she sher on my lock till i holmes

ao3: axyr1d1s

[axyr1d1s]

⚠︎MDNI!!!⚠︎

⚘.⋆˚࿔ Hello! Call me Maria. ⋆˚₊ 𖤓☽˚.⋆

21, she/her, 🇷🇴 , your average uni student who writes as a hobby (＾ｖ＾)

THE #1 ACD Holmes glazer and enjoyer. I want that man, and I want him badly.

Reblogging/personal account: @aflowerofevil

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All work belongs to @axyr1d1s, do not copy, repost it, or feed it into any sort of AI programs (translation included)

[axyr1d1s]

Fait Accompli

(ACD.Sherlock.Holmes × f!reader)

Summary: After lying about being engaged to escape unwanted attention at a social event, Sherlock Holmes finds himself in a dilemma: he needs someone to play the role of his fiancée in public to avoid getting caught in his lie. The obvious solution soon presents itself to the detective, but what happens when, in time, the line between acting as a couple and genuine feelings start to blur?

Tags: Fake Relationship, Marriage of Convenience, Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Eventual Smut (in the later chapters) , Period Typical Attitudes

TW: There will be some typical Victorian attitudes throughout the story, including sexism.

A/N: was gonna make this a modern au, but then I realised it'd be much more high stakes in the original, Victorian setting 😭

Chapter 1: A Secretly Engaged Bachelor

Today had been a horrible day for Sherlock Holmes. There was no other way to describe it, really.

First, there was that case he had been working on. For the last month, the detective had been obsessing over a series of burglaries occuring in the same neighbourhood, losing sleep and smoking an alarming amount of tobacco in the process of finding the culprit. Every single incident had the same pattern: the house of a wealthy family was targeted, the stolen item was invariably some sort of jewelry piece, and it always occured on a Thursday night, between 2 and 3 in the morning. Now, this very investigation had hit a dead end. It was as if the thief refused to leave behind any sort of incriminating evidence for Holmes to pick up. This wasn't the attention-seeking type of criminal, they left no notes or other mementoes behind at the scene, to make a statement. On the contrary, whoever it was, they were meticulous. Not a single fingerprint, or piece of torn fabric found at the scene. No broken windows , damaged safe, or disturbed furniture, either. They'd go straight for whatever necklace or bracelet caught their eye, take it, and leave, without a trace.

The press called it the work of a ghost, an elusive phantom thief that preyed on the elite and their treasures, but of course, this was all just sensationalist nonsense used to sell more newspapers. Phantoms did not exist, and even if they did, Holmes doubted they'd spend their time stealing from the homes of the wealthy.

To admit defeat was unthinkable. He was the great detective, this was not an option. There had to be some sort of clue he had missed, some witness to whom he hadn't asked the right questions.

And then, to top it all off, as if one professional failure was not enough, when Holmes arrived home from an errand after lunch, the detective found on his desk a telegram from Lestrade, who announced him that, unfortunately, the financial ledgers Holmes had sent to Scotland Yard for another case had been lost by some clumsily incompetent subordinate. The inspector ended his message with a kind request to have Holmes resend all the papers, as quickly as possible , so that the prosecution's case wouldn't collapse. Absolutely lovely, to have to send again dozens of papers that had taken the detective months to get his hands on. Did the Yard even realise how complicated that would be? Probably not.

Of course, over the course of his career, Holmes had his fair share of bad days, as any person would. The usual remedy for such situations was an easy one: staying at home. The violin, his favourite pipe, maybe Watson's company, and he would be alright the next morning. But today, it seemed that Lady Luck was not very fond of private consulting detectives. Instead of being able to relax at 221B, Holmes had found himself obligated to attend a social event, of all things.

What a great way to end a day! To be invited to a ball when he was stressed and overwhelmed by a case. When his nerves were already hanging on by a thin thread since this morning, he would have to spend the night surrounded by people he could not stand, forced by etiquette to keep a polite smile plastered on his face. All those fake pleasantries, and social norms... sure, he could feign an illness, but that would mean missing out on the chance to observe some key players in the burglary case. The guests were a bunch of snobby, entitled rich people, but nonetheless, important for his investigation. Potential leads could arise from talking to the guests or overhearing conversations, and considering how utterly lacking in clues his case was now, the detective could use a nudge in the right direction. As nasty as the upper class was, and no matter how much contempt Holmes had for the rich, he had to hand it to them: they certainly loved their gossip.

Once arrived at the ball, Holmes had to admit it wasn't all that bad. Perhaps he had been too pessimistic, and tonight would not be a disaster. The music was lovely, the orchestra played splendidly. The champagne was of great quality, and the fruit tarts on the side tables were delicious. Holmes was able to move around the ballroom freely, almost like a shadow , and simply listen and observe what was happening. Even if he'd discover nothing relevant for the case, well, the ton was currently offering him a great show regardless. For example, he watched how a woman kept on fidgeting with her gloves and glancing around the room, as if searching for an excuse to leave, when her husband mentioned inviting a friend of his for dinner the next evening (a sign Holmes interpreted as proof that her husband's friend was actually her secret lover).

"Oh my! Is that truly you?! Good evening, Mr. Holmes!"  , a shrill voice suddenly rang out from behind him, followed by the rhythmic noise of heels moving across the marble floor.

Holmes' eyes widened slightly, the closest his expression would ever get to dread. It appears that the ambush had already started, he had been too hasty when concluding tonight wasn't all that bad. There we go again, fending off flirtatious comments from women he had no interest in. The detective gripped his champagne flute tighter, before downing its contents in one gulp. Someone bring him the whole bottle , he would need the comfort of alcohol to survive this ordeal.

"Ah. Lady Wentworth! Such a pleasure to see you tonight. How do you do?" , he replies in a polite, but very cold tone. With that smile not reaching his eyes and the stiff posture, anyone good at reading people would know this meant one thing: Holmes was not enjoying the upcoming conversation, or his interlocutor.

Lady Wentworth smiled back, not noticing the coldness radiating from the detective. She was far too busy fanning herself and throwing coy glances in Holmes' direction. "Oh, but however could I miss you, Mr. Holmes? Your presence is so rare at balls...I would be a fool not to come up and greet you now!"

Holmes nods politely, his eye twitching a bit when he sees two other ladies come his way. A middle aged woman, and her young daughter, to be more precise. No doubt, the mother was hoping to introduce her daughter to the great detective. He actually felt bad for the girl. Her body language betrayed her thoughts. She definitely could not care less about Holmes, because she kept glancing at some other man across the room, as if apologizing for leaving him mid-conversation. But orders from Mother had to be followed for now. She could return to the object of her affections later.

In his experience, there were three kinds of female fans who fought for his attention. The first group, and the most harmless, were what Holmes considered the normal fans. Just someone who wanted to greet him, maybe congratulate him. In the most extreme case, they'd ask for an autograph on their copy of the Strand, and then leave him alone. The detective loved this segment of his fanbase. Reasonable human beings, with manners.

The second ones were the middle ground. Respectful, inoffensive fans, but who would also try to sneak in some flirting. Complimenting his work, while also smiling too much, or sitting too close. Holmes had learned to act oblivious to their flirtatious intentions, in order to avoid embarrassing situations. That usually did the trick, and the ladies would understand he was in no mood to charm them.

And the third category... Holmes shuddered at the mere thought. The overly obsessed ones. These ladies were very versatile in tactics, he'd give them that: some just sent him applications to be his wife. Others wrote very...explicit love letters, bordering on concerning. Sometimes, women came up to him in public, either to shoot their shot at romancing the detective, or to introduce Holmes to a sister, daughter, cousin, any unwed female relative that they thought would impress him. It was both ridiculous and irritating, in his opinion. Did they really think flooding 221B's sitting room with love letters or playing matchmaker was the right way to draw his attention?

"Good evening, ladies!" , he greets the approaching group in the most charming tone he could muster. When three other women join the conversation, eager to get a few crumbs of his attention, Holmes adds: "And...more ladies!"

The admirers then began their usual routine. Asking him all sorts of questions , that could easily be answered by reading Watson's stories ("How did you catch the murderer, Mr. Holmes?!" "Was it hard to find the blackmailer?!") , laughing too loudly at his jokes...the detective was already getting exhausted by having to keep up appearances. Watson was the womanizer of the duo, not him, he would thrive in this environment. The doctor would love impressing the ladies with his adventures, and spend the whole evening surrounded by fans. He, on the other hand, had no desire to regale an audience with tales of his cases or to show off. After all, it wasn't Holmes with an experience spanning three continents, was it? 

"It has been lovely to run into fans of Watson's literary work. Now, if you'd please excuse me..." , Holmes began, extracting himself from the group. Too much conversation that was not related to his interests or a case, especially with strangers, tended to drain him. That was why he left most of the fan interactions and interviews to Watson.

Lady Wentworth laughed again, in her usual shrill, annoying manner, and placed her hand on the detective's arm, leaning into him. "Oh, but you barely spent time with us!"

Holmes froze in his spot. She had touched his arm, and invaded his personal space. He despised being touched , especially by people he barely knew. There had been a few clients who had either hugged Holmes after receiving good news, or touched his arm, and each time, the detective had felt incredibly awkward, to say the least. Even with Watson or Mycroft, hugs were a rare occurence. It was just the way he was when it came to physical affection, ever since he was a boy. He remembers how his parents would scold him for squirming away from hugs. "What are you, some sort of freakish creature who was raised away from humans? This isn't normal behaviour, now stop acting oddly and go and apologise to your aunt for refusing to hug her!" , his father would say, the words still echoing in his mind as an adult. "Freakish creature." It wasn't as if Holmes acted this way on purpose, but for some reason, people interpreted his refusal of physical touch as some sort of capital sin.

The detective shook his head, snapped back to the present by the fact that his admirer still was clinging to him. "No, truly, Madam, I must—"

"Have you met the Earl's daughter yet? She's such a charming young thing..." , Lady Wentworth responded, not letting go of Holmes' hand. She had clearly drank too much, this was not proper behaviour for a lady of her standing.

The detective removed her gloved hand gently, taking a step back. "Madam, if you would please refrain yourself. I am an engaged man, and I do not wish to cause any sort of scandal, or ruin my fiancée's reputation."

Holmes really hadn't meant to say that. It had just been the first excuse he came up with, and blurted out in a rush. But now, he had to deal with the consequences, there was no way out.

"I beg your pardon?" , the woman says, her eyes widening in disbelief. She turns to her group, to make sure she heard well. Engaged? Him?

"I said that I am already engaged." , the detective says again, more confident, before adding: "...and I have no desire to entertain your flirtations, as a man who is already committed to someone."

"And how come we have never heard of this mystery fiancée before?" , one of the other ladies chimed in.

Holmes hesitated for a second, before he sighed in a very convincing display of remorse. "My fiancée and I planned to announce it to the papers this Friday, but it seems I ruined the surprise."

"Do we know her?!" , Mrs. Gladstone, another socialite, asked. "What's her name?!"

"You will find out on Friday, I have no intention of breaking that promise as well."

A few ladies quickly excused themselves from the group, and left to whisper the news to the others in the room.

Lady Wentworth's haughty smile faded, her entire expression souring. How could Mr. Holmes refuse her invitation? The Earl's daughter was a catch, and the girl had mentioned she wished to be introduced to the detective! But if Holmes truly had a fiancée... yes, he had a point. It could ruin reputations for them both, if she were to continue any further. With one last scoff, she turns on her heels and leaves, eager to spread the news. First stop? Her brother-in-law, who regularly had lunch with the chief editor of The Illustrated London News, notorious for its gossip column. If she was quick enough, such information would be worth a fortune, both financially and socially. 

Holmes doesn't even acknowledge the socialite's departure with a nod of his head or a wave. Instead, he finishes his flute of champagne (the fourth one this evening) , and heads towards the door to leave this blasted place. He was in no mood to continue the investigation, or interact with fans.

The whole carriage ride back to 221B is spent by the detective in a state of panic. Why did he even say that?! To announce he was engaged, in a room full of London's high society...by tomorrow, the papers would have a field day. And the worst part was that the fiancée didn't even exist. He had made up a disastrous lie on the spot. Where on Earth could he find a woman to fill in the vacancy now? Because, obviously, people will want to see him out in public with the mystery fiancée. He can't come forward publicly and claim she passed away , ran off , or some equally outlandish claim. No, he had to find a lady willing to play the role.

Holmes furrowed his brows in thought. Easy. He would find someone for a few months, until the press forgot and moved on to a new sensational story, and then, he would quietly cut off the engagement. He shook his head, after a moment. No, that was not quite right, this was actually even worse. Breaking off an engagement was a social death sentence for the woman, and for the man, an equally severe blow to his reputation. He needed to find someone who would also be interested in a potential marriage. Obviously , a marriage of convenience, an arrangement only on paper.

Post an ad in the newspaper? No, his house would become swarmed with letters from female fans who were obsessed with the great detective, and envisioned themselves as the next Mrs. Holmes. It needed to be someone he trusted and knew enough to ensure there would be no weird behaviour. Holmes' list of female acquiantances was small, and the women he did know and get along with were married, so maybe he'd have to—

A name suddenly flashed through his mind. Now this was an idea that could work. How didn't he think of her first?

First thing in the morning, Holmes would send an invitation for tea, to properly explain the situation. He had found the perfect candidate to play his pretend fiancée. If anyone could succeed, it'd be you.

Your first meeting with Mr. Sherlock Holmes had occured five months ago, when the detective himself came to the office of "The Ladies' Journal",  the magazine where you worked, to question the employees after a series of nasty events concerning the publication.

First, someone had vandalised the exterior of the building, after a particularly bold article on women's suffrage had been published. Then, three days later, your chief editor failed to show up for work. It was unusual for her to miss a day without prior warning, so immediately, every staff member suspected foul play, from some higher up who was getting irritated at the political stance of the magazine.

Most other fashion magazines in London stayed as compliant as possible with the norms: only news relating to the latest trends in fashion seen in London or other European capitals, maybe a few theater or book reviews, but only for literature suitable for sensible young ladies. Nothing too controversial. "The Ladies' Journal" had gone too far, by spewing "feminist nonsense" , as some politicians referred to texts that encouraged women to fight for equality of rights.

Your involvement in editing the article on female suffrage had meant that the detective started his questioning with you. While you sadly had no idea who exactly could want to harm the chief editor, your observational skills and wit had impressed Holmes enough to ask for your help with some minor evidence gathering during the case. The two of you remained acquianted after that, but not friends, per se.

So, then, why did he see you as his saviour, if he barely knew you? The answer lied in a conversation Holmes had accidentally overheard, while he was out for a cigarette, in a backalley. You were leaving work, talking to a friend, who had jokingly asked you whether or not you would abandon your writing career one day in order to marry, the way a colleague of yours had done. You had laughed, and told her that you would rather stay a spinster than give up your career. Writing brought too much joy for you to abandon it in order to play housewife for some random gentleman. Ideally, you would find a man who supported your career , or remain unmarried your whole life. After all, marriage in this era was "nothing more than a gilded cage for women who had ambitions outside of being a wife and mother." , to use your own words. Holmes remembers hearing your passionate rant, and thinking about how refreshing it was to find someone who would rather dedicate their lives to their career than sacrifice it for love. After all, hadn't he done the same?

Your views on marriage made you perfect. You valued your independence as much as Holmes did, so a marriage of convenience would be a massive benefit to the both of you. You could continue your work, without risking marriage to a husband who'd make you quit at some point, and Holmes could get rid of unwanted attention and marriage proposals from his many female admirers, by claiming he had a wife.

A perfect plan. She could move in at 221B after a few months, either in the flat above Holmes' , or share his apartment, and sleep in Watson's room. Nobody would know that they weren't truly living together or sleeping in the same bed, like a normal married couple.

The detective smiled to himself. It seems he was still as sharp when it came to solving problems as ever. He would even dare to say this was one of the best decisions he ever took, maybe second to moving in with Watson. All he needed now was for you to accept.

[abbielauren2024]

Reblog if you’re grateful for your commenters <3

[axyr1d1s]

While I love how random Tomodachi Life can be, I wish I could interfere in Mii relations more... please, I need to make Satoru Gojo divorce Watson 💔💔💔

[axyr1d1s]

In Love there is Fear and Bravery

(Medieval!ACD.Sherlock.Holmes × noblewoman!reader)

Summary: The daughter of one of the most influential men in the kingdom runs away before she can be forced into an arranged marriage. What will happen when she meets a knight who offers her a way out of this prison?

Chapter 2: First impressions are not set in stone

The imposing towers that guarded the city walls were surely the first thing any traveller would see on their way to the capital. Perhaps that had been the intention of whoever had built them, centuries ago. Impress your allies, intimidate your foes, prove your worth to your inhabitants. Even if you had been to the capital quite a few times over the years , the sheer grandness of the fortifications never failed to amaze you every single time.

"Looking quite awed there, my Lady. I suppose Father Dearest's estate does not have walls as impressive as these?"

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. But of course. Good things never last for too long. Holmes had been so silent until now, and you had wrongly, it seems, assumed he was finally leaving you alone. Turns out he had just been waiting for the next opportunity to strike.

