sara

ita , mdni , estp (?)

[duvetfawn]

— Masterlist

INTRODUCTION: Hello there. Welcome to my Masterlist. Here you’ll find Benedict Cumberbatch stuff (one-shots, main story and silly thoughts basically).

Enjoy your reading!

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MAIN STORY: Forbidden lessons

SUMMARY: “You’re a graphic student, why on Earth would you want to take some lessons about poetry?!” That’s what your dearest friend Cassie told you when you decided to join that secondary course. You've always been painfully stubborn, but that time was different, bloody different: You wanted, craved to participate until the reason you were there weren’t those Dostoevskij books anymore, but the one who was recommending them. 

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ONE SHOTS:

SUMMARY: Just random thoughts, scenarios that come to my mind.

- A Warm Welcome | 04/12/2024

After a long day, you come home to find Benedict Cumberbatch in the kitchen, cooking dinner with an endearing mix of focus and charm. What begins as playful banter quickly ignites into something far more intimate, as Benedict willingly surrenders himself to your control. In a sensual evening filled with vulnerability and passion, the two of you explore trust, desire, and the balance of power, leaving no boundary of connection or devotion untouched.

- The Code | 23/11/2024

In a world of intellect and intrigue, no one challenges the brilliance of Sherlock Holmes—except you. A case steeped in mystery brings the two of you into a tense standoff, your playful defiance the one puzzle he can’t easily solve. As desire and wit collide, the line between hunter and hunted blurs, leaving Sherlock caught in a web he never saw coming. This is more than a battle of minds—it’s a test of will, passion, and surrender.

- A Case to Die For | 26/11/2024

The bones told stories only you could read. As an anthropologist, you were brought in to assist on a chilling case—a serial killer carving intricate patterns into the bones of his victims. It was meant to be about the work, about solving the mystery. But then you met Sherlock Holmes. Brilliant, maddening, and utterly magnetic, he challenged you at every turn. The case pulled you both into the depths of human depravity, but it was the tension between you and the detective that threatened to consume you entirely.

- Through Shadows and Sorcery | 30/11/2024

The Eye of Vortessa was a relic of unimaginable power, sought by a rogue sorcerer threatening reality itself. Doctor Stephen Strange needed your expertise to decode its secrets. What began as a high-stakes pursuit soon blurred the lines between duty and desire, forcing both of you to confront the dangers outside—and within.

[sillygirlsmindpalace]

whatever he does with his hands

every now and then i try to imitate his little gestures but of course i don't look as graceful and elegant as him

i'm sure there are a lot more but can't think of them at the moment :D

[duvetfawn]

A Warm Welcome

- Masterlist

INTRODUCTION: After a long day, you come home to find Benedict Cumberbatch in the kitchen, cooking dinner with an endearing mix of focus and charm. What begins as playful banter quickly ignites into something far more intimate, as Benedict willingly surrenders himself to your control. In a sensual evening filled with vulnerability and passion, the two of you explore trust, desire, and the balance of power, leaving no boundary of connection or devotion untouched.

PAIRING: sub!Benedict Cumberbatch x fem!dom!reader

WARNINGS: SMUT, mdni, oral sex (reader receiving), dirty talk, penetrative sex.

WORD COUNT: 3k

A/N: Hello people! Thanks for all the reblogs and likes! I'm so happy my work is getting recognition. This one was a request from my best friend (thank you Bianca for assigning me this!) Please keep in mind the reader is dominant here and it might not be for everyone. Again thank you so much! Sorry about grammar mistakes if there are any.

The smell of garlic and fresh herbs greeted you the moment you stepped through the door, an immediate comfort after a long day. The familiar warmth of the flat wrapped around you like an embrace, but it was the figure in the kitchen that truly caught your attention. Benedict, clad in a loose gray sweater and dark jeans, stood by the stove, focused entirely on the task before him. His curls were slightly disheveled, and his sleeves were rolled up to reveal strong forearms dusted with flour—a telltale sign he’d been kneading something earlier.

“You’re home,” he said, glancing up with that soft smile that never failed to make your heart flutter. His voice, deep and soothing, held a note of relief, as if the day had been incomplete until you’d walked through the door.

“And you’re cooking,” you replied, shrugging off your coat. “Should I be worried?”

He chuckled, the sound low and rich, and shook his head. “I’ll have you know, I’m quite capable in the kitchen. You might even be impressed.”

You leaned against the doorway, watching him move. There was an ease in the way he handled himself, his gestures deliberate and precise yet unhurried. The sight of him like this—at home, relaxed, and completely unguarded—was one you cherished more than you could put into words.

“What are you making?” you asked, crossing the room to peek over his shoulder.

“Something simple,” he said, gesturing to a pan where butter sizzled and garlic caramelized. “Pasta with a cream sauce, a bit of basil, and, if I don’t burn it, chicken.”

You hummed in approval, standing so close now that you could feel the heat radiating off him. He turned his head slightly, and your eyes met. For a moment, neither of you said anything, the silence thick with unspoken tension. His gaze lingered on your lips before darting back up to meet your eyes, a flush creeping up his neck.

“Something on your mind?” you teased, your voice low and playful.

Benedict swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, but he didn’t look away. “Only that you’re distracting,” he murmured, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

You reached out, running a finger along the edge of his jaw, feeling the faint stubble beneath your touch. “And what are you going to do about it?” you asked, tilting your head.

His breath hitched, but instead of answering, he turned off the stove and set the spoon down. The clatter of metal against the counter seemed louder than it was, a sharp contrast to the electric silence between you. Slowly, deliberately, he faced you, his hands coming to rest lightly on your hips.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your lips curved into a smile as you leaned in, closing the distance between you. The kiss was soft at first, a gentle brush of lips that quickly turned heated. His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. You could feel the rapid thrum of his heartbeat against your chest, matching your own.

“You’ve been thinking about this all day, haven’t you?” you murmured against his lips, your fingers sliding into his hair.

He nodded, his breath warm against your cheek. “Can you blame me?” he asked, his tone somewhere between exasperation and adoration. “You make it impossible to focus.”

“Good,” you said, pushing him gently but firmly until his back hit the counter. 

You pressed against him, the edge of the counter digging into his back as you deepened the kiss. His lips parted beneath yours, and you took full advantage, your tongue brushing against his, eliciting a soft, breathy sound from him. His hands gripped your hips tighter, as if trying to anchor himself to you, but you could feel the way his body softened under your touch, surrendering.

“Turn around,” you whispered, breaking the kiss just enough to speak.

He blinked at you, his expression somewhere between surprise and intrigue, but he complied, twisting to face the counter. His breath hitched as your arms slid around his waist from behind, your palms pressing against his abdomen. Slowly, you ran your hands upward, savoring the feel of his body beneath the soft fabric of his sweater.

“You’re far too tense for someone who’s been cooking dinner,” you murmured, your lips brushing the shell of his ear.

A shiver ran through him, and he let out a shaky laugh. “Well, you’re not exactly helping me relax.”

“Oh, but I plan to,” you said, your voice teasing as your fingers dipped lower, tracing the waistband of his jeans.

