dark object was fixed like a plum in a pudding.
“Gentlemen,” he cried, “let me introduce you to the famous black pearl of the Borgias.”
Lestrade and I sat silent for a moment, and then, with a spontaneous impulse, we both broke out clapping as at the well-wrought crisis of a play. A flush of colour sprang to Holmes's pale cheeks, and he bowed to us like the master dramatist who receives the homage of his audience. It was at such moments that for an instant he ceased to be a reasoning machine, and betrayed his human love for admiration and applause. The same singularly proud and reserved nature which turned away with disdain from popular notoriety was capable of being moved to its depths by spontaneous wonder and praise from a friend.
My theory that those busts were used for hiding/smuggling something precious was correct! *bows like Sherlock Holmes to imaginary applause* On a more serious note, I'm really quite touched by this scene. It's amusing to joke about Holmes having a praise kink, but to me the description of Holmes not caring what people may think of him but caring VERY MUCH about the opinions of his friends is just so much better. A lovely piece of writing. Also, the picture of Holmes viciously wielding a riding crop against a bust of Napoleon is just so funny
#letters from watson#sherlock holmes#the six napoleons#holmes cares so much for those close to him it's wonderful
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