When faced with people such as the knight here, your internal monologue would normally be something along the lines of: "God, lend me strength..." , but you figured out any deity's help , no matter how obscure, would be welcome when dealing with your travelling companion. Anyone who would hear out your plea was encouraged to come and help. Reluctantly, you decide to acknowledge Holmes' presence. Otherwise, he'd continue his jesting until you finally gave him attention. Such a pity his coat of arms had a hawk, honestly. In terms of personality, he was much closer to a cat.

To be more precise, Holmes reminded you of this cat that would always lurk around your castle's kitchens. The furry bastard was not impartial to using every weapon in his arsenal to get the attention of the humans around him. What were the feline's methods, one might ask? Knocking over baskets of fruits when he considered he had been neglected, jumping onto tables while the cooks prepared a meal, even swiping some meat off platters , and then fleeing the scene like a common thief. If Holmes had been born a cat, you definitely could see him do such actions.

You look down at the knight. The best part of being on his horse now, and him walking by your side, was that you could have him look up at you, instead of the other way round.

"No, sir knight. I have not. Not everyone has the privilege of travelling the lands whenever we please, you see. Some of us mere mortals grow up in one area and spend their whole lives there. Oh, I know... Truly, a shame to have such a fate..." , you lament falsely, even adding a sniffle at the end to really sell the act. As your father's falconer used to say, "The Devil is a hard-working one, but I am even more hard-working than he is, milord". This phrase had become your motto for the past few hours you spent in Sherlock Holmes' company. He had made fun of you enough by shamelessly exploiting your gullibility back in the woods. Now was the time to fight back.

The knight acknowledged your reply with a simple hum. This lack of reaction, of course, enraged you even more.  "Shame, indeed, my Lady. But who knows? You are still young. Nobody may know what the future has in store for them, can they now? Perhaps you will be able to travel to far lands, some day."

"That would certainly be lovely." , you admit, with a nod. "I am sure it would be quite the experience."

"It is, I can assure you of that. Though...if you ever do end up seeing the world, pray never forget your humble knight. I would appreciate a souvenir from your travels."

"We shall see about that." , you reply, biting your lip, to try not to start laughing. You would not give him the satisfaction. His ego was already absurdly inflated, no need to have one more person add on to that. That was your problem, actually. He was annoying, certainly, he was also arrogant, but he genuinely was funny, as much as you hated to admit it. He had a wit to his words and a comedic timing that was unparalleled in jokes. If his mockery was directed at someone else , and not yourself, you'd be in stitches by now.

"Halt!" , a voice suddenly shouts at the two of you as you reach the city gates. A stern-looking guard stepped forward, glaring at you from under his helmet's visor. When he saw you were accompanied by a knight, he gripped his halberd a bit tighter. "State your names and say why you're here. His Majesty's orders."

"Tut, tut. Come now, Henry. Don't you recognise an old friend?" , Holmes asks calmly, not at all phased by the guard's firm tone. Any normal person would probably freeze on the spot, and actually follow the orders given to them by the soldier. Not him, no. Holmes had actually stepped forward. You give him a desperate look. He could act bold around guards all he wanted when alone, but now, you'd rather have him comply, so you two wouldn't end up in prison.

The guard — Henry, apparently — narrows his eyes at the knight, wondering who on Earth was this man and where did he know his name from. He then sees the shield bearing his coat of arms, hanging off the horse's saddle, and finally seems to realise something about the man's identity. He barks out a loud, surprised laugh. "I'll be damned! That you, Holmes?! Almost didn't recognise you with your helmet on."

"In the flesh. Finally back home."

"Well, at least lift your visor up when you get near the city gates, man! I was this close to dragging you to the bailiff when you stepped forward!" , Henry exclaimed, earning a laugh from the knight.

"Yes, apologies for that, I take full blame for the helmet. You know the woods around here have been getting less safe as of late. Couldn't risk an arrow in the head."

While Holmes was busy chatting about with this Henry fellow, you were giving him a side-eyed glare. An arrow in the head. There were archers in the forest, and he did not bother to offeryou  any sort of armour?! Or at least warn you?! What a twat.

Henry chuckled and nodded. "True enough. We've had to increase the number of men on patrol for the night watch. Less time for taverns these days, I fear... say, who's the lass?"

"Oh, her?" , Holmes asks, pointing at you. "Watson's wife got a new maid. Some cousin of hers , whose family died of the plague. I made sure she arrived here unharmed." He delivered the story smoothly, without any hesitation. The details had been practised on the way here, so that even in the unlikely event that you'd be pulled aside for questioning, your stories would match.

"Ahh. I see. Mary's always been a kind one. Going to Watson, then? Send the man my greetings. And tell him I'm still waiting for that wine he promised me!"

"Will do, Henry. Take care."  , Holmes confirmed, tipping his visor at Henry as a sort of goodbye. Far more dignified than waving while wearing plate armour. And less noisy, too.

Henry respectfully tipped his visor at you two as you passed by him and entered the city.

The first thing your mind registered once inside the capital's walls was the the sheer dynamism of everything surrounding you. It was a true ambush on all of your sensory faculties, from every direction. It was nothing like life in a country manor, that much was obvious, and you could not help but take in everything going on around.

Nobles glancing in disdain at the common folk, from their high horses , as they passed through the crowds, their hired swords not far behind. Children running around, playing a game of tag, while dodging carts and horses, ignoring the exasperated yells of adults. The noise of a commotion at the tavern round the corner, where someone had clearly lost too much at dice. A woman passing by the tavern with her son quickly covered the little one's ears and picked up the pace, hoping to shield the boy from the very crude words the gamblers were throwing at each other. He'd have time to learn the wonderful intricacies of curses when he was older. Let him live in blissful innocence for a few more years.

It was no wonder the city had come to life. At this hour, the market was still ongoing. The bustling main square had stalls everywhere. Merchants were selling their wares , their shouts echoing from every direction.

"Bread and pies, come get them, right out of the oven!"

"Fresh vegetables, people!"

"Fish, caught this morning!"

"Need your blade sharpened? Let the apprentice of the best swordsmith in the kingdom help with that!"

"You won't find better ale anywhere else!"

"Pots for sale, twice fired! Sturdy pots, for sale!"

You passed by a stand selling some particularly appealing pastries. Apple pies, cheesecakes, breadrolls, all lined up on the table. They looked delicious, and reminded you of the snacks you used to steal before supper , back at your father's castle... but you had no coins on you, and you doubted Holmes would actually get you something. He had the air of a pinch-purse. The kind of man who would ask: "Why waste money on food from the market when we can wait until we reach Watson's home, and eat for free?".

As it would turn out, appearances deceived. Because after you two passed by the stall, the knight stopped for a moment, before steering the horse to the edge of the square, away from the crowds. He said nothing about why he was suddenly stopping, he just gave you the reins of his horse.

"Keep an eye on her for a bit, will you?" , Holmes asks.

Before you can open your mouth to protest, and remind him that you were a lady , not a stable boy (even if you were currently pretending to be a commoner, you still had your dignity!) , he had left you. Absolutely rude. Such a scoundrel of a man. He probably thought that if he flashed you his arrogant smile when he returned, you'd forgive him. Oh, no, you would not. Damn him. Damn his constant bantering. And damn his stupid , cocky smile. And those shrewd grey eyes , damn that glint they sometimes got as well when he spoke, if we're at it. Who did he think he was? Perhaps other ladies were not immune to his charms, and he had gotten used to this power. Well, his luck will be running out on this lady, you had decided!

Holmes returns to your side a few minutes later, holding what appeared to be two pastries. Why did he get two? You raise an eyebrow at him.

"What is the meaning of this?" , you ask him, not trying to get your hopes up. He seemed like the type of man who was petty enough to get two portions, only to then eat them both in front of you.

"Well, what does it look like? Two cheesecakes. Fresh from the ovens, too, the baker assured me! Don't they look delicious, my Lady?" , he replies cheerfully. "We passed by that stall a few minutes ago. And I considered that the fairest lady in this market, no, the fairest lady in this whole city, would deserve the finest dessert there is." With a theatrical bow, he offers you one of the cakes, holding it on his palm as if he was handing you some precious scroll.

You take the cheesecake from him. "Thank you, sir knight. You are most kind."

"No need to thank me, my Lady. What sort of sorry knight would I be if I didn't feed thee after such a long journey?"

You raise an eyebrow, too busy eating the dessert to give him a response. He was being very nice, all of a sudden. Was he planning something, and this was just a way of letting your guard down?

"Are you attempting to butter me up for something, sir knight?" , you ask, narrowing your eyes at him.

"Yes and no."

"That is not a very concrete answer."

"You're a bright woman, you'll figure out what I mean. Eventually, I suppose." , Holmes responded with an ominous smile. He then gave you a knowing look. "Are you still hungry , my Lady?"

"What makes you think that?" , you say, as if you hadn't been eyeing the cake in his hand ever since you finished yours.

"I really don't know , my Lady... you do seem awfully entranced by my cheesecake. In fact, you have been staring at it for so long that I feel envious."

"You feel envious of a cake? Why?"

"It almost feels as if you're too busy paying attention to it, instead of your humble knight. And here I was, thinking my fair lady enjoyed my company, when it was my cheesecake she was actually after!" , Holmes complains in a tone that was half-joking.

"Do not be ridiculous." , you protest quickly. Who did he think he was, to tease about your sweet tooth? "You have a lot of nerve, speaking to a lady like this."

"Ah, I see you are furrowing your brows again, your usual sign of annoyance. Have I struck a nerve, my Lady? You truly were staring at that cake with a look of intense longing..."

"Oh, you'd want me to look at you as though you were a tasty dessert? Not at the cake? Is that it, sir knight?" , you ask , amused. It takes you exactly one second after you've said the words to realise how flirty your comment had sounded. No. No, that had not been your intention. Oh, great. Now he shall think you fancy him and were just playing hard to get, when the truth was the opposite.

The knight smiled, his grey eyes crinkling at the corners. "I wouldn't mind that one bit, to be truthful with you, my Lady." He then offered you his portion , as if to spare you from further embarrassment by continuing the flirting. He had a bit of decency left in him , after all.

You take it from his outstretched palm, your fingers brushing against his gloved hands once more. You feel yourself warm up at the contact, that same odd feeling you got in the forest when he helped you on his horse. Even through his gloves, you still got the flutter, as if you were touching his bare hand. Whatever it was that caused the reaction, you would not dwell on it now.

A part of you had a small suspicion as to what you were feeling, and you were not willing to address the obvious now. It did feel awfully similar to what those maidens experienced in the tales you read as a young girl. Those stories of grand romances, dashing knights and swooning ladies. Love. Could you even call it that, in your case? You met Holmes earlier today. Was that even enough time for love to take root? Probably not, real life rarely worked like fiction, you told yourself. 

You take another bite of the cake, frowning a bit at the mere idea of feeling that way for Sherlock Holmes, the wandering knight who had gotten on your nerves more times than you could count. No, it couldn't be love. You were probably just starved for physical contact. Yes, that was it. Holmes was the first man outside of your family you had met, and your lonely mind was latching on to this little human connection you two had developed. When you'd reach Watson's house , you would probably feel the exact same way for him. It was nothing to worry yourself over. Besides...Holmes? Really? He was far too annoying for you to fall in love with. You would not stand for such a turn of events to happen. After you spent hours glaring daggers at him, falling in love now would be a deliciously ironic twist of fate.

You wipe some crumbs off your lips, still lost in thought. Love dilemmas aside, you had far bigger worries now than the flutters in your stomach when Holmes touched your arm, such as the fact that your father and that lord he planned to marry you to were probably searching for you at this very moment. And if they found you, well, it was all over. Your father would never let you out of his sight until the wedding. It had happened to other noblewomen too, you knew from the gossip you'd hear from servants. They'd have guards by their door and windows, could only leave their rooms escorted... and then, after the wedding, you'd trade one gilded cage for the other. You had never met Lord Roylott, so perhaps he wasn't a brute who'd treat you cruelly. But even a kind man would keep a careful eye on his wife, if she had a history of running away.

"Finished your cake already, my Lady?" , Holmes asks, when he notices you had indeed eaten it all.

You nod quietly. "Yes. All done."

The quiet , thoughtful tone immediately made the knight realise you had been deep in thought until now. And by the looks of it, they were not the pleasant kind of thoughts. "Is anything the matter, your Ladyship?" , he asks , his tone much softer than before.

"Nothing, really." , you brush him off with a wave of your hand. "I was simply thinking of what might happen if my father finds me."

Holmes nodded, understanding where the sudden serious tone came from. "It is unlikely he'll find you here in the capital. Too many people to properly hunt you down. But even if he does find you somehow, I am willing to try and fight for your freedom."

You look at his face. He didn't seem to be sarcastic in this moment. No, he had meant the whole fighting part. "Fight for me? Why?" , you ask, puzzled by the gesture. He barely knew you, after all. Who in their right mind would do such a thing? You, for example, would not risk your life for a stranger you stumbled upon in the woods earlier that day.

"Aside from the obvious answer, with the whole "It is a knight's duty to help the vulnerable" speech, I genuinely believe you, my Lady, deserve to choose the course of your life on your own, without anyone nudging you towards one path or the other. And if you ran away on the eve of your engagement, I doubt you truly wanted to spend the rest of your life in an arranged marriage."

You shake your head. "No, indeed, that is not the life I want. I do want to find love, eventually, like any person would, but not a love forced upon me by my father." You pause and look up at him. "Perhaps, if I had met Lord Roylott in other circumstances, we could have been happy. But the idea of having no choice in who to love scares me. I do not want to follow in my poor mother's footsteps."

Holmes hummed, not interrupting to ask for more details, even if it was obvious he was dying to find out more about your background, now that you mentioned your mother. He had a vague idea what you were implying by that statement, though. Your mother had probably been one of the many ladies forced by their families into marriages they never wanted. A very common sight in your world, but nonetheless, a tragic one.

"You shall not end up like your mother. That much I can tell you, my Lady. You're actively resisting against your predetermined fate, through the mere fact that you're here with me now, and not in your castle chapel." , he assures you, his tone as soothing as he could manage.

As a response, you simply nod at his words. His reassurances had calmed you down a bit. He was correct, in a way. Unlike your mother, you had actually chosen to run away, that was already a huge difference in itself.

Holmes watched your face for a few more moments, until he was certain you were actually calm now. Once satisfied, he cleared his throat, and gestured towards an alley on the left. "Right then. We're almost at Watson's house." The moment of vulnerability between you was over. 

Sure enough, not long after, you arrive at a townhouse, at the far end of one of the many alleys that snaked around the capital's square. It was a well-kept, clean building, the white paint on its walls clearly new. Some strong-smelling herbs were hanging from the windowsills in pots. All in all, the house of a person who clearly did not like living in squalor.

Holmes stepped forward, and knocked three times. The massive door opened a bit later, revealing a broad-shouldered , robust man, wearing a clean brown tunic. He had fair hair, an impressive moustache, and kind, blue eyes. This had to be Watson, the friend he told you about on the way here.

"Holmes! You're back!" , the man exclaimed, pulling the knight into a tight hug, ignoring the armour his friend was wearing that made embraces a bit uncomfortable. He then turned to you, realising Holmes had come here with someone. Being too well-mannered to outright ask "And who is she?" , Watson waits patiently for Holmes to elaborate.

"I had a very interesting development on my way back home. May we come in?" , is all he says in response.

Watson steps aside, letting you two enter, even if he was aching with curiosity to hear everything on the spot.

[axyr1d1s]

I just know my notes app hates to see me coming (i have several unpublished fic drafts in there)

[metamorphesque]

Ivy (1901), Laurel (1901) by Alphonse Mucha

[lackadaisies]

this is killing me 😭

[axyr1d1s]

Eating more than one can chew

(ACD.Sherlock.Holmes × f!reader)

Summary: You are on your period: miserable, bloated, bleeding, the whole package. In spite of these impediments, however, your husband is very much down for some intimacy.

Tags: NSFW, Porn with a bit of plot, Reader is on her period, Period Sex, Blood, Cunnilingus, Face Sitting, Face Riding

Word count: 3.1k words

A/N: Softlaunching the concept of capital F Freak Holmes for an upcoming vampire fic. Big things coming...

Today had been an awful day, this was a fact that was not up for debate. You woke up in the morning, with an odd feeling in your lower body. Not quite a stomach ache, not quite period cramps. A discomfort, that was an apt description. You had been getting these false alarms for the past three days, so as you padded bare-footed to the bathroom, you already had an inkling of what you'd see this time. Your body, as treacherous as it may have been by making you go through this every month, was trying to alert you and spare you the humiliation of wearing pastel dresses on the wrong day.

Indeed, today there was blood. Odd, because your monthly was supposed to be here next week, according to your calculations... damned irregular cycles. But oh, well. One has to see the bright side of things. At least you had no cramps yet. Just some bloating, gas and a lot of blood. You could work with that. After all, it usually was worse on your first day, so you'd gladly take the hand dealt to you. Once the rags were firmly in place, you went back to your bed, ready to lounge around the whole day and do nothing. Period fatigue always got you, and for the next few days, you would have little to no energy or motivation for anything. But that was easier said than done. As if one could spend a day doing nothing when sharing a house with a man like Sherlock Holmes.