His head fell back slightly, exposing the long line of his neck, and you couldn’t resist the temptation. You pressed a kiss to the sensitive spot just below his ear, then another, letting your teeth graze his skin lightly. The quiet groan that escaped him sent a thrill through you, and you felt his grip tighten on the edge of the counter.

“You like that,” you said, not a question but a statement.

“Yes,” he admitted, his voice barely audible. “Too much, maybe.”

You smiled against his skin, then tugged gently on his sweater. “Off.”

He turned his head to glance at you, his eyes dark with anticipation. There was no hesitation as he pulled the sweater over his head, leaving his chest bare. You took a moment to admire him, the defined lines of his shoulders and torso, the way his chest rose and fell with each shallow breath.

“Beautiful,” you said, running your hands over his back. His skin was warm to the touch, and he let out a quiet sigh as your nails lightly scraped down his spine. “You’re so good at following instructions.”

He turned his head slightly, a smirk playing at his lips despite the flush on his cheeks. “So you want to take the lead, huh?”

Your response was immediate and firm. “You’re mine tonight. All of you. Understand?”

His eyes flickered with something that looked like both surrender and excitement. “Yes,” he said softly. Then, louder, “Yes, ma’am.”

You grinned, your dominance only spurring you further. With a gentle but firm push, you turned him back toward you and nudged him toward the center of the kitchen. His movements were fluid but obedient, and it thrilled you to see the normally commanding actor so completely at your mercy.

You guided him backward until his legs hit the dining chair that sat in the corner of the kitchen. With a light push on his shoulders, you eased him down into the seat. Benedict looked up at you, his hair tousled, his lips slightly swollen from your earlier kisses. There was something intoxicating about seeing him like this—composed yet unraveling, his sharp, angular features softened by the heat of the moment.

“Stay there,” you said firmly, your voice low and commanding.

He obeyed, his hands resting on his thighs, his gaze fixed on you as if you were the only thing in the world. You could see the tension in his body, the way his fingers twitched, like he was holding back the urge to reach for you. You stepped closer, slowly, deliberately, letting him feel the weight of your presence.

“You’ve been so good for me,” you murmured, leaning down until your faces were inches apart. Your fingers brushed along his jawline, tracing the sharp angles, then tilted his chin up slightly. “Do you want to keep being good for me, Benedict?”

His breath caught, and he nodded. “Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Whatever you want.”

You smiled, your thumb running over his bottom lip. “Good,” you said.

Your hands slid to his shoulders, and with a gentle but insistent push, you guided him lower, until he was kneeling on the floor in front of you. The sight of him like this—on his knees, looking up at you with such raw desire—made your breath hitch. He rested his hands on your thighs, waiting, watching, his lips slightly parted as if he were ready to speak but unsure of what to say.

“Do you want me?” you asked, your voice softer now but no less commanding.

“Always,” he replied without hesitation, the sincerity in his tone sending a shiver down your spine.

You reached for his hand, guiding it to the waistband of your trousers. “Then show me.”

His fingers worked quickly, yet carefully, undoing the button and sliding the fabric down your legs. He hesitated for a moment, his hands lingering at the edge of your underwear, his eyes flicking up to meet yours, silently asking for permission.

“Go on,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

His hands slipped beneath the fabric, and you let out a quiet sigh as his fingers brushed your skin. He took his time, easing the fabric down and letting it pool around your ankles. You stepped out of them, and he moved closer, his hands settling on your hips.

“Smother me,” he said, his voice low and breathless. “Let me make you feel good.”

The rawness in his tone sent a surge of heat through you, and you obliged, lowering yourself onto the chair and spreading your legs just enough to give him access. His hands slid along your thighs, his touch reverent yet possessive, and then his lips followed, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your skin.

When his mouth finally reached you, you couldn’t hold back the gasp that escaped. He was slow at first, deliberate, his tongue moving in gentle strokes that built a steady rhythm. His hands tightened on your thighs, holding you in place as he worked, and the sounds he made—soft, muffled groans of pleasure—only heightened your own.

“Yes,” you breathed, your fingers tangling in his hair. “Just like that.”

He responded with a hum of approval, the vibrations sending a jolt through you. His tongue dipped lower, exploring, teasing, and you felt your grip on his hair tighten. You rocked your hips against him, chasing the pressure, and he moaned, the sound guttural and desperate.

“You like this, don’t you?” you said, your voice unsteady but laced with authority. “You like being on your knees for me.”

He pulled back just enough to speak, his lips glistening. “I love it,” he said, his voice rough. “I love making you feel this way.”

“Then don’t stop,” you commanded.

Your fingers tightened in Benedict’s hair as his tongue moved with unrelenting precision, each flick and stroke sending waves of pleasure coursing through you. His hands, strong yet trembling slightly with need, gripped your thighs to keep you steady as he worked, his desperation to please you palpable in every movement.

“Yes,” you murmured, your voice breathy and commanding. “Just like that. You’re so good for me, Benedict.”

At your praise, he groaned against you, the vibration pulling another moan from your lips. You could feel the heat rising in you, your body tightening with every expert movement of his tongue. The way he looked up at you—his pupils blown wide with desire, his cheeks flushed—only added to the fire coursing through you.

“You’re mine,” you said, your voice growing steadier as your dominance took over. “Do you understand?”

He nodded against you, his nose brushing your sensitive skin as he mumbled, “Yes. Yours. Always.”

Your hips rolled against his mouth, and his grip on your thighs tightened in response, his enthusiasm only growing. The sounds he made—half-growls, half-muffled whimpers—filled the room, mixing with your own gasps and sighs. You tugged at his hair, guiding him exactly where you wanted, and he obeyed without hesitation, his submission utterly complete.

“That’s it,” you whispered, your thighs beginning to shake as the tension inside you reached its peak. “Don’t stop, Benedict. Don’t you dare stop.”

He didn’t. If anything, he pushed harder, his tongue working you with even more fervor, his hands grounding you as your body tensed. When the climax hit, it was overwhelming, your head falling back, your lips parting as you cried out. Benedict didn’t let up, riding out every wave of your release until you were trembling beneath his touch.

Finally, you tugged at his hair gently, pulling him back. He looked up at you, his lips glistening, his breath coming in short, shallow bursts. The expression on his face was one of pure adoration mixed with raw hunger.

“You’re perfect,” you said, cupping his face in your hands and brushing your thumb along his cheekbone.

He leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment before snapping back to yours. “Anything for you,” he said, his voice hoarse but steady. “Anything you want.”

You smirked, pulling him to his feet. His knees wobbled slightly, and you steadied him, your hands running up his chest.

With one hand, you reached for the waistband of his jeans, undoing the button and sliding the zipper down with practiced ease. His breath hitched as you pushed the denim down his hips, leaving him standing before you in nothing but his boxer briefs. You took a moment to admire him—the way his body seemed to tremble with anticipation, the way he looked at you as if you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

“Off,” you commanded, gesturing to the last remaining barrier between you.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, his cheeks flushing a deeper shade of red, before obeying. As the fabric fell to the floor, you stepped closer, your hands sliding over his bare skin. He shivered beneath your touch, his body responding to every little movement, every brush of your fingertips.

“You’ve been so good for me tonight,” you said, guiding him toward the table. “Now, let me reward you.”

He let out a shaky breath, his eyes locked on yours as you pushed him gently onto his back. His body stretched out beneath you, vulnerable yet undeniably beautiful. You climbed onto the table, straddling him, and leaned down until your lips were a breath away from his.

“Are you ready?” you asked, your voice low and teasing.

“For you?” he said, his hands sliding up your thighs. “Always.”

You lowered yourself over him, capturing his lips in a searing kiss. His hands roamed your body, reverent and desperate, fingers pressing into your skin as though grounding himself in this moment. The table creaked softly beneath you, but neither of you paid it any mind. His breath came in short gasps as you broke the kiss, moving your lips down his jawline and to the sensitive spot just below his ear.

“Benedict,” you whispered, your voice firm but dripping with affection. “Do you trust me?”

“Completely,” he murmured, his voice barely audible, his eyes heavy-lidded with desire.

“Good,” you said, sitting up slightly to remove the last of your clothing. His gaze swept over you, his lips parting as he drank in the sight of you. His fingers twitched against your thighs, and you smirked, leaning down to press your lips to his once more.

“Hands above your head,” you commanded softly but firmly. “I want to see how obedient you can be.”

A flicker of hesitation crossed his face—not reluctance, but anticipation—and then he complied, stretching his arms above him and gripping the edge of the table. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his vulnerability making him all the more enticing.

“You look so beautiful like this,” you said, your hands gliding down his chest, fingers grazing over his taut muscles. His breath hitched as your touch lingered on his stomach before trailing lower. “Do you have any idea how much I love seeing you give in to me?”

He swallowed hard, his voice cracking slightly as he replied, “Tell me. Show me.”

You smiled, shifting your hips until you were poised over him, your body brushing against his in the most tantalizing way. His head tipped back, a soft groan escaping his lips as you rolled your hips slowly, teasing him with just enough pressure to drive him mad but not enough to give him what he craved.

“You want more, don’t you?” you teased, your voice dropping to a sultry whisper.

“Yes,” he breathed, his hands tightening on the table. “Please, I—”

“Patience,” you interrupted, leaning down to kiss his throat, your teeth grazing his skin. “I decide when and how you get what you want.”

His entire body tensed beneath you, and you felt a surge of satisfaction at the way he responded so readily to your control. You shifted again, this time taking him fully, and the sharp intake of breath that followed was music to your ears. His hands twitched against the edge of the table, and you could see the strain in his arms as he fought to keep them in place.

“Good,” you praised, moving slowly, deliberately. “You’re doing so well for me.”

His response was a choked moan, his head falling back against the wood as his body surrendered completely. You set a steady rhythm, your movements calculated to draw out every ounce of pleasure, every sound that escaped his lips. His hips bucked slightly, a silent plea for more, but you held firm, maintaining your control.

“Tell me what you need,” you said, your tone both commanding and affectionate.

“You,” he gasped, his voice raw. “Everything. All of you. Please.”

You leaned down, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, “Then take it.”

The night unfolded in a dance of give and take, your bodies moving together in perfect harmony. You pushed him to his limits, and he gave you everything, his submission a gift that left you both breathless and utterly sated by the time the evening drew to a close. As you lay tangled together afterward, the warmth of his body against yours, you couldn’t help but smile, knowing that moments like this were yours to cherish.

“Still think I’m distracting?” you asked, your voice light with teasing.

He laughed softly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Always,” he said. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

[duvetfawn]

Through Shadows and Sorcery

- Masterlist

INTRODUCTION: The Eye of Vortessa was a relic of unimaginable power, sought by a rogue sorcerer threatening reality itself. Doctor Stephen Strange needed your expertise to decode its secrets. What began as a high-stakes pursuit soon blurred the lines between duty and desire, forcing both of you to confront the dangers outside—and within.

PAIRING: Dr. Strange x fem!reader

WARNINGS: SMUT, MDNI, oral sex, vaginal sex, different positions, etc. + fluff and a bit of angst

WORD COUNT: 6k

A/N: Here's the one-shot I was talking about! Thank you for all the likes and reposts of my previous works. Sorry about grammar mistakes (if there are any). Enjoy your reading!

The relic pulsed on the table like a living thing, faint green tendrils of energy swirling within its crystal-clear surface. You could feel its pull from across the room, an eerie hum that resonated deep in your chest. You couldn’t decide if the sensation was alluring or unnerving.

“It’s been centuries since anyone’s seen the Eye of Vortessa in the physical realm,” you said, your fingers itching to examine it more closely. “How did you find it?”

“I didn’t. It found me,” Doctor Stephen Strange replied, his voice carrying that same arrogant tilt you’d come to expect from him. He leaned casually against a chair, his hands folded across his chest, the crimson Cloak of Levitation draped like a king’s mantle over his broad shoulders.

“Cryptic,” you muttered, earning a faint smirk from him.

The two of you were an unlikely pairing. A brilliant, if infuriating, sorcerer who held the title of Sorcerer Supreme, and you—a historian-turned-sorceress from Kamar-Taj, specializing in arcane artifacts. You’d been called to the Sanctum Sanctorum when it became clear that even Strange was struggling to contain the relic’s growing power.

He hadn’t been thrilled to have you there.

“I work alone,” he’d said on the first day, a dismissive flick of his hand emphasizing the point.

“And yet, you called for help,” you’d shot back, meeting his sharp blue gaze with a defiance that clearly surprised him.

Since then, your days had been consumed by long hours of research, deciphering ancient texts, and debating theories with a man who both fascinated and infuriated you.

Over the next few days, you immersed yourself in the Eye’s history. The relic’s carvings hinted at a dark purpose—its ability to amplify emotions and desires was only the beginning. In the wrong hands, it could manipulate entire realities, bending minds to its will.

“It’s a trap,” you concluded one evening, pushing a book across the table toward Strange.

He glanced at the page, his brow furrowing. “How so?”

“It doesn’t just amplify emotions. It feeds on them. The more unstable the wielder, the stronger it becomes.”

Strange’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Then we’ll have to destroy it.”

“Easier said than done,” you replied. “The last recorded attempt ended with three sorcerers dead and the Eye fully intact.”

“Sounds like a challenge,” he said, his tone almost flippant.

You glared at him. “This isn’t a joke, Strange. If we get this wrong—”

“I don’t get things wrong,” he interrupted, his voice sharp.

The tension crackled between you, and for a moment, you forgot the relic, the case, and everything else. His eyes locked onto yours, and you felt your heart skip a beat.

“Fine,” you said, breaking the silence. “But we need more information.”

The answer lay in the rift.

The Eye’s power had created a tear in the fabric of reality, a swirling vortex of chaotic energy that connected to an unknown dimension. You and Strange agreed to investigate, though you couldn’t shake the feeling that the plan was reckless at best.

“It’s like staring into the void,” you murmured as you approached the rift with Strange at your side.

He glanced at you, his expression unusually serious. “Stay close to me.”

You nodded, casting a protective spell as he opened the portal. The sensation was immediate—a rush of power and emotion that made your head spin. It felt like the rift was reaching into your very soul, pulling at your deepest fears and desires.

“Don’t let it control you,” Strange said, his voice cutting through the noise.

Easier said than done. The rift amplified everything—the anger you’d felt during your arguments with Strange, the frustration at his arrogance, and the unsettling attraction you’d been trying to ignore since you’d arrived.