It was well past noon when he finally decided to leave his experiments and come and bother you instead. Holmes flops down on the bed next to you, with a loud, theatrical sigh. In a very unconvincing attempt that he was coincidentally in the room, like a cat pretending that it's curling into its owner's lap for no particular reason, the detective scoots closer to you on the mattress, leaning in for a kiss. The affection is welcomed by you with open arms. Your lips move gently against his, while one hand grips the front of his dressing gown, and the other supports your weight on the mattress. He breaks the kiss a few moments later, only to begin trailing his lips down your throat, to the hem of your nightgown. Of course this was what he was after when he entered your room.

"No, dearest. Not now. I'm not...how to put it? I am not in the state for such a thing today." , you say, giving him an apologetic expression as you gently move his hands away from your breasts.

At your words, Holmes lets out a huff and fixes you with a playful glare. "And why not?" , he asks , raising an eyebrow for extra dramatics. "You seemed eager enough with that kiss."

You meet his gaze, reaching out to mess up his hair. "I really do wish I could say yes, I want it as well, but as I said, I am not in the proper state—" , you begin weakly.

"You know I don't want you to shave or whatever you women are taught to do to please your husbands. I have hair as well. On my arms, on my legs, even there, why should I feel disgusted? And to soothe your nerves, I quite like the vegetation, so to call it. Keeps the secret treasure well hidden." , he responds, flashing you a smug smile and a wink.

You let out a surprised laugh at the comparison. How did he come up with these absurd metaphors? Fitting, you thought. The clit was like some sort of mythical, unachievable treasure to the majority of men. "No. It is not that, either. It's—"

"What is it, then?" , the detective asks, not even letting you finish your sentence. "Just be honest. I can take no for an answer, do not feel obliged to cave in just to not upset my feelings. Intimacy needs to be enjoyed by both me and you."

You take a deep breath, before finally broaching the topic. "My...monthly. I am currently going through it now. It's quite bloody, in spite of being the first day. And I do not think it is what you would like now."

Holmes lets out a simple "Oh." of understanding at that. He furrows his brows in thought, staring at your lower body, before looking up at you again.

"And?" , he asks after a few moments of contemplation.

"What do you mean "and?" ?!", you ask. "I am all bloody, and bloated. It's disgusting, and smelly..."

"It is natural, is it not? You go through this every month. I see no reason to treat it as some sort of anomaly. Is that the only reason you have?"

You nod slowly.

"Thought so. Well, I am a man of science. If nothing else, we can consider this an experiment to see whether a woman's taste is that greatly influenced by her monthly."

"Taste?!" , you cannot help but exclaim, surprised he was suggesting this. When he mentioned intimacy, you had assumed the regular type. Cock in cunt and all that. But it seems not. This man, who was almost cat-like in cleanliness, and hated dirtiness, was now acting as if it was nothing out of the ordinary to eat you out while on your period.

"Are you sure?" , you ask him , just to be clear he understood what a period really meant. "There's blood down there. Constantly, it doesn't come out only on the toilet."

"I know how menstruation works, my dear. And yes, I am sure. Now lie back and enjoy."

"We need more men like you. Maybe then, women would not need to rely on themselves for pleasure." , you finally say, slowly pulling down your drawers, and the rags stuffed inside. As expected, the thick pieces of cloth were already stained dark red, even if you had last changed them half an hour ago.

Holmes just looks at your undergarments curiously, while shrugging off his dressing gown, now left only in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. There was no disgust in his eyes, just the scientific calmness that he always showed when confronted with something interesting. You were half expecting some nose wrinkling, or maybe some wincing, but he was simply observing.

"Does it also hurt?" , he asks, his eyes betraying his worry. The beginning of your monthly always was the worst. He knew your first day was an absolute nightmare. You'd have the type of cramps that would keep you in bed all day, needing a hot water bottle and medication for the pain to be able to function. At one point, you had been in such severe pain, you had almost passed out.

So when he sees you shake your head in a negative response, Holmes relaxes. "You look more excited than anything." , he remarks, noticing how you were watching him.

"Well, I do have to admit, I am as curious as you to see if there is any difference. Enjoy your meal, I suppose. Bone a-pay-tits, or whatever it is they say in France before eating." , you tell him, your accent a bit lacking.

"Bon appétit." , Holmes corrects, his accent flawless. He loved any chance he got to flaunt his language skills, and to remind you he had French roots as well.

"Yes. That is what I said."

"No, your pronounciation was slightly off."

"Perhaps. But I do not think you're here for a French lesson." , you concede, spreading your legs a bit more to offer him better access.

"I could give you a language lesson as well, if you'd want me to." , he offers, mostly joking. (Or so you hoped.)

"No need to!" , you quickly insist. Now was not the time for pedantic lessons on how to roll your Rs in French, or whatever nonsense he would come up with.

You lean your head back on the pillows, getting ready to feel his mouth on you. First come the kisses on the inside of your thighs. Gentle brushes of his lips, that move towards your cunt.

It takes a few moments before his tongue begins slowly licking around your folds, like some sort of cleaner who took it upon himself to make sure you wouldn't stain the bedsheets. He was going upwards, aiming for your clit, but not yet paying particular attention to it.

"Hmm. Interesting. The taste is slightly metallic. Just like normal blood. A hint of bitterness. The taste lingers slightly on your tongue after the first lick quite a bit, I'd say." , you hear Holmes' voice speak, offering you a very clinical description of his first taste of your period blood and juices.

You cannot help but burst into loud laughter. Out of all things he could say, he had to launch into this. No dirty talking or flirting, no.

"Do you also want a small notebook to write down your results in?" , you ask, the teasing in your voice obvious.

"How you mock me... I was merely describing the taste for you. Satisfying your curiosity, if you will." , he responds in a muffled voice, not lifting his head yet.

"Sherlock, dearest. You make it sound as though you are writing some report.", you say, between giggles. "Or like those stuffy old men who taste wine and wiggle their glass around , claiming the action enhances the wine's taste." After a pause, you speak again, suddenly realising a very overlooked detail: "Wait. What do you mean it tastes like normal blood?! How do you know what that tastes like?!"

Your question receives no verbal answer, just a dismissive hum. Though you cannot be angry for long at his refusal to elaborate, because he begins to actually pay attention to your clit. The hidden treasure , as he referred to it. This man was sucking on it and running his tongue as if he intended to remove it from your body with his mouth alone. Whether this was to distract you from the blood question or not, you could not tell, and frankly, you also could not care less right now.

"Oh! Mmm...slow...slow down a bit...greedy man...", you pant out, not wanting to come too soon.

He lets out a grunt of acknowledgement, and obliges, but only for a few seconds, probably just to catch his breath. It's not long before he goes back to eagerly licking and sucking your swollen, pulsating bud. The only sounds in the room were your soft, needy whimpers, his occasional moan against your cunt, and the wet noises coming from between your legs.

One of yours hands goes down, gripping his hair hard to keep him in place. Your thighs join the effort, clamping around his head to make sure he would not pull away until you were completely satisfied.

Your bold act of restraint seemed to make the detective even more eager, if it was possible. He lets out a loud moan, his nose diving deeper into your folds, rubbing against you in a way that made your toes curl.

"Oh, my...", you breathe out, squirming against his nose, desperate to get more of that feeling. Your soft, thick thighs were squeezing his head like a sort of press at this point, you were sure of that, but it didn't look as if Holmes actually minded that. The bastard could probably die right now, and it would be with a smile on his face.

With a long whine, your legs rising off the bed, the tension in your lower body finally gives way to that all too familiar orgasmic bliss. If you had to describe it, it felt like the relief you feel after sneezing, though much more intense.

But the consulting detective was not done with you. He continued his feasting, trying to coax a second, consecutive pinnacle out of you. You were not entirely opposed to the idea, in spite of your current overstimulated state. Every sensation tenfold was felt tenfold, your whimpers growing needier and louder.

By now, you were sure your thighs were excellently fulfilling the role of a hydraulic press against his head.

You are brought back to the world of the living when you feel his hand snake around one of your thighs, and squeeze it. That was his sign he needed some air. With a pathetic-sounding whine, you take mercy on him, spreading your thighs so they weren't squashing his head anymore.

You look down at him, panting slightly, and the sight that greets you between your legs is one that makes you let out a wanton moan.

If anyone could see the great consulting detective now, they would swear this was not the same man who lived for logic and reason. Blackmailers would gladly give a limb in exchange for some sort of photograph of this scene. His enemies, for he had made many during his career, would likely enter into some sort of demonic pact , selling their souls and getting a first-class seat in Hell, all to see the famous Sherlock Holmes like this.

His face was red. Visibly so. Whether from the lack of oxygen or from the exertion, you could not say. But the lower part of his face was the most arousing thing in this picture. His mouth and nose were glistening with an oddly appealing mix of your juices and your blood. He flashes you an arrogant half-smile, and slowly licks his lips clean, not once looking away from you.

You stare at him, your chest still heaving, as he continues this obscene clean-up. He uses his fingers to wipe the rest of the incriminating evidence off his face where his tongue could not reach, and then licks his digits clean as well.

"Mm. Cannot let a single drop go to waste now, can we? It is a rare resource, after all." , he playfully replies. "But I am not done. You have not finished properly this second time, and I would be a very poor husband if I simply got off this bed now and ignored your needs."

You nod absentmindedly, still a bit distracted from watching him taste you off his fingers as if you were some fine delicacy.

He gives your thigh another squeeze, and moves to lie on his back next to you.

"Oh, you want me to..." , you ask, slowly crawling to straddle his hips.

Holmes' eyes widen when he sees you do that and he quickly shakes his head, his expression scandalised as if you had just proposed some absurd idea.

"No. Absolutely not. Not when I have a better idea." , he says, pointing to his face. "Oh, come on, don't look at me with that appalled expression. I know you want to. I know how fond you are of my nose. I have seen your lustful gazes, directed at it. My hawk-like nose, as Watson called it once."

"Tempting as it may be, I do not think it's a very good idea. What if I break your nose? I'm not light as a feather, really."

He shrugs at that, not worried at all. "I'd rather have my beautiful wife break my nose than some common ruffian. It'd be more enjoyable, for one."

You give him an unimpressed look. "You reckless man. I could suffocate you and you'd be happy to die this way. I'm not some stick-thin figure!" , you point to yourself, and the obvious softness of your body. You knew you had more meat on your bones than most ladies of society.

"Oh, I know you're not some fragile little thing, that's part of the appeal. And as I said. There's worse ways to die out there."

You shake your head. This man was incorrigible. Slowly moving to hover over his face, you grip the headboard of the bed for balance, looking down at him.

Holmes eagerly nods, looking positively excited when he sees how close your cunt was to his mouth. His grey eyes already had that familiar enthusiastic gleam of theirs.

"Alright then, just like a few minutes ago. You squeeze my thigh if you need air, yes?"

You slowly lower yourself over his face, wanting to make sure you wouldn't hurt him from the very beginning.

"All good?" , you ask.

A muffled "Mmmhmm" from underneath you acts as confirmation. Relieved, you slowly begin to move, letting his nose brush against your clit.

You grip the headboard for balance and begin to move in earnest, riding him, feeling how his aquiline nose rubbed you in the most tantalizing way.

Emboldened by the new position of power, you pick up the pace a bit, the only noise in the room being your sighs and soft moans.

CRACK.

The cracking noise is followed by a loud groan of pain from underneath you.

You slowly look down, as if to confirm that you were, in fact, not hearing things. No, it definitely came from Holmes. You quickly get off his face, pulling your drawers back on and making sure the rags were in place.

The man who had claimed five minutes ago that he'd die happily smothered by your thighs was now touching his nose, wincing in pain as the blood (his blood, this time) continued to flow onto his face. Holmes gently taps his nose, letting out another groan when he feels not only a sharp pain, but also hears a crunching noise.

"Oh, God. Is your nose alright?" , you ask, though it felt as a bit of a silly question in this particular context. His nose was obviously not alright.

The detective manages a nod, his face scrunched up in discomfort. Still, in the midst of what was certainly not at all a pleasant experience, he gives you a lopsided grin.

"Before you ask, yes, it was very much worth it, my dear girl. It should heal in a few weeks."

"You— stop smiling!! I broke your nose and left you with a very noticeable injury."

"I am sure it is not bad enough to attract too much attention. I've been hurt before on cases." , he counters.

"It's very much noticeable. What will you tell people if they ask what happened?!" , you ask him, your face still looking guilty.

Holmes shrugs, sauntering off the bed towards the mirror, to examine his nose. He was annoyingly cheerful in this moment, you could not help but notice. He was on the verge of jumping around the room in joy, and his eyes flashed with a smug pride, as if getting his nose broken when his wife sat on his face was some sort of medal he'd proudly get to show others.

"I suppose I'll tell them I... bit off, or rather, ate more than I could chew."

The only response he gets to his terrible wordplay is a pillow thrown in his direction.

[kldgo]

WELL HELLO YHERR DADA

[axyr1d1s]

"Third time's the charm" type of reblog 😭 BAHAH GLAD YOU LIKED IT THO

[axyr1d1s]

Eating more than one can chew

(ACD.Sherlock.Holmes × f!reader)

Summary: You are on your period: miserable, bloated, bleeding, the whole package. In spite of these impediments, however, your husband is very much down for some intimacy.

Tags: NSFW, Porn with a bit of plot, Reader is on her period, Period Sex, Blood, Cunnilingus, Face Sitting, Face Riding

Word count: 3.1k words

A/N: Softlaunching the concept of capital F Freak Holmes for an upcoming vampire fic. Big things coming...

Today had been an awful day, this was a fact that was not up for debate. You woke up in the morning, with an odd feeling in your lower body. Not quite a stomach ache, not quite period cramps. A discomfort, that was an apt description. You had been getting these false alarms for the past three days, so as you padded bare-footed to the bathroom, you already had an inkling of what you'd see this time. Your body, as treacherous as it may have been by making you go through this every month, was trying to alert you and spare you the humiliation of wearing pastel dresses on the wrong day.

Indeed, today there was blood. Odd, because your monthly was supposed to be here next week, according to your calculations... damned irregular cycles. But oh, well. One has to see the bright side of things. At least you had no cramps yet. Just some bloating, gas and a lot of blood. You could work with that. After all, it usually was worse on your first day, so you'd gladly take the hand dealt to you. Once the rags were firmly in place, you went back to your bed, ready to lounge around the whole day and do nothing. Period fatigue always got you, and for the next few days, you would have little to no energy or motivation for anything. But that was easier said than done. As if one could spend a day doing nothing when sharing a house with a man like Sherlock Holmes.

It was well past noon when he finally decided to leave his experiments and come and bother you instead. Holmes flops down on the bed next to you, with a loud, theatrical sigh. In a very unconvincing attempt that he was coincidentally in the room, like a cat pretending that it's curling into its owner's lap for no particular reason, the detective scoots closer to you on the mattress, leaning in for a kiss. The affection is welcomed by you with open arms. Your lips move gently against his, while one hand grips the front of his dressing gown, and the other supports your weight on the mattress. He breaks the kiss a few moments later, only to begin trailing his lips down your throat, to the hem of your nightgown. Of course this was what he was after when he entered your room.

"No, dearest. Not now. I'm not...how to put it? I am not in the state for such a thing today." , you say, giving him an apologetic expression as you gently move his hands away from your breasts.

At your words, Holmes lets out a huff and fixes you with a playful glare. "And why not?" , he asks , raising an eyebrow for extra dramatics. "You seemed eager enough with that kiss."

You meet his gaze, reaching out to mess up his hair. "I really do wish I could say yes, I want it as well, but as I said, I am not in the proper state—" , you begin weakly.

"You know I don't want you to shave or whatever you women are taught to do to please your husbands. I have hair as well. On my arms, on my legs, even there, why should I feel disgusted? And to soothe your nerves, I quite like the vegetation, so to call it. Keeps the secret treasure well hidden." , he responds, flashing you a smug smile and a wink.

You let out a surprised laugh at the comparison. How did he come up with these absurd metaphors? Fitting, you thought. The clit was like some sort of mythical, unachievable treasure to the majority of men. "No. It is not that, either. It's—"

"What is it, then?" , the detective asks, not even letting you finish your sentence. "Just be honest. I can take no for an answer, do not feel obliged to cave in just to not upset my feelings. Intimacy needs to be enjoyed by both me and you."

You take a deep breath, before finally broaching the topic. "My...monthly. I am currently going through it now. It's quite bloody, in spite of being the first day. And I do not think it is what you would like now."

Holmes lets out a simple "Oh." of understanding at that. He furrows his brows in thought, staring at your lower body, before looking up at you again.

"And?" , he asks after a few moments of contemplation.

"What do you mean "and?" ?!", you ask. "I am all bloody, and bloated. It's disgusting, and smelly..."

"It is natural, is it not? You go through this every month. I see no reason to treat it as some sort of anomaly. Is that the only reason you have?"

You nod slowly.

"Thought so. Well, I am a man of science. If nothing else, we can consider this an experiment to see whether a woman's taste is that greatly influenced by her monthly."

"Taste?!" , you cannot help but exclaim, surprised he was suggesting this. When he mentioned intimacy, you had assumed the regular type. Cock in cunt and all that. But it seems not. This man, who was almost cat-like in cleanliness, and hated dirtiness, was now acting as if it was nothing out of the ordinary to eat you out while on your period.