The mission was nearly disastrous. You managed to collect a fragment of the rift’s energy, but the process destabilized the vortex, forcing you and Strange to retreat.

Back in the Sanctum, you collapsed into a chair, your heart racing. “That was insane,” you said, glaring at him.

Strange ran a hand through his hair, his own breathing uneven. “You’re welcome.”

“For what? Dragging me into your reckless plans?”

“For saving your life,” he shot back, stepping closer. “Or did you forget the part where I shielded you from the blast?”

You stood, your frustration bubbling over. “And whose fault was the blast in the first place?”

“You don’t know when to quit, do you?” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

“Neither do you,” you retorted, your pulse quickening as he stepped even closer.

The tension snapped.

Before you could think, his lips were on yours, fierce and demanding. You gasped, your hands instinctively gripping the front of his tunic as he deepened the kiss. His hands were firm on your waist, pulling you against him as the world blurred around you.

The kiss was electric, every pent-up emotion spilling out in a clash of lips and tongues. When he pulled back, his blue eyes were darker than you’d ever seen, his breathing ragged.

“Fuck,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

You were too stunned to speak, your body still tingling from the intensity of the kiss.

“This… complicates things,” he said, his voice strained.

“You think?” you managed, your voice unsteady.

You stood there, your breathing still unsteady, replaying the kiss in your mind. Stephen Strange—the arrogant, insufferable Sorcerer Supreme—had just kissed you. And you had kissed him back.

He was pacing now, running a hand through his hair as though trying to shake off the moment. His eyes flicked to the Eye of Vortessa, still pulsing faintly on the table, as if mocking both of you.

“This is the relic’s influence,” he said finally, his voice strained. “It has to be.”

You crossed your arms, forcing yourself to focus on the case instead of the way his lips had felt against yours. “The Eye may amplify emotions, but it doesn’t create them. If there was nothing there to begin with…”

He froze mid-step, his sharp blue eyes locking onto yours. The silence that followed was suffocating, heavy with unspoken words.

“We can’t afford distractions,” he said at last, his tone colder now, though his gaze lingered on you a moment too long.

“Agreed,” you replied, though your voice wavered.

Still, the moment hung between you, refusing to fade.

Over the next few days, you threw yourself into the research, determined to find a way to neutralize the Eye of Vortessa. But it was harder now, with Strange constantly in your orbit. Every glance, every touch—no matter how innocent—felt charged, as though the relic’s influence was amplifying the growing connection between you.

He was distant, even brusque at times, clearly trying to maintain control. Yet, there were moments when his guard slipped—when his hand would linger on yours during a spell, or when his voice softened as he asked for your input.

The tension came to a head during another late-night study session. The Sanctum was quiet, save for the crackling fire in the corner. You were bent over a text, trying to decipher a particularly cryptic passage, when you felt his presence behind you.

“Find anything?” he asked, his voice close to your ear.

You jumped slightly, his proximity sending a shiver down your spine. “Nothing useful,” you managed, refusing to turn around.

“Let me see,” he said, leaning over your shoulder.

His breath was warm against your neck, and you cursed the way your body reacted. He was too close, and yet you couldn’t bring yourself to move.

“Strange…” you began, but your voice trailed off as his hand brushed yours, the touch searing.

“Stop,” he said suddenly, pulling back.

You turned to face him, startled by the raw emotion in his expression. His jaw was tight, his fists clenched at his sides as though he was holding himself back.

“This is getting out of hand,” he said, his voice low. “I can’t think straight when I’m around you.”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding. “Maybe it’s the Eye—”

“It’s not just the Eye,” he interrupted, his eyes blazing.

The confession hung in the air, and for a moment, neither of you moved. Then, as if drawn by some unseen force, you closed the distance between you.

The kiss this time was slower, more deliberate. His hands cupped your face, his lips moving against yours with a tenderness that made your chest ache. You melted into him, your arms wrapping around his neck as the tension of the past few days finally gave way.

He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged. “You’re driving me mad,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

You didn’t reply, too caught up in the way his hands slid down to your waist, holding you as though he never wanted to let go.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, his blue eyes searching yours.

“I won’t,” you whispered, pulling him back to you.

The path to his room was a fever dream of heat and tension. Every step was punctuated by the press of his body against yours, the scrape of his teeth along your neck, and the firm grip of his hands on your hips. The Sanctum’s corridors blurred around you, irrelevant in the face of the fire that burned between you both.

By the time you reached his chambers, Stephen spun you around, your back hitting the door with a soft thud. His eyes, dark and wild, searched yours, but no words were exchanged. His lips were on you in an instant, claiming yours with a hunger that made your knees weak. His kiss was demanding, almost bruising, as though he’d been holding back for far too long.

His hands slid up your thighs, his fingertips digging in just enough to leave a ghost of a mark. “You’ve been teasing me all damn day,” he growled against your lips, his voice thick with restrained desire.

You smirked, emboldened by the effect you had on him. “And what are you going to do about it?”

His answering grin was dark, wicked, as his hands moved to the sash of your robe. With one swift motion, he untied it, letting the fabric fall away and leaving you bare before him. His sharp intake of breath was the only sound in the room for a moment, his eyes drinking you in.

“God, you’re stunning,” he murmured, his voice almost reverent.

You reached for his tunic, pulling it up and over his head, revealing the lean, sculpted planes of his chest. His skin was pale, faint scars from battles long past etched into his body like a story written in flesh. You traced one with your fingers, marveling at the strength beneath your touch.

“Like what you see?” he teased, his smirk returning as his hands slid to your waist.

You met his gaze, your lips quirking upward. “I’m not complaining.”

His laugh was low and dark, but it was quickly silenced as he bent to kiss you again, slower this time, as if savoring the moment. His hands explored your body, every curve, every dip, every inch of skin that made you gasp under his touch.

Before you could process his next move, he dropped to his knees, his hands parting your thighs with a firm but gentle insistence. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, his gaze smoldering as his lips pressed to the inside of your thigh.

“Stephen…” You breathed his name, your voice trembling with anticipation.

“Say it again,” he commanded, his tone rough as his lips trailed higher.

You barely managed to repeat his name before his mouth was on you, his tongue drawing slow, deliberate strokes that made you cry out. He groaned against you, the vibration sending another jolt of pleasure through your body. His hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as he worked, alternating between flicks of his tongue and gentle suction that had you trembling.

When he added his fingers—sliding inside you with expert precision—you nearly came undone. He curled them just right, hitting a spot that made stars explode behind your eyes.

“Fuck, Stephen, don’t stop,” you gasped, your hands threading through his dark hair.

He didn’t stop. He doubled down, his tongue and fingers moving in perfect rhythm until you shattered, your cries echoing through the room. Your legs threatened to give out, but his hands held you firm, guiding you through every wave of pleasure until you were left trembling in his arms.

He pulled back, his lips glistening as he smirked up at you. “You taste fucking incredible,” he said, his voice hoarse.

You barely had time to recover before he stood, his hands helping you to your knees.

“My turn,” he said, his voice a low growl.

You reached for him eagerly, your fingers wrapping around him as you stroked, feeling him throb under your touch. His head tilted back, a groan escaping his lips as you leaned forward, your tongue flicking out to tease him before taking him fully into your mouth.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his hand tangling in your hair. “Just like that.”

You hollowed your cheeks, taking him deeper, relishing the way his body tensed under your touch. His hips rocked forward slightly, and you steadied yourself with your hands on his thighs, your nails digging in just enough to leave faint crescent marks.

“God, you’re so fucking good at this,” he groaned, his voice breaking as you worked him with deliberate, steady movements.

Before he could reach his peak, he pulled you away, his breaths ragged as he guided you back to your feet.

“Come here,” he demanded, his voice soft but commanding.

He guided you onto the bed, his body covering yours as he kissed you deeply, the taste of both of you mingling on his lips. His hands slid down your body, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake. When he finally entered you, it was slow, deliberate, as though he wanted you to feel every inch of him.

You gasped, your nails digging into his back as he set a steady rhythm, his movements controlled but intense. “You feel so fucking good,” he murmured, his forehead resting against yours.

The pace quickened, his thrusts deep and deliberate as his name spilled from your lips in a broken cry. He shifted slightly, angling his hips to hit a spot that made your entire body arch into his.

“God, Stephen…” you gasped, your hands clutching at his shoulders.

He flipped you onto your stomach, pulling your hips up as he entered you from behind. His hands gripped your waist, his thrusts rougher now, each one driving you closer to the edge.

“You like this?” he growled, leaning down to kiss the back of your neck.

“Yes,” you cried, your voice trembling. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He reached around to tease you, his fingers working in tandem with his thrusts until you shattered again, your body trembling as you cried out his name.

He pulled you up, your back flush against his chest as he slowed his movements, his lips trailing over your shoulder. “I’m not done with you yet,” he whispered, his voice dark and seductive.

He laid you back on the bed, his hands guiding your legs to wrap around his waist as he moved over you. This time, his movements were slower, more deliberate, as if he wanted to savor every moment.

“Look at me,” he said, his voice soft but commanding.

Your eyes locked onto his, and the intensity of his gaze was enough to make your breath catch. His hands intertwined with yours, pinning them above your head as he moved, his rhythm building again until you were both on the edge.

When you finally fell together, the pleasure was overwhelming, leaving you both trembling and breathless as the world seemed to fall away.

The room was silent save for the sounds of your intertwined breaths slowly evening out. Stephen’s body hovered above yours for a moment longer, as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to pull away. His forehead rested against yours, and his hand brushed a few damp strands of hair from your face.

“You’re… incredible,” he murmured, his voice low and raw. His lips curved into a small, almost shy smile—a rare crack in the confident mask he wore so effortlessly.

You exhaled a breathy laugh, your hand trailing lazily down his back. “I could say the same about you, Doctor.”

Stephen rolled onto his side, pulling you with him so you were tucked against his chest. His arms enveloped you, his hands large and warm as they traced absent patterns along your spine. You could feel his heartbeat still racing against your cheek.

“Did you expect this?” you asked softly, tilting your head up to look at him.

He smirked, his fingers pausing their lazy exploration to brush your jaw. “No,” he admitted, his tone honest. “I’ve spent so long avoiding this kind of… connection. It complicates things.”

“Do you regret it?”

His gaze darkened slightly, not with anger but with something deeper—something unspoken. He tilted your chin up, his thumb brushing across your lower lip. “No,” he said firmly. “Not for a second.”

A comfortable silence fell between you, the weight of what had just happened settling in the air. You traced the faint scars on his chest, following the lines as if they were a map.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, his voice soft.

“That you’ve lived a thousand lives,” you said, your fingers pausing over a particularly deep scar. “And yet you’re still here.”

He caught your hand, bringing it to his lips. “Because I’m too stubborn to quit.”

You laughed, the sound light and genuine, and for a moment, the heaviness of the world outside the room seemed to fade.

But reality began creeping back in. The Sanctum wasn’t just a home—it was a fortress, a place of duty. And outside these walls, a threat still loomed.

As if reading your thoughts, Stephen’s expression sobered. He sat up slightly, propping himself on one arm as he looked down at you. “This isn’t over,” he said, his tone serious. “We still have to decipher the relic.”

You nodded, your mind already shifting back to the danger that had brought you here in the first place. “We definitely do.”

Stephen’s jaw tightened, the sharp angles of his face etched with determination. “We will,” he said, his voice resolute. “But for now…”

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was softer this time, less about urgency and more about grounding the moment. His hand cradled your face, his thumb brushing your cheek as if committing every detail of you to memory.

“For now,” he murmured against your lips, “let’s stay here. Just for a little longer.”

And you did. Wrapped in each other’s arms, the weight of the outside world momentarily held at bay, you allowed yourself to exist in the fleeting serenity of his presence. The fight would come soon enough, but for now, you were exactly where you needed to be.

When you woke, the morning light was streaming through the gaps in the heavy curtains of Stephen’s chambers, golden and warm. For a moment, everything felt blissfully suspended, like the world had paused just for the two of you.

Stephen was still beside you, propped up on one elbow, his bare chest catching the soft light. His sharp features were relaxed but contemplative as his gaze lingered on you. You smiled sleepily, reaching out to brush your fingers along the stubble on his jaw.

“Good morning,” you murmured.

He didn’t return the smile. Instead, his expression darkened, his eyes pulling away from yours. The shift was subtle but immediate, a wall rising where there had been none before.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, sitting up slightly, the sheet slipping down your body.

Stephen hesitated, his mouth opening and closing as though he couldn’t quite find the right words. Finally, he exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “This… was a mistake,” he said, his voice clipped and low.

The words struck like a blow, the warmth of the morning instantly replaced by a chill. “A mistake?” you repeated, incredulous. “You didn’t seem to think it was a mistake last night.”

“That was last night,” he snapped, then winced at his own tone. He rose from the bed, pulling on his pants and tunic with quick, jerky movements. His back was to you, the tension in his shoulders palpable.

You felt the heat of anger rising in your chest, cutting through the sting of his words. “So that’s it? You get what you want, and now you’re done?”

He spun around, his eyes flashing. “Don’t make it sound so simple. You know it’s more complicated than that.”

“Do I?” You stood, wrapping the sheet around you as you faced him. “Because all I see is a man who’s so afraid of letting someone in that he’d rather push them away than deal with his own feelings.”

Stephen’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, he looked as though he might argue. But then he turned away again, his voice quieter this time. “I can’t afford distractions. And you… you deserve more than this.”

Your heart clenched, his words twisting the knife even deeper. “Don’t you dare try to make this sound noble,” you said, your voice trembling with anger. “If you wanted to push me away, just say so. But don’t pretend this is for my benefit.”

He didn’t respond, his silence saying more than words ever could. Frustrated and hurt, you grabbed your clothes, dressing quickly as tears threatened to spill.

“Fine,” you said, your voice icy. “If that’s what you want, then I’ll go. But don’t expect me to come running back when you realize what a mistake you’ve made.”

With that, you stormed out, slamming the door behind you.

The following days at the Sanctum were agonizing. You threw yourself into your research, determined to ignore Stephen’s presence entirely. The tension between you was palpable, the air in the Sanctum heavy with unspoken words and lingering glances.