"Are you sure?" , you ask him , just to be clear he understood what a period really meant. "There's blood down there. Constantly, it doesn't come out only on the toilet."

"I know how menstruation works, my dear. And yes, I am sure. Now lie back and enjoy."

"We need more men like you. Maybe then, women would not need to rely on themselves for pleasure." , you finally say, slowly pulling down your drawers, and the rags stuffed inside. As expected, the thick pieces of cloth were already stained dark red, even if you had last changed them half an hour ago.

Holmes just looks at your undergarments curiously, while shrugging off his dressing gown, now left only in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. There was no disgust in his eyes, just the scientific calmness that he always showed when confronted with something interesting. You were half expecting some nose wrinkling, or maybe some wincing, but he was simply observing.

"Does it also hurt?" , he asks, his eyes betraying his worry. The beginning of your monthly always was the worst. He knew your first day was an absolute nightmare. You'd have the type of cramps that would keep you in bed all day, needing a hot water bottle and medication for the pain to be able to function. At one point, you had been in such severe pain, you had almost passed out.

So when he sees you shake your head in a negative response, Holmes relaxes. "You look more excited than anything." , he remarks, noticing how you were watching him.

"Well, I do have to admit, I am as curious as you to see if there is any difference. Enjoy your meal, I suppose. Bone a-pay-tits, or whatever it is they say in France before eating." , you tell him, your accent a bit lacking.

"Bon appétit." , Holmes corrects, his accent flawless. He loved any chance he got to flaunt his language skills, and to remind you he had French roots as well.

"Yes. That is what I said."

"No, your pronounciation was slightly off."

"Perhaps. But I do not think you're here for a French lesson." , you concede, spreading your legs a bit more to offer him better access.

"I could give you a language lesson as well, if you'd want me to." , he offers, mostly joking. (Or so you hoped.)

"No need to!" , you quickly insist. Now was not the time for pedantic lessons on how to roll your Rs in French, or whatever nonsense he would come up with.

You lean your head back on the pillows, getting ready to feel his mouth on you. First come the kisses on the inside of your thighs. Gentle brushes of his lips, that move towards your cunt.

It takes a few moments before his tongue begins slowly licking around your folds, like some sort of cleaner who took it upon himself to make sure you wouldn't stain the bedsheets. He was going upwards, aiming for your clit, but not yet paying particular attention to it.

"Hmm. Interesting. The taste is slightly metallic. Just like normal blood. A hint of bitterness. The taste lingers slightly on your tongue after the first lick quite a bit, I'd say." , you hear Holmes' voice speak, offering you a very clinical description of his first taste of your period blood and juices.

You cannot help but burst into loud laughter. Out of all things he could say, he had to launch into this. No dirty talking or flirting, no.

"Do you also want a small notebook to write down your results in?" , you ask, the teasing in your voice obvious.

"How you mock me... I was merely describing the taste for you. Satisfying your curiosity, if you will." , he responds in a muffled voice, not lifting his head yet.

"Sherlock, dearest. You make it sound as though you are writing some report.", you say, between giggles. "Or like those stuffy old men who taste wine and wiggle their glass around , claiming the action enhances the wine's taste." After a pause, you speak again, suddenly realising a very overlooked detail: "Wait. What do you mean it tastes like normal blood?! How do you know what that tastes like?!"

Your question receives no verbal answer, just a dismissive hum. Though you cannot be angry for long at his refusal to elaborate, because he begins to actually pay attention to your clit. The hidden treasure , as he referred to it. This man was sucking on it and running his tongue as if he intended to remove it from your body with his mouth alone. Whether this was to distract you from the blood question or not, you could not tell, and frankly, you also could not care less right now.

"Oh! Mmm...slow...slow down a bit...greedy man...", you pant out, not wanting to come too soon.

He lets out a grunt of acknowledgement, and obliges, but only for a few seconds, probably just to catch his breath. It's not long before he goes back to eagerly licking and sucking your swollen, pulsating bud. The only sounds in the room were your soft, needy whimpers, his occasional moan against your cunt, and the wet noises coming from between your legs.

One of yours hands goes down, gripping his hair hard to keep him in place. Your thighs join the effort, clamping around his head to make sure he would not pull away until you were completely satisfied.

Your bold act of restraint seemed to make the detective even more eager, if it was possible. He lets out a loud moan, his nose diving deeper into your folds, rubbing against you in a way that made your toes curl.

"Oh, my...", you breathe out, squirming against his nose, desperate to get more of that feeling. Your soft, thick thighs were squeezing his head like a sort of press at this point, you were sure of that, but it didn't look as if Holmes actually minded that. The bastard could probably die right now, and it would be with a smile on his face.

With a long whine, your legs rising off the bed, the tension in your lower body finally gives way to that all too familiar orgasmic bliss. If you had to describe it, it felt like the relief you feel after sneezing, though much more intense.

But the consulting detective was not done with you. He continued his feasting, trying to coax a second, consecutive pinnacle out of you. You were not entirely opposed to the idea, in spite of your current overstimulated state. Every sensation tenfold was felt tenfold, your whimpers growing needier and louder.

By now, you were sure your thighs were excellently fulfilling the role of a hydraulic press against his head.

You are brought back to the world of the living when you feel his hand snake around one of your thighs, and squeeze it. That was his sign he needed some air. With a pathetic-sounding whine, you take mercy on him, spreading your thighs so they weren't squashing his head anymore.

You look down at him, panting slightly, and the sight that greets you between your legs is one that makes you let out a wanton moan.

If anyone could see the great consulting detective now, they would swear this was not the same man who lived for logic and reason. Blackmailers would gladly give a limb in exchange for some sort of photograph of this scene. His enemies, for he had made many during his career, would likely enter into some sort of demonic pact , selling their souls and getting a first-class seat in Hell, all to see the famous Sherlock Holmes like this.

His face was red. Visibly so. Whether from the lack of oxygen or from the exertion, you could not say. But the lower part of his face was the most arousing thing in this picture. His mouth and nose were glistening with an oddly appealing mix of your juices and your blood. He flashes you an arrogant half-smile, and slowly licks his lips clean, not once looking away from you.

You stare at him, your chest still heaving, as he continues this obscene clean-up. He uses his fingers to wipe the rest of the incriminating evidence off his face where his tongue could not reach, and then licks his digits clean as well.

"Mm. Cannot let a single drop go to waste now, can we? It is a rare resource, after all." , he playfully replies. "But I am not done. You have not finished properly this second time, and I would be a very poor husband if I simply got off this bed now and ignored your needs."

You nod absentmindedly, still a bit distracted from watching him taste you off his fingers as if you were some fine delicacy.

He gives your thigh another squeeze, and moves to lie on his back next to you.

"Oh, you want me to..." , you ask, slowly crawling to straddle his hips.

Holmes' eyes widen when he sees you do that and he quickly shakes his head, his expression scandalised as if you had just proposed some absurd idea.

"No. Absolutely not. Not when I have a better idea." , he says, pointing to his face. "Oh, come on, don't look at me with that appalled expression. I know you want to. I know how fond you are of my nose. I have seen your lustful gazes, directed at it. My hawk-like nose, as Watson called it once."

"Tempting as it may be, I do not think it's a very good idea. What if I break your nose? I'm not light as a feather, really."

He shrugs at that, not worried at all. "I'd rather have my beautiful wife break my nose than some common ruffian. It'd be more enjoyable, for one."

You give him an unimpressed look. "You reckless man. I could suffocate you and you'd be happy to die this way. I'm not some stick-thin figure!" , you point to yourself, and the obvious softness of your body. You knew you had more meat on your bones than most ladies of society.

"Oh, I know you're not some fragile little thing, that's part of the appeal. And as I said. There's worse ways to die out there."

You shake your head. This man was incorrigible. Slowly moving to hover over his face, you grip the headboard of the bed for balance, looking down at him.

Holmes eagerly nods, looking positively excited when he sees how close your cunt was to his mouth. His grey eyes already had that familiar enthusiastic gleam of theirs.

"Alright then, just like a few minutes ago. You squeeze my thigh if you need air, yes?"

You slowly lower yourself over his face, wanting to make sure you wouldn't hurt him from the very beginning.

"All good?" , you ask.

A muffled "Mmmhmm" from underneath you acts as confirmation. Relieved, you slowly begin to move, letting his nose brush against your clit.

You grip the headboard for balance and begin to move in earnest, riding him, feeling how his aquiline nose rubbed you in the most tantalizing way.

Emboldened by the new position of power, you pick up the pace a bit, the only noise in the room being your sighs and soft moans.

CRACK.

The cracking noise is followed by a loud groan of pain from underneath you.

You slowly look down, as if to confirm that you were, in fact, not hearing things. No, it definitely came from Holmes. You quickly get off his face, pulling your drawers back on and making sure the rags were in place.

The man who had claimed five minutes ago that he'd die happily smothered by your thighs was now touching his nose, wincing in pain as the blood (his blood, this time) continued to flow onto his face. Holmes gently taps his nose, letting out another groan when he feels not only a sharp pain, but also hears a crunching noise.

"Oh, God. Is your nose alright?" , you ask, though it felt as a bit of a silly question in this particular context. His nose was obviously not alright.

The detective manages a nod, his face scrunched up in discomfort. Still, in the midst of what was certainly not at all a pleasant experience, he gives you a lopsided grin.

"Before you ask, yes, it was very much worth it, my dear girl. It should heal in a few weeks."

"You— stop smiling!! I broke your nose and left you with a very noticeable injury."

"I am sure it is not bad enough to attract too much attention. I've been hurt before on cases." , he counters.

"It's very much noticeable. What will you tell people if they ask what happened?!" , you ask him, your face still looking guilty.

Holmes shrugs, sauntering off the bed towards the mirror, to examine his nose. He was annoyingly cheerful in this moment, you could not help but notice. He was on the verge of jumping around the room in joy, and his eyes flashed with a smug pride, as if getting his nose broken when his wife sat on his face was some sort of medal he'd proudly get to show others.

"I suppose I'll tell them I... bit off, or rather, ate more than I could chew."

The only response he gets to his terrible wordplay is a pillow thrown in his direction.

[axyr1d1s]

Overbearing, but well-meaning

(ACD.Sherlock.Holmes × pregnant!f.reader)

Summary: Ever since you became pregnant, your husband has turned into the most caring, doting father-to-be, always ready to make your life easier. Much to your annoyance.

Tags: Fluff, SFW, Holmes' childhood is mentioned a bit, Age Difference, Older Man/Younger Woman, wife guy Holmes

Word count: 2.3k words

A/N: I need to write some girl dad Holmes next. I see the potential.

When Sherlock Holmes had his mind set on something, he would achieve that goal. Inevitably. No matter how. He just was that type of man. Anyone who had met the detective could confirm it. But heaven knows you had moments when you wished he was a little less ambitious, and less prone to becoming an expert in a field in a matter of days.

Ever since you found out you were with child, Holmes had become unbearable. You knew he had the purest of intentions , and that he was simply trying to take care of you, but he was insufferable. That was the right word for it, really. Timing the number of minutes you kept the window open for, so you won't catch a cold. Insisting you have a varied diet, for the baby's sake. Making sure you weren't overexerting yourself by running errands.

221B's sitting room now had piles of brochures and books on parenthood and pregnancy lying around, in between his scientific texts. He had devoured them in an attempt to understand your new condition better and to help you accomodate it. Once again, a most noble cause, but you were sure he had no reason to become a neurotic mess for the next months. You wouldn't go into premature labour just because you went for a long walk.

Right now, you were on the settee, watching with a scrunched up face as he (yet again) closed the windows. It was raining, and he could not risk his wife catching a cold. He had already made you wear his dressing gown to keep warm , but it seems bundling you up in his robe and blankets was not enough. To add salt to injury, the smell of rain just happened to be one of your favourite scents. And he was depriving you of it. Such a cruel man. But fine. Two can play this game. With a pointed glare, you grab a pickled herring from the plate in front of you, and slather a generous amount of onions on top of it. Slowly done, so he could see the whole process. You raise the fish towards him, in a mock toast, and then eat it. There. Let's see if he'll get his kisses now. He closes the window, you'll make sure any affection comes with fish and onion breath as a package deal. You were going by the age-old lex talionis. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Or in your case, an inconvience for an incovenience.

Holmes said nothing. He just raised an eyebrow, gave you an amused smile, and took his place on the settee, next to you. Sometimes you wondered if the famous pregnancy hormones everyone talks of had, in some way, managed to make him clingy as well.

"My darling girl, stop glaring like that at me. It is for your own good. Your immune system is working hard to keep you and the little one safe, we cannot risk anything.", he begins his usual speech, with an apologetic look in his grey eyes.

"Can't you open them when I'm out of here, at least? Go and open the bedroom windows while I am not present, so I can have the smell of rain." , you grumble, wanting things to go your way.

"The air might—"

"I don't give a damn about the air. I am sure pregnant women before me have survived far worse. Some of them actually work or help around the house. And they gave birth to healthy babies! Do you think every woman out there has my luck to stay at home?"

"You do have a point, dearest, but—"

"I want fresh air now, not during those specific hours you scheduled for me in your head." , you interrupt him again.

He sighs, and gives you an exasperated look. "You drive a hard bargain, dearest. But I suppose a happy wife also means a happy child. Would you like some gherkins when I return to your side?"

Your eyes widen and light up. Oh, curse him. He knew exactly how to make you forgive him. Exploiting your love for pickles, so shamelessly...

"Oh! Yes!" , you exclaim, before continuing, in a more uninterested tone: "Do bring me a jar." , an obvious attempt of trying to keep up the act of being mad at your husband. Your eyes follow him as he stands up to go on his mission. Nobody would ever believe you if you told them that the great detective had become your unofficial errand boy. Craving something at night? He was up to get it for you in a few minutes. All you had to do was pretend you were going to get up and he would immediately hover over you, and insist he can get your desired item himself.

By the time he returns with the pickle jar and a fork, you had taken off the blanket, now only in his dressing gown and your nightshirt underneath. The usual outfit you wore around the house these days. Your lovely dresses had to be abandoned in a dark corner of the closet, unfortunately. Oh, and how pretty they were... the latest fashion, done by the best dressmakers in London. But enough lamenting. Your husband could get you some new ones. Instead, you turn your focus back to your beloved pickles.

"Hmm. Thank you, dear." You take the jar from him, and begin to impale the little cucumbers with your fork , humming in pleasure at the first bite. They were the crunchy type. Not too sour, not too sweet, either. In one word, perfect.

"Clearly takes after you." , you say, in between bites. "The baby, I mean. Always kicking me , never being still. Restless, like their father."

Holmes smiles in agreement, and moves his palm onto your very large bump, to feel for himself any future kicks. Sure enough, he does not have to wait long for the child to kick. The detective's face lights up in pure joy. He always got excited when he felt movement.

You watch as he leans down , his face at the same level as your stomach, to speak to the child. He liked doing this every day, claiming it would be beneficial to the baby to have them hear their parents' voice while in the womb. You weren't entirely sure if they were able to understand Holmes' monologues, but who knew? With a father as extraordinary as him, it might have not been so unlikely.

"Hello, little one. Your mother has told me to stop calling you our "little detective". Apparently , she does not approve of me already picking out your future career. In fact, she is currently glaring at me to make sure I behave myself and don't say anything silly." He continues after a pause: "Still giving your mother a hard time with those kicks, hmm? You should let her rest." , he leans his head down, pressing a few kisses through your nightshirt.

You smile at him, watching with a fond expression as the scourge of London's criminal world was now resting his cheek against his pregnant wife's belly, to feel the baby move. Driven by a sudden impulse, you move one hand down to mess his dark strands. Holmes lets out an irritated huff when you reach out to tousle his hair.

"You'll be an excellent father, by the way. I'm sure of it. I might make fun of you all day, but I mean it." , you tell him, knowing this was one of his greatest fears. You had a suspicion it was also why he acted so doting to you.

He looks up at you. "You really think so? I don't want to be an excellent father. Just a good one. At the very least, a father who is present in his child's life." His brows furrowed a bit at the last sentence.

"Nonsense. You shall be nothing short of excellent."

"I doubt it, darling girl. But I will try." , Holmes replies, a self-deprecating smile curling on his lips.

"Sherlock. Listen to me. You won't follow in your father's footsteps when it comes to this. You are already doing much more than he did for your mother. I find it hard to believe that your father was the one who personally brought her water and pickles, and whatever else I want."

"...You will tell me if I start acting like him, won't you?" , he asks, in a quiet tone. He was obviously scared of repeating the same mistakes his father made when it came to raising Sherlock. The elder Mr. Holmes had never been a cruel man. He had never abused his sons in any way, and he had been generous with them. But he had seldom been there for his two boys while they grew up. Always at work, or at some sort of social event. He'd miss their birthdays, and just send some grand gift as an apology, thinking that this could fix things. Sherlock still remembered to this day how excited he had been on his twelfth birthday, when his father promised him he'd be there. Instead, a day before the date, Mr. Holmes had to leave on an urgent business trip to London. He sent his youngest son a state-of-the-art chemistry set instead, to make him forgive his absence. While it was exactly the gift he wanted, a part of him would have gladly traded it for a day with his entire family.

You nod. "Of course I will. You have my word. I know you have a tendency to get absorbed by your work, but I will not let it get to that point. If you miss our child's birthday or any such event, 'l'll march over to whatever crime scene you're at and drag you myself by the coat back home."

Holmes' shoulders relax in relief. "Thank you." , is all he replies with. He then goes silent for a long time, just resting his forehead against your bump. "You're still feeling alright, yes?" , he finally asks.

"Yes, yes. I'm fine. A bit thirsty, but— no, stay where you are. I can get the decanter myself." , you cut him off, waddling towards the table in the corner of the room.

After a few glasses of water, you take your spot on the settee again, with a sigh. "I feel bloated now." , you complain, staring at the fireplace as if it was the one responsible for your misfortune.

"That's what happens when you drink too much water at once, dearest." , he replies.

"No , it's not! I just get easily bloated , because of my pregnancy."

"Poor you...having to go through all this. Bloating. Funny walking. Your old dresses not fitting you properly. Odd cravings..."

"There is nothing odd about my tastes!" , you quickly respond, feeling offended by his words.

"My dear, half your diet consists of pickled everything: cucumbers, cabbage, bell peppers, carrots, you name it. The other half is made up of sweets."

"Pickled vegetables are a very respectable meal! They are a staple in many areas of the world! It is not my fault that the English cuisine does not really accomodate for such delicacies."

"You do have a point there. But you cannot deny the other things I mentioned." Holmes said , shaking his head in a show of dramatic frustration. "Truly unfair that you must suffer so to carry a child."

"Oh, trust me. I'm aware of how unfair it is... you get no such symptoms. You just dumped your load inside me and left me to suffer." You can swear his face turns slightly pink at your very vulgar statement.

"If there was a way to make sure our roles were reversed, I'd accept it." , the detective said with a shrug.

"How very gracious of yo— wait. What do you mean? Accept...what? Carrying the child?!" , you ask, not knowing whether to be horrified or amused at the mental image of him pregnant with your child. You glance down at his stomach, as if to make sure he was still alright.

"If it'd make my wife happy..." , Holmes replied with a smirk.

You pat his cheek, an overly sweet smile on your face. "Well, I would certainly love to see you suffer through nine months of carrying a child, yes! But alas." You pause and notice how he's smirking at you. "I hate you. Especially all your ridiculous statements. And ridiculous faces! You clown of a man. Stop smirking at me. ...Such an insufferable creature... why on Earth did I choose to procreate with you?" You cross your arms over your chest to really sell the "annoyed wife" act, and resume the goal of finishing your pickle jar.

Two pickles later, you finally give him your attention again, deciding that the time-out was over. "Come here." , you hold out your arms so he'd join you on the settee. He doesn't need to be told twice, in a few minutes, he's already wrapped you in his embrace.

"I have some grapes ready for later. Went to the market myself to get them for you."

You laugh at the thought of some poor fruit vendor, having to endure Holmes' scrutinizing gaze as he searches for the perfect grapes to bring home to his wife. "You did? Thank you."

"I even cut them in half myself to remove the pits. I know my darling wife dislikes pits inside."

"You removed the pits...Oh, how I love you!" , you loudly exclaim, pressing kiss after kiss on his face. Your pregnancy, it seems, was turning you into a very emotional and clingy mess. One moment, you were about to repeatedly smack him with one of Mrs. Hudson's frying pans, the next, you were pressing your lips all over him, thanking him for making sure your grapes were pitless.

Mood swings, bloating, cravings...You really hoped this whole affair would be worth the trouble, in the end.

[axyr1d1s]

Masterlist

Table of contents:

Fandoms:

Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes:

One-shots:

Sisterly Intervention

The Language of Flowers

A Welcome Distraction (NSFW)

Overbearing, but well-meaning

Eating more than one can chew (NSFW)

Multichapter fics:

In Love There is Fear and Bravery:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

[kldgo]

MIDNIGHT PUB

MODERN.ACD.SHERLOCK / CONSTABLE.READER

SUMMARY , “You flirt with the handsome, strange man that strode over to your booth. Your drunk little mind forgot he's, in fact, your boss.”

CONTENT WARNINGS, Modern Au, Older Man/Younger Woman, Senior/Junior Relationship (Scotland Yard), Penetrative Sex, Doggy.

-> artist credit (Sherlock) is by @/katabay! (my goat)

THE OVERHEAD lights alighted the room with a warm, honeyed glow.

Holmes had been drinking by himself in the pub. Fedora tipped low over his eyes, the black coat on his shoulders draped him in the corner like shadow personified. His look alone deterred hellions. Men with unthinking fists that swiped the air, gloating their vanity with mouths putrid of drunk breaths. A drink is what he needed, not to compromise with some moron’s fragile ego, and proving them wrong by slamming whiskey bottles into their skulls

The others were occupied—Watson was naturally with Mary and Lestrade while he spent a few hours in the celebration, also, naturally left home to his wife. It sounds lonely, but isn’t, really. Not when his grey eyes, smoldering and sharp, were shooting across tables and more, simply for the soundbite he’s been hearing all night—enticed him, to be frank—a pleased feminine little giggle that were several booths down.

There, chatter uproared of mostly young women—constable women. Junior class, it seemed. Clocked out early for a celebration. You were the center of the crowd. An imaginary spotlight shone on your person as you stood in the middle seat, slightly tipsy, he observed, fueled by sherry sluggishly gesturing and yammering away with a half filled cup.

It wasn’t entirely one-sided.

You had noticed his gaze several times, meeting his eyes over their heads. The first time you bit your lip when he crossed his legs. The second time you stuck your tongue when he didn’t respond. And the third time, perhaps you were even more inebriated than usual fueling unusual boldness, that you winked, mouthing incoherent words he knew were not appropriate for a constable to allude to.

At some point, you held up a fist, brought it up to your mouth, and swiped it back and forth, puffing one side of your cheek several times—a crude indication of your want, or perhaps, jest. When your deliberate provocation did just that, drawing a smile out of his lips, you became flustered and ducked your head.

It was you, he remembered, the junior constable. Newly promoted to fieldwork. It was only now that he was able to perceive you more evidently. At the yard, you were barely noticeable, always tripping over your boots, and in most cases, always clutching bundles and stacks of paper in your arms that would eventually trip you three steps down the stairs.

He wondered if you recognized him. He was sure not as much given how you barely recognized Detective Inspector Lestrade when he strode by. You yelled to everyone to open the door for the DI, since his, to quote, ‘old knees might not hold him up to it’.

You were never without a superior chewing your head off for simple faults such as keying in suspect’s name incorrectly. For all his precise routine-lined modus operandi, and in effect would be displeased by such bungling behavior, you were strangely endearing, clumsy in a way that he found skittish creatures to be.

And perhaps, he was also strange himself, even a slight bit tipsy, that he made his way over with a bottle of water. By then, the crowd had dispersed, off to the bar for more drinks, the toilet to retch, or outside where they continued their festivity with a smoke.

You were alone in the booth. Absolutely out of it, cheek smushed against your forearm on the table. Your head lolled here and there, as you grinned at nothing in particular, muttering under your breath. His stride hastened when a man, clearly not constable and friend, approached the table with a dubious smile.

“She has company, I’m afraid,” Holmes emerged, towering behind him.

“Yeah? Says who?” He whirled around, puffing his muscular chest.

His pride faltered visibly when it dawned upon the man that he was, in fact, eye-to-eye with another man’s waist coat. Had to tipped his head back enough to fully regard Sherlock’s eyes

“Sherlock Holmes,” Holmes simply smiled, “you needn’t worry about her being alone. Her company is spoken for.”

“Holmes, as in that funny bloke on twitter?”

“An associate of Scotland Yard, to be exact.”

“And what’s that gonna do?” He barked a laugh, “Wet my knickers?”

“No,” He said cordially, “but it’ll find you a bed in an agreeable cell if you keep that act along. So run along, now. Unless, you have decided for a ‘funny’ little deduction, instead.”

“Keep up the clown play, mate. No way you’re bringing up that card trying to hook up with a pretty face. Doesn’t work on me, and probably doesn’t work on her,” He tried to shoulder past but Holmes grabbed his arm.

“Do not be so hasty, my dear man,” He said cordially, “It’s free consultation for the likes of you.”

“Like I said—” He tried twisting away from Holmes’ vice grip, “—I ain’t interested.”

“Oh, you don’t have to be even I can bring forth several deductions aplenty already.”

The man grew impatient, face turning a flush of red, “Mate, look—”

“Starting with the tanned band on your right finger, for one,” Sherlock went on, “But a ring is missing, suggesting a wife, perhaps divorced?”

The man jerked away in surprise, and spat out, “What are you a bloody PI? Wife hired ya?”

“Yes to the first,” Holmes said smoothly, “No the other two.”

“How else would you know!—”

“I do,” He went on calmly, “unfortunately know too much about people. Plenty. It’s my trade to do so. Such as the knowledge that you are currently on, what was that, hold for a restraining order?”

That did it.

The man turned florid, sputtering with anger and, then—“Oh, piss off you fugwat!” With that he stomped away, drawing curious looks from nearby tables, cursing under his breath.

Hellions. Holmes thought, dryly. Absolute hellions. He returned his gaze to table where you perked up at the commotion, head tilted, like a confused, startled rabbit. And, adorably so. With how he emerged, looming in his black coat and fedora, you must’ve assumed—with three cups of sherry induced reasoning—he was some deity ready to take your soul to the grave.

That wasn’t the case, apparently. He was a little surprised when he noticed your eyes scanned him from the top and bottom, pupils dilated, your pretty lips parted slightly. It was clear by your expression what you were thinking. Who is this strange, strange man at your doorstep and why is he so handsome?

Heat coiled low in his belly. Loins, if you looked close enough. It shouldn’t have—you were his junior constable after all, it’s not proper. Unfortunately for him, improper things sought him out most days.

“Woah—hellouhh,” You say coherently, in an attempt to be seductive, probably to emphasize your cleavage by leaning forward, chin your hands, arms pushing against you breasts—

But all that did was skid you forward, elbow sliding across the incredibly smooth table. He caught both your arms in time that pretty face wud land smack on the table top.

“Quite.” He said, gently pushing you back to sit upright.

“Thanks.” You blinked slowly, “Wanted to do something—don’t remember what.”

“I’m sure you’ll remember it in time.”

“Who’s that man?” A wobbly finger pointed somewhere over his head, “He’s loud and mean. Not you though. Not you. You—you’re not loud or mean. You’re quiet and… handso—handy, I mean handy, when people are mean.”

“He is someone currently of no consequence,” He replied, sliding into the seat beside you, “A hellion. A nuisance to society. It is better we ignore them.”

You didn’t move away. He’s pressed against you, shoulder to shoulder. Noses inches away from one another. He raised his eyebrows, looked at you from your nose to your hands clasped on your lap—to perhaps bring the sitting arrangement to the fore. You followed his eyes, Still, you didn’t make a move. Bemused, neither did he and regarded you as you regarded him.

“But he’s mean.” Your brows were furrowed like you’re thinking real hard, and in that moment again, he wondered if you recognized his face.

“He is.” He said quietly.

“But you said to ignore him.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“He’s a nuisance.”

“But…” To your tipsy reasoning, it didn’t make plenty sense, “…he’s mean.”

Junior constable of Scotland Yard, apparently.

“Precisely why, my dear girl.” He mused.

“How strange…” You sighed, an endearingly whole lot of breaths for someone so cheerful moments ago and laid your cheek on his shoulder, “mean….” Your cheek was warm, soft against the rough wool of his coat.

“Here,” He had forgotten about the water bottle he brought and patted around for it in his coat pocket. He felt the familiar bulge of the bottle, and pulled it out, “have some water. Your throat is sore.”

You blinked owlish and slow, then your eyes flickered up without moving your head, “How’d you know, mister?”

“About?” He twisted the cap with a crunch and handed it over.

Your eyes did a sweep, indirectly appraising, down from his arms to his hands. Your eyes particularly remained a second too long on his fingers.You licked your lips, they were already crusting and painful, and took the bottle, “My sore throat.”

“You have been swallowing more than normal, have you not?”

“…I think so.”

“Well, there you go,” He gestured.“That is the answer.”

“And you can guess that just from swallowing?”

He tilted his head, smiling, “I can guess a number of things from simply sitting.”

A pregnant pause. You looked at him, “Can you guess something right now?”

“What would you like me to guess?”

“How much fingers I’m holding up.”

“You aren’t raising any.” He looked down to your hands, which were holding the bottle earnestly.

“Mentally, I am.” You said.

“Alright,” He conceded, arranging the tails of his coat around him more neatly. He usually doesn’t humor anyone regarding his abilities, thought they wasted his time.

“If you insist,” He said, “Keep that number in your head. Don’t let it go. Not even a slip.”

Your brows turned down, and you nodded determinedly, gripping the bottle like it was a precious clam.

“if I have to guess,” He thought for a moment or two, his eyes searching your face, then he smiled—the sort that says he’s landed on the tarmac with a perfectly done twist.

“Five,” He said.

Your eyes widened, those soft lips he’d been staring at all night parted wider—enough he caught a glimpse of the tip of your tongue, “You’re a wizard.” You breathed, in awe.

“Please,” He laughed, waving you away with a hand “ it is all theatrics. I only assume the best.”

“It’shnot.” You frowned, “It’s…like magic.”

“Why don’t you see it this way?” He leaned against the seat and brought you along with him with a soft ‘oof’. He laid a hand on your head. Your hair was soft under his fingers. Very soft.

“When I explain the mechanics of how I reached my judgment,” He continued, a finger twirling your hair, “the admiration will falter, i assure you. It is after all very simple. So simple that if anyone in this world used enough common sense—they’ll be on the same level as me. Unfortunately for many, humans are so very easy to distract.”

“No, no, no” You sluggishly turn to him fully, as if your head was bigger than your body, the water sloshed over the rim, “That’s good enough, you know. People in this world—they don’t think enough. They don’t see what they don’t wanna see.”

“And do you see what you want to see,” He mused, his hand found your face and he squeezed the soft, round swell of your cheek, “or is it the fact otherwise?”

“I dunno,” You shrugged, the effort of it made your entire body wobble, “maybe I do maybe I don’t,” You took a sip of the bottle, a playful smile stretching wide on your lips, “all I know is that a handsome man several booths over had been making eyes at me since he came in.”

“You’ve been counting.” He said, his callouseds hands, warm and large, drifting down your neck. Trailing goosebumps in its wake. They were warm. Large. Large enough to span over your throat.

You poked his chest, “But you don’t deny it.”

“Of course I can’t. Not when i have already been observing things that are of my interest.” His larger fingers slid through your own, clasping his palm against yours, “But I’m curious. And, I hope you won’t mind me asking—which did you mean by that little gesture?”

You cocked your head, “Which one?”

“Your hand on your mouth and it goes back and forth—”

Your eyes brightened and you repeated the gesture, fist to your cheek, back and forth, “Oh, this one?”

“Yes,” His cheeks flushed, he wasn’t sure why, but the gesture alone somewhat lewd, “that.”

“Blow job.” You said conversationally.

He shouldn’t be surprised. His brows jumped for a moment and he cleared his throat, composing himself, “I see.”

“It means I want to suck you off.” You went on, “It means I want to—”

He held up a hand. “I perfectly get your meaning.”

You weren’t deterred.

“ I’ve observed something myself, as well.” You said, “That you’re a detective.”You thought hard for a moment, “It would be a shame if you aren’t ‘cause we really need handsome detective these days.”

He broke into a laugh, a warm rumbling sound that shook his shoulders from the top-down, “I see.” He said again because he had nothing else.

“So, am I right ‘tective handso?”You leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper, though your whisper was about three booths heard.

“While I can’t confirm or deny, I am curious how you made that connection.”

Your soft, warm cheek bumped his own, closer until your lips were against his ear. You then said, lowly, your sherry breath stirring heat low in his abdomen, “Because, If I was a client, then I’d only want someone this handsome to solve my case.”

“That’s terrible business,” He nudged his nose against yours.

“But efficient.”

“It would be so if you are able to handle it.”

“I can,” You pulled back, your eyes bright, “I can handle anything. Even if my….souvenirs are a little,” You looked him up and down, “say, vintage.”

Holmes smiled.

.

AS A CABBIE West Burnon had seen enough of society to know two things: one, don’t be bloody nosy; two, you’ll be bloody nosy yourself if you’re nosy. So, when the two folks hauled into his cab, gave him an address, and started slobbering their tongues all over each other, he immediately found the new headphones his daughter bought him interesting.

“Tech junkies…” He muttered, and used it—what choice did he have?

In the back, you were a warm weight on his lap, thighs bracketing his hips, “You don’t seem very drunk.” You said against his lips. He could taste your breath—sweet sherry, a hint of chocolate and the salty taste of a person’s mouth who spoke too much.

He couldn’t respond because you were leaning in again, kissing him, plunging your tongue deep into his throat. He could only hum in his chest, his hands feeling up your spine through your clothes, taking a breath as he pulled away.

“Then,” He panted, pressing his nose against your throat, “you’re not very good at reading people.”

“I am, actually.” You giggled, the sound vibrating against his nose.

“Enlighten me,” He pressed a kiss against your soft throat, and another against the underside of your jaw where you whined at the contact.