Stephen avoided you, retreating into his work and barely speaking unless absolutely necessary. You could see the strain on his face, the shadows under his eyes growing darker with each passing day. But you refused to be the one to break the silence.

When Wong asked if something was wrong, you brushed it off with a forced smile. “Just a difference of opinion,” you said, though the words tasted bitter.

Stephen, for his part, seemed to unravel further. He became more irritable, snapping at Wong and pacing the Sanctum’s halls like a caged animal. You caught him watching you once, his gaze soft and almost apologetic, but when your eyes met, he quickly looked away.

The distance between you was unbearable, but your pride wouldn’t let you bridge the gap. If he wanted to fix this, he would have to be the one to make the first move.

It was late one night when the knock came at your door. You hesitated, your heart pounding as you considered ignoring it. But something in the quiet desperation of the sound made you rise.

When you opened the door, Stephen stood there, looking exhausted and vulnerable in a way you’d never seen before. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, he said nothing, as if he didn’t know where to begin.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

You crossed your arms, leaning against the doorframe. “For what, exactly?”

“For being an idiot,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “For pushing you away. For hurting you.”

You raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

He sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I was scared,” he admitted. “Of what this means. Of what you mean to me.”

Your resolve wavered at the raw honesty in his voice, but you weren’t ready to let him off the hook just yet. “And what do I mean to you, Stephen?”

He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to brush yours. “Everything,” he said simply. “You mean everything.”

The anger and hurt you’d been holding onto melted away, replaced by a flood of relief and affection. You stepped aside, letting him in, and the moment the door closed, he pulled you into his arms.

“I’ve missed you,” he murmured, his lips brushing your temple.

“I’ve missed you too,” you admitted, your voice muffled against his chest.

He tilted your chin up, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was slow and tender, a stark contrast to the desperate passion of your first night together. His hands cupped your face as though you were something precious, his thumb brushing your cheek as he deepened the kiss.

Stephen’s lips moved against yours with a tenderness that made your heart ache. Gone was the frantic desperation of before; this kiss was deliberate, like he was trying to memorize every second, every sensation. His hands cradled your face as though you were something fragile, something he was terrified of breaking.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breaths coming in shallow pants. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered again, his voice trembling slightly. “For everything.”

You reached up, your fingers brushing against his jaw, feeling the faint stubble beneath your touch. “I know,” you murmured, your voice soft but steady. “But you can’t keep doing this, Stephen. You can’t keep pushing me away whenever things get hard.”

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, you thought he might argue. But then he nodded, his hands slipping down to rest on your waist. “I won’t,” he said, his tone resolute. “I promise.”

The weight of his words hung in the air between you, heavy with unspoken meaning. Slowly, he guided you backward until the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed. His hands were gentle as he lowered you onto the mattress, his body following yours in one fluid motion.

“I need you to understand something,” he said, his voice low as his fingers traced the curve of your cheek. “You’re not just someone I care about. You’ve become… essential to me. And that terrifies me.”

You reached up, threading your fingers through his dark hair. “You don’t have to be afraid,” you whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His lips found yours again, and this time the kiss deepened, the tenderness giving way to a slow-burning passion. His hands roamed your body with reverence, his touch igniting a fire in your veins.

Stephen’s kisses trailed down your neck, each press of his lips sending shivers through your body. His hands found the hem of your shirt, tugging it upward until you lifted your arms to let him pull it off. His eyes darkened as they roamed over your bare skin, his lips curving into a soft smile.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

You reached for his tunic, your fingers brushing against the fabric as you helped him pull it over his head. The sight of his bare chest—the lean muscles, the faint scars that marked his skin—made your breath hitch. You ran your hands over him, tracing the lines of his body with a mixture of curiosity and admiration.

Stephen’s lips found yours again as he lowered you back onto the bed, his hands moving to the waistband of your pants. He hesitated for a moment, his gaze meeting yours as if asking for permission. When you nodded, he slid them down, leaving you bare beneath him.

He paused, his eyes raking over your body with an intensity that made your cheeks flush. “You’re perfect,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your hands found the waistband of his pants, and he helped you push them down, leaving the two of you completely exposed. The weight of him above you, the warmth of his skin against yours, made your heart race.

Stephen kissed you again, his hands exploring every inch of your body. His touch was gentle, reverent, as though he was rediscovering you for the first time. His lips trailed down your neck, over your collarbone, and lower still, leaving a path of fire in their wake.

When he reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, his eyes meeting yours. “Tell me what you want,” he said, his voice a low growl.

Your breath hitched, your hands gripping the sheets beneath you. “I want you,” you whispered.

Stephen smirked, his lips brushing against your inner thigh. “You’ll have me,” he promised. “But not before I’ve had you.”

His mouth found you, his tongue moving in slow, deliberate strokes that made your back arch off the bed. You cried out his name, your fingers threading through his hair as he worked, his hands holding your hips steady. He teased you relentlessly, alternating between flicks of his tongue and gentle suction that drove you to the edge.

When his fingers joined the fray, sliding inside you with practiced precision, you nearly came undone. He curled them just right, hitting a spot that made your vision blur.

“Stephen, please,” you gasped, your body trembling beneath him.

He pulled back, his lips glistening as he smirked up at you. “Patience,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire.

You didn’t have time to protest before he shifted, pulling you up so that you were straddling his lap. His hands gripped your hips, guiding you as you sank onto him, the sensation overwhelming.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his head falling back as you began to move.

The rhythm started slow, his hands guiding your movements as your bodies found a perfect rhythm. His lips found yours again, the kiss messy and desperate as he whispered your name like a prayer.

The pace quickened, his hands roaming your body as he met each of your movements with a thrust of his own. You cried out his name, your nails digging into his shoulders as he flipped you onto your back.

He moved over you with a precision that spoke to his meticulous nature, his thrusts deep and deliberate. Every movement, every touch, was calculated to bring you as much pleasure as possible.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice rough as his hands gripped your thighs.

Your eyes met his, and the intensity of his gaze was enough to make your breath catch. His hand found yours, intertwining your fingers as he pressed your hands into the mattress above your head.

“You’re mine,” he growled, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he brought you closer and closer to the edge.

When you finally fell, the pleasure was overwhelming, your body trembling as his name spilled from your lips. He followed moments later, his body tensing above yours as he let out a hoarse cry.

The room was quiet now, save for the soft hum of your mingled breaths. Stephen’s body was still pressed against yours, his weight comforting rather than heavy. The warmth of his skin blanketed you, and the faint sheen of sweat on both your bodies caught the dim light filtering through the Sanctum’s heavy drapes.

Stephen’s face was buried in the crook of your neck, his breath tickling your skin. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence heavy with meaning. His arms tightened around you slightly, as though afraid you might slip away if he let go.

Your fingers moved lazily across the broad expanse of his back, tracing the lines of his muscles and the faint scars that marked his skin. “You’re quiet,” you said softly, your voice breaking the stillness.

He lifted his head, his eyes meeting yours. The usual sharpness in his gaze was softened now, replaced by something tender and unguarded. “I’m thinking,” he admitted, his voice hoarse but steady.

“About what?”

He hesitated, his thumb brushing absentmindedly over your hip. “About how close I came to losing this. To losing you.”