You narrowed your eyes, thinking, so very hardly. “I can read that you’re very much rock-hard, right now.”

He was, achingly so. It didn’t help you were ensconced snugly on it, your plush pelvis rubbing against his erection.

“Anything,” He breathed, “perhaps, less crude?”

You grinned, gave his boner one more rub, “Horny?”

Perhaps he shouldn’t bother trying.

.

HE PRESSED you against the wall just as he led you into the flat. The living room was dark, illuminated by the moonlight through the parting curtains.

So engrossed with the soft taste of your mouth, he shut the door with the heel of his oxfords. The lock turned with a click and you both stumbled backwards into whatever room was nearest. The living room, where the armchairs were, where his clients would intrude and present their quandaries.

His tongue plunged inside your mouth. You moaned softly as it slid against yours, taste buds grainy and so slick laving your teeth. He tasted like salt burn whiskey and cigarettes. It mingled with your sherry breath; you tasted sweeter..

For an old fellow, who struck you as a man of genteel essence, you’re surprised he’s quite adroit with the use of his tongue. He devoured you, swallowing every whimper you made, breaths against breaths, teeth against flesh. And his hands, too—those large, veiny hands with clear visible knuckles, wrapped around one swell of your ass. He squeezed.

“Oh!” You broke away for a breath and he dove in, lips latching onto your neck, not quite pleased by the lack of touch. His body thrummed with heat, with the need of staying close, even if clothes were a barrier.

“Is that a good sort of ‘oh’ or should I be concerned?” He said against your throat, peppering kisses that sent tingles of electricity to your toes.

“Don’t know,” You slurred, fisting the back of his coat, relishing in the visual of tearing it off his shoulders, “you tell me.”

“Can’t you deduce it for yourself?” He smiled, his other hand cupping your jaw and tipping your head back.”

“Can’t think right now when all I want is your cock in my ass.”

He raised his eyebrow, “Quite a dramatic proposal, don’t you think.”

“Cock in my ass, and then we go on for five hours. Is that dramatic yet?”

He rubbed your cheek with his thumb, “Too little to be considered so,” He bent down and captured your lips, “Make it all night, darling,” He groaned when your palms felt up his thighs to squeeze his erection, “I’ll keep you up—all night.”

“I’m an insomniac, anyways.”

“Good.”

He backed you up to the couch, stumbling along the way. He was sure he knocked some books over, but he’s in too over his head to care about mere organization. That’ll be trouble for another day.

The back of your thighs hit the cushion. His lips were still on yours as he shrugged off his coat and kicked off his oxfords. He wanted to curl inside your throat and live in your body like a mole on grass plains. When he was already in his dresshirt, you felt up his biceps and chest, squeezing the muscles, anything just for the touch of his body. He was warm, so snugly so, and you could imagine the days forward when it wasn’t just sex but comfort—on the bed, and cradled in his arms with his chin in the crown of your head as he spoke to you. Those gentle grey eyes crinkling as he smiled.

The visual quickly disappeared when you felt his clothed erection, so formed under the fabric of his trousers, rub against your pelvis. It nestled perfectly between your thighs, hotdog on two slices of bread. You moaned, fisting the shirt just above his hip and pulled him down. The sugar can wait. Right now, you need something a little more raw than bamboo in your throat. Holmes humped against you for a moment, rocking his hips back and forth, each thrust sending waves of pleasure throughout your body. He groaned and panted, murmuring sweet nothings in your ear until you slowly spread your thighs wider to accommodate him.

And in the middle of unbuttoning his vest with one hand you struggled with the zipper on your trousers with the other. You whined in his mouth when it wouldn’t go down, stuck midway.

“Impatient girl,” He mused against your mouth.

He gently pushed away your hands and pinched the tab himself, slowly tugging it down. Cracks of your panties were seen with each descend and he felt his loins burned at the simple sight of your belly.

“Fuck me through my panties,” You said desperately, hips humping upwards, but he held you down with his hands on your waists, “Can’t take it anymore.” You whined, thighs trembling from the sheer want of being stuffed full.

He could tell. There was a damp spot blooming across your panties, dark and so slick from arousal. Oh, god. His cock stirred underneath his boxers at the sight. If he were to to have this view everyday—every night, every morning, every time he came home to work—then god bless his soul he’d do anything, perhaps even give up the seven percent cocaine shots for the warmth of your walls.

Alas, he is a gentleman, and those men are gentle.

“It is not jagged enough to do that.” He said conversationally, palming your folds through the fabric and your head threw back at the sensation of slick cotton against your clit. You’re trembling from the heat, sweating, skin burning from the amount of energy balled up in your veins. You need release. You need a chute to spool every bit of arousal out.

“I need you to fuck me,” You cried out, “and then fuck again me, and when you’r done—fuck me again until I’m stupid.”

Every bit of your words spurred his cock on. He was sure there’s a patch in his boxers the size of England. And with every slide of his head against the fabric, he trembled from the sensitivity. He restrained himself from humping his boxers like a dog. Then again, he should’ve restrained himself from the get go. You were his subordinate, his junior, the clumsy fool who trips over boots and mistyped generic names.

“Turn over.” He strained.

And you did, rolling into your stomach, your rump held high in offering.

“Where, you say?” He laid one palm on your buttocks, squeezing it.

“Ass.” You wiggled those hips.

“Granted,” He gave it a little pat.

He shucked your trousers just enough over your ass, baring your panty-curved rump, the hemline digging into your cheeks. There was a damp spot where your folds lay and the musky scent of your arousal made him lick his lips. He wanted to bury his face in that, inhale you, and never leave. A gun would have to be held point to get him off.

“But not ass in a way, you know,” You rambled on as he hooked a finger over the waist band, “if ass, it’s too long. You gotta use lube and I don’t have time, it’s stupid. Saliva sucks because it stinks—and it’s also unsanitary—”

“I see,” He murmured when the underwater bunched below the curve of your buttocks, your bare cheeks on display, the hidden spoils behind those mounds.

“Doggy, doggy style,” You went on, “me riding you from below—”

“Just that?” He fumbled with his belt, struggling to peel it off—but he was a man of action, not the armchair thinker, and swiftly it pooled on the rug.

“That and only that,” You babbled, “raw, super raw and—”

With both hands, he hiked your hips up until you were flushed against his crotch. Felt the wet head of his cock prodding the cleft of your cheeks.

“Also,” His voice was low against your ear, “granted.”

And then he stretched you open, sliding through your folds slick wet and swollen with arousal.

“Oh, god,” You moaned, “Yes, fuck. Keep going.”

“I wasn’t going to stop, my dear girl.” He groaned, and once he was hilted, fully inside, he started fucking you into the cushions.

His hips bounced off your buttocks with every thrust, rippling the flesh and he relished in the sight of it yielding underneath his body. He punched every moan out of those pretty lips, made sure all there was to your babbles were his name wrenched out.

“Doing so well,” He groaned as the head of his cock nudged against the corners of your walls, “You’re doing so well for me.”

“Always,” You panted, “Just give me more and I’ll always be good.”

“So obedient aren’t you, my constable?” His hand snaked up from your hip to your throat , tilting you cheek just so he could kiss the underside of your jaw.

“Anything,” You whined.

He suckled the skin as he rocked against your ass, feeling the vibration of your babbles against his lips. You smelled lovely. Like cakes and cream. Like sweat on a summer morning. He held you down with one hand on your lower back, driving in ruthlessly from behind.

The slap of his skin against yours, the wet squelches of his cock buried in your ass, echoed off the ceilings. If he were the neighbors below, it wouldn’t be difficult to guess what one’s colleagues were doing with how the head of the sofa tapped against the wall. He shifted the angle to the side and you trembled, crying out as he rubbed that sensitive notch so ruthlessly.

“That’s it, that’s it…oh,” He groaned, pressed his nose into your hair, pushing you up the sofa with his thrusts, “Oh, god that’s lovely. So…lovely.l

You could feel it in your toes. The orgasm building up so high in your belly, a furled ball of spring ready to burst. And he was almost there as well. His hands shook where it braced against the cushions, his murmurings became babbles, uttering about this nonense and that.

“Fuck me again when you come,” You were at the peak of it, almost tipping over.

“Darling,” He chuckled, though he trembled slightly when you clenched down, “With my age I am not quite sure if i can withstand another round.”

“Then I’ll suck you off,” You slammed your ass back into his cock when he was “Nice and simple. I’ll play with your balls, suck on those too, and I’ll fuck myself on you and suck on your nose.”

That made him groan even louder. He was so close that, he felt, if he came he was sure his testicles would implode and he’d have to explain to Watson why he’s maimed precisely there.

“You,” He panted, his brows furrowed as he felt the wave coming—his thrusts were now erratic, and he was just an old man fucking for release, “You’re one adamant young lady.”

“I know what I want.” You looked over your shoulder, “And I want you to come inside me.”

And then it all came down. You cried out as your orgasm gripped your uterus like a fist, sending you into fits of trembles, eyes rolling back into your skull. He came a while after, spilling his come into your womb in pathetic little squire. Your shakes were still vigorous, thighs spasming. When it was all over, when you tagged against the cushioned, vaguely aware of him catching his breath behind you, you said, “Again.”

And he laughed.

.

YOU WERE late to the office. Oh, god. Perfect for a first impression to the DI of all liaison. After the little fuck-fest you were having at some old man’s flat, you slipped away from his bed. That guy—what was his name? You couldn’t remember. He was still unconscious under the covers. You toed in your flats, shrugged on your clothes with desperate hops, and quickly scribbled in your number on a piece of paper. You pinned it on the table with his fedora on top and quickly made your way down.

There was no time to head back to your flat so you head to the shower room at Scotland Yard, using the spare uniform you kept in your locker—supposedly only for emergencies, and perhaps this counts as too. When you were done, prim and proper in your uniform, your cap tucked low on your head, you marched to Lestrade’s office.

He was leaning against his desk. Behind were the glass windows, blinds pulled low, with sunlight creeping in. He was in the middle of a conversation with another man. Low tones, amused, a voice that was strangely familiar.

“…Why her specifically…” He exasperated, “she’s clumsy, Holmes…can’t imagine you’d—”

“I have my reasons, Lestrade.” he

“You always do and they end up on the bloody news.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled when it lifted to regard you.

And there, as you stepped through the doorway you caught sight of the man. Your gut dropped to the floor. You’d be rolling around, tangled with your intestines if you weren’t so steady.

He lounged in the sofa, legs crossed, arms thrown over the headrest. A pipe was clenched in his mouth, drooping languidly on the corner. Smoke curled from the end, wafting around the room in a thin sheen of mist. He had his fedora slanted to one side, covering his other eye. And the one that was seen. That grey one gleamed under the light, amused, twinkling within the manner of a Cheshire Cat.

You didn’t fuck just any old man. You fucked your boss. The consulting detective—your superior at Scotland Yard. And gathering from his expression, you knew it wasn’t just a one night thing he was planning on.

You stood there, agape.

“Sherlock Holmes,” He simply said, “I hope you’ve had a pleasant evening.”

[axyr1d1s]

THIS IS NOT A DRILL, KIGO HAS POSTED SHERLOCK SMUT ‼️‼️‼️‼️ SHERLOCK FUCKERS OUR MEAL IS SERVED

[yorikae]

okay tumblr is not letting me send anymore asks so i’d like to dedicate a post to some of my fav blogs rn!!!

— ☆ put this star in the inbox of your favorite blogs. it’s time to spread positivity ! 💫

@chuuren ❤︎ @satomiu @oksukuna ❤︎@satofuu ❤︎ @purrtoru ❤︎@lilithkleia ❤︎ @yoonsucks ❤︎ @hotties4gojo ❤︎ @shiupilled ❤︎@keistriction ❤︎ @meowharaga ❤︎ @hangenism ❤︎ @icreamcake ❤︎@kamoblvd ❤︎ @briarfaerie ❤︎ @slutla ❤︎ @chososprettygirl ❤︎ @chosayi ❤︎ @macbethinchains ❤︎ @valberryboos ❤︎ @suganoms ❤︎ @jiyuspassion ❤︎ @tokryo ❤︎ @cursedkisss ❤︎ @ouist ❤︎ @oporotheca ❤︎ @opalwyn ❤︎ @amortoru ❤︎ @kldgo ❤︎ @lolalied ❤︎ @jazzthatonewriterchick ❤︎

FICS I ENJOYED! 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯

pregnancy fluff w sukuna! by @siennayaps

insane for your love by @laylathegoddesss

choose a struggle! by @sozila

murder your grace by @seoyue

doctors orders by @manonism

satoru’s got a crush! by @satomiu

football player sukuna! by @smuxx52

husband!satoru by @chosayi

skincare w fratkuna by @suganoms

chat..am i the asshole? @v3is

poor!puppy by @yoonsucks

back to me by @oksukuna

goodbye will hurt me by @icreamcake

midnight blues by @kldgo

+++ sm more!!

ALSO @louistxq has great reqs!!! if you’re looking

THERE ARE GREAT AUTHORS EVERYWHERE!!! you must be open minded and look past the “big blogs” trust there are beautiful niche writer around every corner!!!

you can find more under my tags!!

[kldgo]

going to add my favorite authors, too!! Very underrated🥹❤️

@axyr1d1s -> all her Sherlock fics

Keep feeding me ma’am and thank you. Hope you get your hawk-nosed British guy who smokes fifty packs of cigarettes per hour

@antholoji ‘s -> Guilty as sin?

Luzzy fuzzy wuzzy. Hot so hot!! I’m melting just reading this. Love the character dynamics. So well written omg. Favorite and I am waiting so patiently for the next update.

@stellarixe ‘s -> Higuruma Masterlist

I come to her higuruma masterlist from time to time when I need my dose of Higuruma cutesies🥹❤️

@shiupilled’s -> cutest thing I’ve read all day

Writing style is just wow. I’m not a shiu girly but all their works are lowkey converting me

@fallentology’s -> After The Verdict

So well written I think I die bit by bit reading this!! Lord!! Have mercy on me!! Being fed well as a Higuruma girly

@santhiquee’s -> Wrapped In Silk

No words. Pure peak.

@erereiluvrr’s -> Bartender’s Regular

I cannot believe this fic has so little traction. So well written and GODDD. The banter is so so cute 😭higuruma, girl, stop embarrassing yourself

@caramelluxe’s -> This Nanami Fic That’s Hurting Me To The Bone

MY HISBAND 🥹❤️😭😭😭

[axyr1d1s]

Thank you so much for the mention Kigo!!!! 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻 ＼(^-^)／ <333

[axyr1d1s]

In Love There is Fear and Bravery

(ACD.Sherlock.Holmes × noblewoman!reader)

Summary: The daughter of one of the most influential men in the kingdom runs away before she can be forced into an arranged marriage. What will happen when she meets a knight who offers her a way out of this prison?

Tags: Medieval AU, Multichapter, Slow Burn, Age Difference (Older Man/Younger Woman), Angst

Wordcount: 3.8k words

A/N: you can tell i've been playing too much KCD lately. Also whoever gets the book I am referencing with the murder plot, I love you. You have great tastes.

Chapter 1: the worth of a knight's word

The silence of the forest was suddenly broken by a noise that Sherlock Holmes recognised all too well: a branch snapping. Judging by how loud the snap was, he was not about to face an animal, but a human. He discreetly checked his boot, making sure his dagger was still there. Just a precautionary measure in case he was unable to reach his sword on time. Though there should be no reason to get too worried, really. It was probably some bandit who had noticed his camp, and was looking for an easy way to earn some gold. The woods out here were rife with such characters, after all. Good-for-nothing miscreants, attacking trading convoys or passing nobles.

“Show yourself.”, Holmes said in a tone that lacked any fear. He was not afraid of a fight. One measly bandit was nothing compared to the other foes he had faced. The knight tilted his head slightly to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of his adversary. Another snap, this one closer, followed a moment after. Clever fellow, this one, didn’t immediately charge to attack. Maybe there were bandits out there who actually had more brains than brawn. Just when Holmes was about to think he was dealing with a coward , a figure emerged from the bushes. And now, he could finally see who had disturbed his rest.

In front of him was no bandit. It was something far more surprising. A young woman, wearing an old, brownish kirtle over a rather dirty smock. A peasant girl, Holmes concluded, judging by her attire. And yet… that seemed unlikely.  Her step was entirely too bold for a peasant. No lowborn person, no matter how defiant, would dare to look around his camp as if it was her property. This young lady was obviously used to being shown respect, and had forgotten that she no longer was dressed like a knight’s superior. He raised an eyebrow, waiting for the intruder to speak.

Meanwhile, your eyes widened when you were met with the sight of a…knight? No, perhaps he was not even a knight. Not all men in armour are knights. What if he was some bandit leader, who’d try and attempt something untoward? It was a terrible idea to approach a stranger, you knew that much, but you had been wandering these parts for about two days now, and you needed some sustenance. The water from the streams in the vicinity could not fill one up forever.

“Pardon me, my… milord”, you began, trying to mimic the tone of a peasant as accurately as possible, “how far to the capital?”.

Your words only amused the knight, who let out a huff. Oh, it was clear to him now. She was some runaway noble. That little slip of hers, the hesitation before using an appropriate title was too obvious.

“A few hours by horse.”, Holmes answered, “though I suppose your Ladyship wishes to eat something now, if the way you are eyeing my rations means anything?”

He called you "Your Ladyship". He knew. The bastard had seen right through your disguise. A knight who isn't just some sword-waving git. How revolutionary. “Milord, there is no need to treat a humble peasant such as myself with this respect! I am not of noble blood!”, you say, keeping up the act.

“I fear there is no peasant in front of me, but a lady.” , he replies, giving you a bow. Considering  that smug smile, he was obviously mocking you with the bow. How rude. If you were still on your father's estate, you'd teach him a thing or two about how to address a lord's daughter.

You scoff, and look around , making sure nobody could overhear this conversation. “And pray tell, what makes you think I am a lady, and not a peasant, out looking for…mushrooms, in the forest?” , you ask, casting a quick glance around the trees, hoping mushrooms existed here. There were a few near the tree behind him, thankfully.

“Mushroom picking, with no basket on you? That is a rather…strange thing to do, would you not say so? Where would you keep your mushrooms? You will walk with them home, in your hands?”

You cursed your foolish tongue for even lying about mushrooms in the first place. This man was sharp, you had to admit it. "Did anything ever escape him?" , you wondered.

“You are perceptive. Yes, I am a noblewoman by birth. What next? Shall you tie me to that tree, and hold me captive, until my father pays you in gold for my release? After all, a lord’s daughter is worth quite the sum, and I know you would love to get your grubby hands on such a ransom. ...Or so I heard.” , you add the last sentence, in a slightly more subservient tone. Maybe you should be less snarky towards a man who was obviously armed, and could overpower you with ease. Nice hostages (if you got to such a stage) would get more privileges, you figured.

At your response, the knight let out a loud laugh. “I have no interest in restraining ladies to receive a ransom. Though, I must ask: what made you run away from your lovely little castle, hmm? To abandon the warmth and comfort for, well, the unwelcoming and cold wilderness? You cannot be the adventurous type, since I see you have nothing else on you. No cloak, no satchel, so obviously, this is not some planned escapade. Do tell me, for I am all ears.”

You pursed your lips slightly in contemplation. Lying seemed to be impossible with this man. You supposed he could be trusted with a short version of the story.

“What would make a noblewoman run away, if not a potential arranged union to some dreadful bore of a man. Lord Roylott, I believe his name was. I could not see myself tied to him for life, even if Father surely wished for me to secure an alliance with the neighbouring lord. So, two nights ago, during His Lordship's welcoming banquet, I feigned an illness. I snuck into the servants’ quarters, while my father was busy entertaining our guest, and got this dress. Kept my head low when passing by any noble, like any servant with self-preservation would do, and got out of the accursed place. Never realised until now how little attention the ladies and lords pay to their staff. They didn’t even cast one glance in my direction.”

Holmes hummed in thought, finding your story very amusing, to say the least. A runaway noble’s daughter, fleeing before she could reach the altar. “Lord Roylott, you say? Oh, I heard of him. He had two wives before you. Young and pretty things. I met the first at one of the King's feasts. Such a beauty. Shame they both passed away so early, really. Now, I cannot know with certainty, but some suspect foul play from your lordling. Rumour has it he poisoned them to get their dowry.”

Your eyes widened at that news. Your father had never told you such a thing. “Really?!” , you ask, unable to believe how fortunate you were. You could have been victim number three, and you would be none the wiser.

The knight's expression morphed into a grin. He shook his head, stifling a laugh. “No. I was merely jesting with you, my Lady. I have never met the man, nor can I vouch for his character.”

Your worry gives way to displeasure. How dare he lie to you, and scare you. “You were what?! How… how insolent! You rapscallion! If we were on my father’s land, I’d have you sent to the pillory for this crude jest! On the grounds of attempting to…cause panic among honest people! Spreading lies! Defamation of a noble's character, too!” , you declared, your annoyance at the knight now tangible, as you waved your arms around in a show of frustration.

“The pillory? I doubt your father’d do that, My Lady. In fact, I daresay, your father would receive me as his most honoured guest, if he knew who I was.”

You huff in amusement. He was too full of himself. Who did he think he was? The king? Not a chance, you knew the king was some old man who barely walked. The king did have a son, though… but it was unlikely a prince would be travelling all alone. You glance over at the knight, taking in his appearance, in the hopes that he might be familiar. Perhaps you had met him at some point, and he was one of your father’s hunting companions?  His armour was polished and in excellent condition. And he had a full set ,too, an indication of wealth. No crest to suggest he was a member of the royal guard, or anything connected to the ruling family, however. The sword lying next to his foot was of fine craftsmanship, the hilt being decorated with engravings of some sort of vines. A beautiful longsword, well-sharpened and clean. You look at his shield next. That would give you an indication of who he was, if you still remembered your heraldry lessons well.

His shield had in the top part the usual steel helm a knight would have. A bascinet resembling the one he had on him. Under the helm, his crest appeared to be a hawk, holding a sword under its talons. Fitting choice, you think, as you take in the man’s appearance, considering his nose did look a bit hawk-like from the side. Maybe he had chosen this animal himself. In that case, he certainly had a sense of humour.

“You are a knight?” , you ask, wanting to know more about him. He should take the bait, most knights were the boastful type. You were already preparing to hear him launch into an embellished account of his adventures.

Holmes nods at that. You could swear he puffed his chest a bit too. “Yes, I am no bandit or robber knight, I assure you. A humble knight, who travels the land as he pleases, solving all sorts of disputes and other matters along the way.” , he replies, his tone anything but humble. “Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps you have heard of me.” He bows his head , in a rather dramatic fashion.

You sit up a bit straighter when the name registers in your mind. This was him?! Of course you had heard of him. This was the knight who had helped the royal family solve a conflict involving stolen manuscripts from the royal library. The same knight who had fought countless bandits, and who has an uncanny gift of knowing exactly what one thinks, and their whole story, with just one glance! The one who had allegedly infiltrated the neighbouring king's retinue to gather information, and had declined a duchy as a reward for his act of bravery.

“I have heard of you, yes. But what are you doing here, in this forest?” , you say simply, not showing any sort of interest in him. Fawning over him was just what he wanted. And you would not offer him such a satisfaction.

Holmes' mouth twitched a bit when he saw your unimpressed state. But he continued, just as cheerful as before: “Oh, I was resting, having returned from a most fascinating journey to the northern lands. Please, do sit down! I shall try my best to host a lady such as yourself.” , he said while offering you some dried meat and a slice of bread, which you accepted with a quick nod. Normally, the sight of dried meat would not be an appetizing one, but your stomach hurt too bad to let you decline the offer. After a bite, you concluded it did not taste as bad as you imagined.

He smiled at the very unladylike sight of you stuffing your mouth with food, and continued, pacing back and forth as he spoke. He definitely liked having an audience to hear his tales.

“It really was an interesting mystery, and I say this in the most unbiased way possible. I found myself at a monastery, where a monk was found dead, at the bottom of one of the abbey’s towers. The abbot suspected un-brotherly intentions among his men. As it turns out, there was no murderous monk with a passion for defenestration running loose. Just a poor fellow who had thrown himself out of the window, driven to despair by a poison he ingested. But he was not the only one who died because of the poison, no. A few other monks were also found dead, shortly after. Which of course, called for my presence. Now, my Lady, how do you think these men had been poisoned?”

You jump a bit, not having expected to be asked to offer your own input. Making you think while eating. Such a cruel man, couldn’t he just let you be? Most knights you interacted with would drone on and on without wanting interactions from their listeners. You swallow your bread, winning a few more seconds to come up with a theory, and reply hesitantly: “…Their food..?”

Holmes chuckled and shook his head.

“No, no. that would be too simple. It was something far more ingenious.” , he corrected, his eyes gleaming with excitement.  “The poison was…on the pages of a book. So, the more the monks read, the more poison they would ingest. You know how some people lick their fingers when turning a page? Mm, that was how he operated, yes. The culprit, the head of the abbey's library, had done it in an attempt to stop his subordinates from reading what he called “forbidden knowledge”. Truly something I have never seen before. And a monk, to be the one to murder his fellow men of the cloth like this! ”

“Forbidden knowledge?” , you ask. “Were they attempting…witchcraft?”.

“Oh, no, quite the opposite. No evidence of any magic rituals going on in the area. The book in question was a work by… Aristotle, if my memory serves me right. Far from a Satanic scripture. But to our murderer, any knowledge from the pagan thinkers was seen as heresy.”

You hum in thought. “Strange viewpoint. The ancients are usually revered by those who seek knowledge. Monks as well should appreciate their wisdom, I suppose. After all, are we not dwarfs who stand on the shoulders of the ancient giants?”. You had remembered that phrase from one of your tutors back at the castle, and it had stuck with you, simply because of the ridiculous image it painted in your head.

The reply makes Holmes raise an eyebrow, and his mouth curls up into a very impressed smile. You were obviously well-educated, if you knew of that metaphor.

“And yet you tried to pass as a peasant girl. You are far too knowledgeable to be able to succeed. We shall have to come up with a new story for you on the way to the capital.”

“We? Do I sense a slip of the tongue? Oh, do not tell me you wish to join me now, sir knight?”

“Obviously, yes. I cannot leave a lady to travel on her own. I’d have you on my conscience, and we cannot have her Ladyship be found on the edge of some muddy road, slain by a thief, now, can we?” , Holmes replied, standing up. He began to gather his belongings, packing them and putting them on the horse’s saddle. “Up. You’ll be on the horse for now, I’ll walk next to you.”

You raise an eyebrow, looking between him and the horse. You could see him offering you help. You reluctantly take his hand in yours and accept his assistance. The first thing you noticed was his hands were scarred. The cuts and burns he had provided an interesting contrast against his pale skin. His palms, oddly enough, were more delicate than those of the other knights you had met. Sometimes, you would share a dance with them at banquets, and you would notice when you held hands that their palms were coarse, like sandpaper. Holmes’ were not at all like that. They felt pleasant to the touch. Cold , but not unpleasantly so.

You manage to get onto the horse without any trouble, your mind still thinking of his hand in yours, and the gentle, yet firm way he had gripped it. You glance down at your own palm, wiggling and curling your fingers, as if this motion would be able to bring back the sensation.

“Letting me on your horse, bold move, sir knight. What if I now spur your horse and run away , leaving you horseless and supplyless?”

Holmes hummed. “Let us think of it. Would you really do that, my Lady? You are bold enough to do it, certainly. But, you are also intelligent enough to know how suspicious the sight of a peasant girl , with a horse that does not belong to her, could be to the guards at the city gate. Would they not assume you stole the horse from a knight, when the poor sod was distracted? Since you cannot show any signet ring or document to prove the horse was willingly given to you, what proof do you have that the horse was wilfully offered?”

“…I suppose I would not, when you put things this way.”, you say, annoyed he was taking your joke literally. And also annoyed that he had instantly dismantled what sounded like a perfectly reasonable plan.

“Mm. They’d have you accused of theft immediately. And do you know what they do to horse thieves, my Lady?”

You furrow your brows, trying to come up with an answer. “No, not exactly. Something that befits the severe nature of the misdeed, I suppose. Cutting off my hand, maybe?” , you offer. Not a pleasing thought, if you were honest.

“Even worse, my Lady. Quartering. They’ll tie your limbs to four horses, and…well, I suppose you can understand what happens next. They’ll pull the horses in four different directions, which will lead to…” , Holmes trailed off, gesticulating with his hands in a way that made any fool understand what he was getting to.

“All that, for stealing a horse?! Surely it is too much!” , you protest, your face very much horrified now.

“Oh, no, no, my Lady. Horse theft is a very serious offence for His Majesty’s guards.”

“They’d…tie me to horses and dismember me.” , you mumble to yourself, looking down at your limbs, as if to make sure they were still on you.

Upon seeing your face, Holmes bursts into loud laughter. You were too gullible.

“Why are you… oh, you fiend! You deceived me! Again! I despise you! Silly old fool!”

After a few more moments, the knight finally calmed down. He nodded. “Yes, I did tell falsehoods. Again. I’m afraid horse thieves either get their arms cut off, or are simply sent to the gallows. No grand show of being dragged around the square before being dismembered.”

You scoff, irritated that this man, this knight , was mocking you so freely. “What a relief that is, indeed.” Your eyes widen and you desperately shake your head when you see Holmes preparing to startle the horse. You knew what would happen if he touched the poor thing too roughly. The animal would gallop away in a rush, and you would likely fall off.

“Rest assured, my Lady. I do not plan to break any of your bones.” , he says, retreating his hand. Of course he was joking again.

“You scoundrel. Your jokes are not amusing at all! Taking advantage of one’s gullibility is not how to make a good joke.”

“My sincerest apology, my Lady, in that case. You must excuse this old knight and his antics.”

You give him a side-eyed glare as he begins to lead the horse out of the woods, onto the main road. "You are forgiven. For now."

After a brief silence, you ask: “What will you do once we reach the capital? I do hope you are not planning to alert my father of my whereabouts.”

“Why? Afraid your fiancé will come and find you?”

You purse your lips in displeasure. “Lord Roylott is not my fiancé yet. We were supposed to have the engagement announced on the night when I ran away. Or at least, I think so. My father was surely plotting something with that man.”

“Mm.”, Holmes hummed, before continuing: “Then, I am afraid your options are limited. Either, you join a convent to ward off any man forever, or you marry whatever man your father has picked for your Ladyship. And forgive me, my Lady, for the assumption I am about to make, but you do not strike me as someone who is overly pious. So, I’d say it shall be the latter.”

“Lovely. Simply lovely. “

“Until then, I might have a solution. If you are willing to listen to it.”

You raise an eyebrow. If it was coming from Sherlock Holmes, it had to be a good plan. So, you nod, signalling you were ready to listen.

He begins. “I have a good friend in the capital. I could ask him and his wife to let you stay with them for a period of time. Nobody would suspect you are there, and even if someone spots you, I suppose we could say you are her lady’s maid. At least in name, she won’t ask you to perform any chores.”

You hum in thought. This idea did not sound…entirely bad, you had to admit. It was one way to delay the inevitable, and a much better plan than joining a convent.

“Let us suppose I agree. What then?” , you ask, waiting for the other shoe to drop. This all sounded too good to be true, after all.

“Ahh, I see it in your eyes. You do not fully trust my plan. You have my word that my offer has no other strings attached.”

"The word of a man who has constantly tricked me with his terrible jokes until now. What worth does it have?"

Holmes shakes his head, and gives you a genuine smile. “I truly mean it this time, my lady. I have no intention to deceive. See my offer as a way to repent for my foolish behaviour. So, do we have an agreement?”

You stare at his extended hand, and nod slowly, reaching to shake hands. But of course the bastard loved keeping you on your toes. Instead of the shake you expected, Holmes lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. With one last, faint squeeze, he lets your hand go. The unexpected contact made your face grow a bit warmer. But instead of smacking him across the face for the insolence (the normal reaction another man would receive), you found yourself smiling at him.

“Well then. Tell me more about this friend of yours. We have a long journey ahead, after all.”

[axyr1d1s]

A welcome distraction

(ACD.Sherlock.Holmes × female!reader)

Summary: What should have stayed as banter between you and your husband ends up turning into a much more intimate moment inside the train compartment.

Tags: Smut, NSFW, Bit of build-up for the smut, Age Difference (Older Man/Younger Woman), Semi-Public Sex, Praise Kink (f!receiving), Vaginal Sex, Reader is in her late twenties, Clitoral Stimulation, Orgasms

Word count: 4.3k words.

A/N: all of my problems would be solved if i had acd sherlock calling me his darling girl. I said what I said.

Travelling by train had always been an utterly boring affair, in your honest opinion. There was none of that swaying you have when on a boat, no gentle rock of the waves. No rhythm of cobblestone underneath you, and the sounds of the bustling city streets, as would be expected in a carriage. Just the constant noise of the train's engine, while speeding through the country. And maybe, if you had any luck when it came to those travelling with you, some time to sleep or read. That is, if they weren't the noisy, chatting types. But otherwise? Not much else you could do, was there?

You glance at your companion for this journey. At the moment, Sherlock Holmes was keeping himself occupied with the morning paper, letting out the occasional huff or interjection whenever something caught his interest. It was a sort of dialect only understood by a select few persons in his life, yourself included. A 'hmmph' whenever something irritated him. 'Mm' when he read something amusing. Not to be confused with 'mmm' , which signaled he agreed with whatever the article said. And of course, the classic 'hullo' when he'd stumble upon something of particular interest.

You decide to break the silence, unable to just sit and listen to Holmes humming and hmmphing for the next hours. You cough once, to draw his attention. Nothing from him. You cough again, and clear your throat. Rather loudly, at that. Now this noise makes the detective lower his paper, to be able to see you over the page. He raises an eyebrow at you. His grey eyes had an irritated, yet intrigued look, making it clear that your interruption had not been a welcome one, but considering your special status as his wife, he was willing to indulge you and listen, instead of replying with some cutting remark.

"This case we're seeing. Why on Earth did you bring me, of all people?" , you ask, a trace of irritation in your voice.

Holmes folds his newspaper carefully and places it next to him, on the seat. He gives you an amused smile, knowing precisely what the cause of your displeasure was. Even the most bumbling constable at Scotland Yard could tell you were in this foul mood because he had woken you up at four in the morning, to join him on a case. Breakfast had been a rushed affair, just a piece of toast and a half-finished cup of tea. Hungry and tired, the perfect combination to turn your usually cheerful and whimsical self into a cranky creature who snapped at the most minor incovenience.