Your chest tightened at his words, and you reached up to cup his face, your fingers brushing against the faint stubble on his jaw. “You didn’t lose me, Stephen,” you said firmly. “I’m here.”

“For now,” he murmured, his gaze flickering down. “But I’ve learned the hard way that nothing stays forever. People leave. Or I drive them away.”

You frowned, your heart aching for him. “I’m not going anywhere,” you said, your tone resolute. “And you’re not going to drive me away. Not unless you push me.”

His lips twitched into a faint, self-deprecating smile. “That’s what I’m good at, isn’t it? Pushing people away.”

“Maybe,” you admitted. “But you’re also good at pulling them back when it matters.”

He exhaled a soft laugh, his forehead pressing against yours. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not,” you said, your voice softening. “But nothing worth having ever is.”

For a moment, he said nothing, his eyes searching yours as though trying to find some hidden truth. Then, without a word, he leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that was gentle and unhurried, filled with a quiet intensity that made your heart ache.

When he pulled back, he shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look at you more fully. His fingers trailed absentmindedly over your arm, the touch featherlight.

“What happens now?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled faintly, your hand brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “That’s up to us,” you said simply.

His lips curved into a small smile, and for the first time, you saw a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “Us,” he repeated, as though testing the word.

“Yes, us,” you said firmly.

The days that followed were a delicate balance, but there was a new openness between you and Stephen now. He was still Stephen—brilliant, stubborn, and frustratingly closed-off at times—but he was trying.

You caught him watching you more often, his gaze soft and contemplative, as though he were still trying to process the fact that you were there, that you weren’t going anywhere.

Wong noticed the change too, though he said nothing directly. Instead, he offered you a knowing smile when Stephen’s hand brushed yours during a conversation or when you caught him lingering in a room you were in, his presence silent but steady.

The case with the relic was eventually resolved. It was a reminder of the chaos and danger that would always be a part of your lives, but it was also a reminder of why you’d chosen to stay.

One evening, as you sat together in the Sanctum’s library, poring over a particularly complex text, Stephen reached for your hand. The gesture was subtle, almost hesitant, but when your fingers intertwined, he relaxed slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“You know,” he said, his voice low, “I never imagined myself capable of… this. Of being with someone.”

You looked at him, your heart swelling at the vulnerability in his tone. “You’re better at it than you think,” you said softly.

He chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. “I’ll take your word for it.”

As the firelight flickered across his features, you realized that while the road ahead might not be easy, it would be worth it.

For the first time in a long time, Stephen Strange wasn’t just surviving. He was living—and he was doing it with you by his side.

[duvetfawn]

Chapter IV

<Previous Chapter> | <Chapter Masterlist>

PAIRING: Professor!Benedict Cumberbatch x fem!reader

WARNINGS: Some eventual swearing. Nothing in particular.

WORD COUNT: 6.6k

A/N: I finally updated! These days I mainly focused on one-shots, as I enjoy writing them a lot. I will post a Dr. Strange one soon. Enjoy your reading!

The morning unfolded in slow, deliberate motions. You went through your routine—shower, coffee, a glance at the clock every few minutes—but your mind was far from present. Instead, it clinged to the email you received the night before, the one that managed to unravel your carefully maintained sense of calm.

Professor Cumberbatch’s words had been brief, stripped of any unnecessary pleasantries.

There had been no warmth in his tone, no invitation to feel at ease. Instead, it read like a summons, as though you were being called to stand trial rather than meet with an instructor. You had spent the night combing through every page of Crime and Punishment, devouring lecture notes as though your life depended on it, annotating feverishly to ensure you wouldn’t embarrass yourself. Still, the knot of tension in your stomach hasn’t loosened since.

Subject: Preliminary Meeting

Miss Andrews,

I have reviewed your request to attend my course. Before our first session, it is imperative that you acquaint yourself with the material. Specifically, Dostoevskij’s Crime and Punishment. Attached, you will find the syllabus and my lecture notes thus far.

We will meet tomorrow at 3:00 p.m., one hour before the course begins, in my office to assess your preparedness and address any concerns. Do not be late.

— Professor Benedict Cumberbatch

By 2:45 p.m., you found yourself standing outside his office door. The hallway was silent save for the faint hum of fluorescent lights. The nameplate on the door—Professor Benedict Cumberbatch, Department of Literature—glistened with an almost intimidating polish. You hesitated for a moment, clutching your notebook tightly, before raising your hand to knock.

“Come in.”

His voice carried through the wood—measured, low, and effortlessly commanding. You stepped inside, and the room was everything you imagined. The walls were lined with bookshelves, each one painstakingly organized, their spines a kaleidoscope of leather and faded titles. The scent of old paper and ink lingered in the air, grounding you as your gaze finally landed on him.

Professor Cumberbatch was seated behind his desk, pen poised in hand as though your knock barely warranted his attention. He finished scribbling something on the page before setting the pen down with deliberate precision. His sharp blue eyes finally lifted to meet yours, and in that instant, you felt as though every part of you was being scrutinized.

“Miss Andrews,” he said, his voice cool and detached. “You’re early.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, standing straighter. “I thought it best.”

He gestured to the chair across from him, and you sank into it, careful to maintain an air of composure. He studied you for a moment longer before leaning back in his chair.

“Have you reviewed the material I sent?”

“Yes,” you replied quickly, opening your notebook to reveal the dense web of annotations you made. “I’ve read Crime and Punishment and studied the lecture notes. I also highlighted some sections I thought were particularly relevant to your syllabus.”

His eyes flicked down to the open notebook, scanning your notes with an expression so neutral it borders on dismissive. “Good,” he says finally. “Then tell me: what do you make of Raskolnikov’s justification for his crime?”

There was no preamble, no warm-up question to ease into the discussion. He was testing you, and you knew it. You took a steadying breath, forcing yourself to focus.

“Raskolnikov believes his crime is justified by his theory of the ‘extraordinary man,’” you began, your voice steady despite the tension in the room. “He convinces himself that some individuals are above morality, that they can break societal laws for the greater good. But his guilt proves otherwise. He can’t reconcile his theory with his own humanity, and that internal conflict ultimately unravels him.”

A flicker of something—approval, maybe—crossed his face, but it was gone so quickly you wondered if you imagined it. He leaned forward slightly, his fingers steepled as he watched you.

“And Sonia?” he asked. “What role does she play in his so-called redemption?”

You hesitated, not because you didn’t know the answer, but because his gaze was so piercing it was as if he was dissecting your every thought before you could speak.

“Sonia represents the opposite of everything Raskolnikov stands for,” you said carefully. “Where he isolates himself with pride and intellectual arrogance, she is humble and self-sacrificing. She forces him to confront the parts of himself he tries to suppress—his guilt, his need for connection. Without her, I don’t think he could accept redemption.”

For a moment, silence hung between you. Then, to your surprise, the faintest hint of a smile touched the corner of his mouth.

“Not bad,” he said, his tone softening just enough to make you blink. “You’ve grasped the essence of the text, though your analysis of Sonia could be more nuanced.”

It was the closest thing to praise you’ve ever heard from him, and it left you momentarily off balance. He didn’t give you a chance to dwell on it, straightening and gesturing toward the clock on the wall.