"Not much of a morning person, are you?" , Holmes asks in a teasing tone.

You scoff, and shake your head. "No, it is not that." After he gives you a skeptical look, obviously not buying your lie, you continue: "Well, yes, I am a bit tired , but not excessively so. ...Alright, fine! It is mainly that! But, I am also curious why you thought it was appropriate to take someone like myself as your companion for this case. And not someone more experienced. Like Watson!"

"Ah. Well, the answer is simple. I thought we could be shooting two birds with one stone, as they say. I'd solve this case quickly, for it is a matter of hours to find out who the real culprit is, and then, we could spend the rest of this weekend together. I know you often complain I pay more attention to cases than to you, and I decided some country air might do you good."

You narrow your eyes at him, not believing him for a second. "Country air doing me good, he says. Hah! I feel quite well, thank you very much. Though I appreciate your worries over my health. Good to know you care about it. One question still remains, though: I have never seen you take a break from your work unless absolutely necessary. There is an ulterior reason for our country escapade, is there not?"

"Ulterior reason? My dear, you are far too suspicious. When have I ever given you reasons not to trust me?"

"Hmm, let me think. That case which you claimed was just a jewelry theft gone wrong, and yet, you ended up in the hospital, severely injured." You stop, holding up one finger to count off the examples.

At the first example, Holmes' mouth opens, ready to intervene with some charming remark meant to distract you from the real problem. Usually, he'd get a bit flirty or show you something to turn your short-lived attention span away from the pressing matter. But you continue speaking before he could say anything. You were not done, and you would not let yourself fall into his traps.

"Two months ago, when you said you'd be back by dinner time, and instead , came back at three in the morning, so well-disguised I almost shot my own husband, thinking you were a thief attempting to break into my bedroom." You lift the second finger after mentioning this. You pause for a moment, lips slightly pursed, racking your brains for another example.

"Oh, oh! Of course. How could I forget the most recent one yet?! Five days ago. When your little experiment turned the bathtub into some foul-smelling pigsty of a mess. It still stinks whenever I use the tub for too long, by the way. And it is a very strong smell. But you know that already." A third finger is lifted.

By the time you could lift your fourth finger to get to the fourth example (you had plenty more to list) , Holmes interrupts you, his previous smugness fading. He awkwardly laughs, and begins his defense. It was clear he did not expect you to have so many examples. And all of them so pertinent.

"Well, you see, dearest, I..." , he starts off in a sweet tone, but decides halfway through to actually apologise for once and try to make amends. Your glare clearly required a change of tactics. He sighs, and begins again.

"That is the reason for my holiday. I have seen how upset this all makes you. My job, my regular absence from home. Of course it is not easy for you. And so, I have decided to offer you a few days alone, just the two of us, as a sort of apology. I assure you, I will take on no cases for the next three days. You will be the only case I focus on."

You raise an eyebrow, surprised he was finally apologising. The idea of being all alone with him was not entirely unappealing. Quite the opposite, if you thought about it. But you had to be firm, still. Who knew what trick he had up his sleeve now? Maybe this was still part of the distraction.

"I see then. I suppose I can accept these ulterior motives, if you really are trying to offer an apology vacation." , you respond, pleased to hear it was this and not some new investigation that had caused his decision. Though the suspicion was still lingering in your mind.

Holmes' shoulders visibly relax in relief when you decide to accept his olive branch. The idea of having his wife upset at him was almost unbearable to the man. He knew he would sooner eat glass than have you ignore him for an entire day, or, worst of all, banish him to the guest bedroom. The latter had happened exactly one time, and it had been a devastating blow to his ego. A few months into your marriage, you had been so upset that he failed to show up to the dinner you had planned, that when he came home from the case well after midnight, you refused to even acknowledge his presence with a wave, and had promptly exiled him upstairs, to Watson's former bedroom.

You, meanwhile, decided to take his silent moment of recollection as your cue to turn your attention elsewhere, and stare outside the window at the passing scenery. Fields of green, all spreading for as much as your eyes could take. A few houses were scattered around the greenery. They were painting a rather idyllic landscape, you thought. Maybe the English countryside wasn't such a bad place to live. Well, if you could also have the occasional trips to the city. Country life would get boring otherwise. And someone to help out with the household. Perhaps it was an idea to keep in mind in case your husband ever wanted to retire. You already knew you wanted some place near the seaside, that was non-negotiable.

Though it turns out that even admiring nature and planning the future were not enough to keep you busy for long. With a stretch, you decided that it was the right time to turn to your favourite past time: annoying the man in front of you and demanding his attention.

Without saying anything, you flop down next to the detective, and peer over his shoulder at the papers he was glancing over. The details of the case he was currently looking into. Holmes gives you an amused side-eye , feeling you were up to something, and only moves one arm to wrap it around your waist and pull you closer, so you could now rest your head against his shoulder. The hand currently holding on to your middle was absent-mindedly tracing small circles onto the fabric of your dress.

"You know, I still do not believe you." , you finally break the silence.

Holmes turns his head to see your face better. You continue:

"I know you. Somehow, even if you are on holiday, a mystery will always make its way towards you, and you shall not refuse it. You could be on a remote island, in the middle of the ocean, and you would still stumble upon a dead body or some disappearance case. Stuck in an isolated cabin in the mountains, three thousands meters above sea level, and there would still be a murderer loose in your proximity."

"You make me sound as if I'm some sort of harbinger of death, and that my presence is a mere magnet for crimes."

"It happened far too many times. I tell you, this is no coincidence."

"I am quite sure it is, darling."

"It is not! It feels as if crimes are committed only because the criminals know you're around. Like some sick method of catching your attention. Perhaps someone should tell them that normal people send calling cards to greet someone."

He laughs at your words. "You're being dramatic, dearest. And you do not have enough evidence to support your claims." , he teases, reaching out to give you a quick kiss on the lips. "I did mean it. I promise I shall entertain no potential clients for the next days. Just the two of us."

The kiss manages to appease you a bit. But this was not enough. A measly kiss wouldn't do. You wanted more. "How rude. This was not even a proper kiss."

"It absolutely was a proper kiss. Our lips touched, that is what a kiss means." , he argues, amused by your antics.

"Wrong. This was a simple peck, nothing more."

"Really? And what differentiates a peck on the lips from a kiss? Time spent? Passion?"

"Hmm. How about I show you. A kiss would be this." , you say, leaning forward to meet his lips again. You wrap your arms around him, bringing him closer to you. One hand is cradling his face, while the other is gripping the back of his coat. Your tongue gently passes by his parted lips, and pokes his own, deepening the kiss.

The two of you break the kiss only because, unfortunately, breathing had become necessary. Damned limitations of the human body, you think to yourself.

"So, with this, I think the distinction is clear enough. Wait. Where do you think you're going?!" , you ask, confused by Holmes' sudden movement. He had gotten up from his seat and went up to the compartment's door. He turns to look at you over his shoulder and throw a playful wink in your direction before he locks the door from the inside and pulls the blinds close, making sure nobody passing the corridors could see inside. He does the same thing with the curtains, leaving you both in a much darker space than before.

"I am very much convinced by your distinction. Which is why I have decided to take some precautionary measures. After all, I need some more examples of how this works." , he replies smoothly, taking his seat once again. He pulls you in for another kiss, his arms wrapping firmly around you. You can barely react by the time you feel him drag you closer to him, and onto his lap, without breaking the kiss. When the two of you need to catch your breaths again, you stare at him with wide eyes, trying your best to play the part of a scandalised, proper lady, and not immediately give in to the very tempting, but risky thoughts swirling through your mind.

"This is hardly a proper activity to do on a train!!" , you protest, even though you could already feel yourself looking forward to what was about to come. There was a certain thrill in indulging in such pleasures while in semi-public spaces. Having to keep quiet in order to avoid getting caught, then pretending nothing had happened when you two had to step outside.

He pulls away from you to be able to see your face properly. "Do you not want this?" , he asks, wanting to make sure before he went any further.

"What?! No! It is not that! I do want it! I just hope nobody will come in and catch us like this."

"That is why I locked the door, dearest."

"Oh. Right. I forgot. I thought you...never mind. Pretend I never asked such a silly thing." , you reply, realizing how stupid your worry sounded. He did lock it. Two minutes ago. And yet, you had already forgotten. Now that this issue was out of the question, you find your previous boldness returning. "Then I have no objections."

"Ah. That's the woman I married." , Holmes remarks teasingly as he sees you switch from proper and panicked to utterly shameless.

You take off your gloves and throw them somewhere on the seat, not even bothering to see where they landed. A soft noise of pleasure escapes your lips as you feel his lips trailing down your neck, stopping at the collar of your dress. You glance down at him, your breath hitching as he unbuttons the top part of your dress, letting your cleavage become visible. After finally revealing some more skin, the detective begins kissing all over your collarbone, to the top of your breasts. You close your eyes and lean your head back a bit, your arms wrapping around his neck.

His other hand crept slowly underneath your skirt and undergarments. Judging by the faint scent he could feel from between your thighs—after all, a detective's nose was sharp enough to catch any change, no matter how subtle— he was about to have a very pleasant and wet surprise when his hand reached your open drawers.

"Mm. Good thing you women have undergarments with such easy access. Means I can pay attention to your greedy friend whenever she starts getting excited for me, no matter where we are." , Holmes remarked , flashing you the usual smile. A confident smile, bordering on arrogant. Part of you felt immensely aroused by it, another wanted to wipe the smugness off his face with a well-placed punch. One of his fingers was now gently moving around your folds, not yet moving up to your clit, dragging the pad of his digits as if he was using a swab to gather evidence. Testing to see how wet you really were.

You squirm a bit in his lap, seeking more of his touch, craving more already. Your eyes flutter shut for a moment when his thumb finally makes contact with your already needy nub. Unable to hold it in, you whimper at the sensation.

"Behave, dearest." , Holmes tutted disapprovingly. "Wouldn't want to cause a scene in a first class compartment , would we? What would everyone say if they heard you? A respectable lady such as yourself, shamelessly rubbing her cunny against my palm like some wanton little creature."

You bite your lip, trying to keep silent while continuing to grind against his hand. Desperately hoping you'd make it without a moan slipping out.

"Mmm, that's a good girl. Keep going, just like that." , he murmurs in your ear, giving the lobe a playful bite. A shiver runs down your spine at the praise. The bastard knew how much this affected you, and he was exploiting the knowledge to his advantage. You needed to keep silent. Not because of public morality concerns, but because you wanted him to continue showering you with attention.

"Ah...but I'll make a mess of your trousers and shirtsleeves..."

"I am sure my overcoat can cover up the proof of your excitement well enough." , he replies, taking in a deep breath to control his own desires. Not yet, he told himself. Once you reached your first pinnacle. Only then he could finally be greedy. For now, it was all about your own pleasure and getting you ready for him to go inside.

The detective did not have to wait much for that. You were getting close, he could tell by how tense your muscles were. That pleasant tension was already building in your lower body. Determined to reach the climax as fast as possible, since you were just on the edge now, you move your hips even more eagerly against his thumb, rubbing the sensitive nerves in your clit.

With one last, barely audible whine, you finish. You were feeling oversensitive now, and knew that if he kept this up, you would finish a second time, and do it soon, too.

Holmes gave you a tender kiss to your forehead, and smiled at you. "There we are. Perfect, my darling girl. I think you know what comes next." , he says, finally removing his fingers from your wet cunt. Without breaking eye contact, he slowly licks them clean, making sure to let out hums of pleasure, as if he were tasting some priceless meal.

You bite your lower lip at the sight, utterly entranced by the image in front of you. Unable to stay still, you start slowly grinding against the very obvious and hard arousal, through his trousers. The contact was pleasant, but it did not make you feel as good as his fingers did. The answer you get from Holmes is a breathless groan and his hips squirming against you. It appears the great detective was getting a bit impatient.

He grips the softness of your hips and lifts you away from his trousers for a moment. You whine in protest, ready to smack him in the arm, until your mind finally registers why he did that. You watch as he reaches between you , his hand fumbling wirh the buttons of his trousers in the rush. He finally succeeds in getting the fly open, letting you get your first glimpse of your dearest friend, the companion that made your nights (and days) feel like heaven. The familiar pink of his tip was a sight that always got you on the verge of drooling, your pupils dilating in an obvious sign of arousal.

No matter how silent you had to be now, you cannot help the excited noise you let out when he pulls out his cock properly from his trousers, already making you eager for what was to come. Oh, he was certainly ready too, you remarked, if the few beads of pre-cum forming were any proof. It seems that today there was no need to stroke him or take him in your mouth before he went inside.

Holmes looks up at you, his expression a strange mixture of lust and tenderness. He grips your hips tightly, squeezing the plushness around them. The handles, as he playfully called them. "Perfect for holding onto when your wife decides to ride you like a prize horse." , to quote his own words. He knew you sometimes got self-conscious about having more meat on your bones than most ladies in your social circle, but that had never been a bad thing , in his eyes. Quite the opposite. In fact, he was close to salivating whenever he caught a glimpse of your soft stomach or your hips.

You sink down onto his cock, the stretch a welcome sensation now, the previous stimulation having left you wet enough to not make things painful. You stay still for a moment, to let your cunt get fully used to it.

Slowly, you manage to set a rhythm that is perfect for the both of you. You lift yourself up a bit, then sink back down onto him , your hands on his shoulders for support. At this angle, your breasts were very close to Holmes' face, but the damned undergarments were making it impossible for him to give them any special attention. Even with the dress unbuttoned, your corset and chemise weren't allowing for much to be revealed. And worst of all, your movement was making the soft flesh bounce along with you. It felt like he had some sort of treat dangled in front of him, out of reach. He could deal with the breasts being there and simply existing, but to have them move as well, and tempt him in such a way?

Later, Holmes thought to himself with a satisfied smile. Later, after the case is solved, his mouth would have all the time in the world to lavish attention onto your (quite lovely, he had to admit) breasts.

"Go a bit faster, my dear. That's it. Perfect. And no noises." , the detective whispers in your ear, watching as your face strains with the double effort of riding him and keeping silent. "You're doing great for me...ahh...good girl. Do not stop."

You were trying your best not to alert anyone who'd pass by the door about what was going on. Really were. But you were not a very silent person in general. This was not much trouble when the two of you were in the comfort of your home. But in a semi-public space like this...it could very well be. You keep on biting your lip to suppress any whines or whimpers, even if your entire body was aching to scream out his name.

Sensing you were about to make another noise, Holmes decides to kiss you, effectively muffling any moans of yours into his mouth. He moves his hands from your hips to the soft swell of your buttocks, squeezing the plumpness in his hands whenever you sank back onto him.

You moan, bringing his head to your neck, letting him kiss you while you rode him. Your fingers tried to tangle in his hair, but it was perfectly slicked back , and had a rather nasty texture when touched.

"Bloody pomade...your hair's too stiff now..." , you groan, very much displeased. "Can't even pull it properly...mmf..."

"That's...ahh...your worry now? Ridiculous woman."

"Love pulling on it..." , you say, getting slightly out of breath from all the moving.

He laughs breathlessly in response to that. He was aware you did like having something to grab when you two got intimate.

You close your eyes, arching into his body , feeling the second pinnacle close. Judging by his furrowed brows and slightly parted lips, Holmes was getting close too.

You pick up your pace, determined to have that orgasm soon. With a soft whine, you clench around his cock a few moments later, drawing out a whimper from his lips. He was so, so close now...with a few more upwards thrusts of his hips and the feeling of your overly sensitive walls enveloping him, he finally came. His seed spilled inside you explosively. It reminded you of what his experiments tended to do when things went wrong. His shoes were scraping the carpet of the compartment, and you could feel a faint tremor run through his body.

The detective finally lifts his head from your neck to look at you, his chest heaving with exertion, his pale face flushed from the exercise he had just partaken in. He kisses your forehead again , a gesture that had become a habit after the two of you finished making love, and he holds you in his arms in silence. Said silence lasted only about a minute, because of course, Holmes had something to say.

"I do believe I'll have a very interesting case to focus on this weekend."

You open your eyes immediately, the post-orgasmic bliss disappearing as fast as it came when you hear his words. You smack his shoulder, and kick his leg for good measure.

"Must you always ruin the mood with your damned cases?" , you grumble, frustration obvious.

Holmes scoffs at your words, giving you his usual fondly-exasperated look.

"My dear girl. Not that sort of case. A far more pleasant one. One you'll be joining me in. The Mystery of the Broken Bed." , he states, raising one finger up in a dramatic gesture. He continues the act of coming up with ridiculous titles, as though he was about to publish an account of the experience you just had in the Strand: "The Case of the Exasperated Neighbours. The Adventure of the—mmm...!"

Realising the bastard had been deliberately vague on purpose, just to provide a setup for this horrible punchline, you decide to shut him up in the most effective way possible, cutting off yet another questionable title idea with a kiss.

[axyr1d1s]

Cooking up the first smut fic but i just realised 80% of it is non-smut 💀 all that yapping only for "haha cock go in, cock go out, in out, in out, they both came, the END"