“The course begins in fifteen minutes,” he said briskly. “You may go ahead to the lecture hall. I’ll join shortly.”

You stood, gathering your notebook. As you headed to the door, you paused, glancing back. He had already returned to his notes, pen in hand, as though the last hour hadn’t just altered the course of your life.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice quieter than you intended.

He didn’t look up, merely nodding in acknowledgment.

The walk to the lecture hall felt surreal, your thoughts a tangled mess of relief and intrigue. You took a seat in the middle of the room, your notebook open before you, though the words blur together. You replayed the conversation in your mind, analyzing every glance, every shift in his tone, searching for clues about what he might have thought of you.

When he entered the room, the energy changed. Conversations faded into silence as every head turned to follow him. He strided to the podium with an effortless authority, the same cold precision you’d felt in his office now amplified in the lecture hall.

As he began to speak, his voice steady and deliberate, you forced yourself to take notes, though your hand trembled slightly. At one point, his gaze swept across the room, and for a fleeting moment, it landed on you.

Your breath catched. It was a brief, unspoken acknowledgment that felt almost electric, gone before anyone else could notice. You quickly looked down at your notebook, gripping your pen tighter.

You only just began this course, but something told you that semester wouldn’t be anything like the ones that came before.

The classroom was filled with a quiet hum as Cumberbatch’s monotonous voice washed over the students, but you could sense the tension in the air. The topic of the day was the first chapter of Crime and Punishment, a brilliant piece of literature, yet his treatment of it was nothing short of clinical. You, however, were engrossed. You’d read and re-read the passage, thoroughly enjoying the deep dive into Raskolnikov’s psyche. It was, to you, an intellectual delight. The themes of guilt, morality, and the human condition stirred something in you, and for a moment, you almost forgot where you were.

Cassie, on the other hand, had her head resting in her hand, her blonde hair falling like a curtain over her frustrated face. She wasn’t even pretending to pay attention anymore. She never had much luck with literature like this—Crime and Punishment felt like an insurmountable wall to her. For Cassie, who was more the practical type, a dense psychological novel like this one seemed like a language she couldn’t quite grasp. She’d been visibly irritated since Cumberbatch had started, scribbling half-heartedly on her notes, trying to avoid his gaze.

Felix was sitting next to you, and he seemed to be holding up slightly better than Cassie. He wasn’t engaged, but at least he wasn’t visibly frustrated. He looked at you, mouthing a quick question, his brow furrowing in a mix of confusion and concern.

“Are we supposed to be focusing on Raskolnikov’s state of mind or the way Dostoevskij is framing his moral dilemma?” Felix whispered just loudly enough for you to hear, but not for Cumberbatch to notice. You could tell he was trying to make sense of the dense reading. He was one of those who wasn’t quite as adept with literature, but he tried, and you had to give him credit for that.

You glanced over at Felix, giving a small, reassuring smile. “I think it’s both. The way Dostoevskij presents Raskolnikov’s inner turmoil is key, but Cumberbatch will likely want us to focus on the moral aspects. He’s all about the philosophy behind it.”

Felix nodded, looking slightly more relieved but still unsure. You noticed that Cassie shot you both a quick glance, a faint but amused smile curving her lips. You could almost read her thoughts as she rolled her eyes. She was still not on the same page as the rest of you.

Felix tried his best to follow along with the professor’s lecture, his eyes flicking from his notes to the professor, and back to you for reassurance. Cassie, however, was openly rebelling against the whole affair. She whispered, “I swear, if I get another C on this, I’m going to lose it.” Her tone was bitter, but there was a dark humor to it too.

You wanted to offer her some support, but the environment in the room didn’t exactly encourage open conversation. Cumberbatch was pacing the front of the room, his presence somehow even more oppressive when he wasn’t speaking. You tried to keep your voice low, offering a soft reply. “Just stick with it, Cass. I know it’s tough, but the more you dig into the text, the clearer it’ll get.”

She didn’t seem convinced, but at least she didn’t push back. Her attention flickered momentarily back to Cumberbatch, who was still speaking about Raskolnikov’s disdain for the world around him. The professor’s voice was clinical and emotionless, almost as if the words had lost all their humanity. His lecture was devoid of warmth, even when talking about the most profound elements of Dostoevskij’s work. It was an academic dissection, stripped of any passion.

As you glanced at Felix again, you caught a brief moment where his eyes met yours. There was a fleeting understanding there—an acknowledgment of the absurdity of it all. The way Cumberbatch seemed to suck the life out of the material. But you knew Felix wasn’t one for voicing too much dissent, not like Cassie. He just took it in silence, hoping that somehow he’d pass, no matter how hard it seemed.

The lecture stretched on, and you found yourself more and more immersed in the text itself. You loved how Dostoevskij explored the fractured psyche of Raskolnikov, the way the first chapter delved into his conflicting thoughts, his inner justifications for his crime, and the growing sense of dread that overtook him. You could sense the weight of the guilt he would soon face, even if he wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge it. It was all so beautifully tragic, and you were itching to discuss it further. But, of course, you couldn’t. Not while Cumberbatch was present, his eyes like sharp daggers, ever watchful for any sign of rebellion or careless remarks.

Meanwhile, Cassie was shifting uncomfortably in her seat, her eyes darting to the clock. She knew she wasn’t getting it. She knew she was going to fail again.

“I can’t do this,” she whispered to you, as quiet as a mouse. You could feel the weight of her defeat in her voice. You didn’t have a good answer for her. You were good at this, but you knew how different everyone’s struggles were with the material. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen her sink into frustration.

Felix turned to you again, his voice barely above a whisper. “Do you think he’ll ask us about the moral dilemma? The whole ‘extraordinary man’ thing, or is he going to focus on the psychology of it all?”

“Probably both,” you answered, turning your attention back to Cumberbatch. He was pacing again, his sharp voice slicing through the air as he made a point about Raskolnikov’s belief that some people—those who were ‘extraordinary’—were above the law. You found it interesting that Cumberbatch didn’t seem to care much for the philosophical weight of the question, instead focusing only on the mental gymnastics Raskolnikov performs to justify his own crimes.

Cassie huffed, clearly losing patience. “Ugh, if he mentions that ‘extraordinary man’ thing one more time, I’m going to scream. I’m already failing, and now I have to worry about whether I’m ‘extraordinary’ or not.” She leaned back in her chair, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulder as she crossed her arms, sulking.

Felix shot her a sympathetic look, then glanced at you, giving you an expectant look. You could tell he was hoping you had some magic solution. But there was no magic here. Only the endless grind of trying to make sense of a professor who seemed to enjoy creating confusion instead of understanding.

Despite everything, though, you couldn’t help but feel a certain pull to the material. It was fascinating to watch Cumberbatch unravel the moral philosophy, even if he was doing so in his own cold, detached way. You felt like you were in a strange intellectual dance with him, navigating through Dostoevsky’s labyrinth, even though he didn’t seem interested in guiding you through it. It was a fight you were willing to engage in. It wasn’t about the grades; it was about the knowledge. But you knew, too, that the others weren’t quite as driven.

The class wore on, with more subtle whispers between you, Felix, and Cassie, as you all tried to make sense of it. You found yourself unable to shake the feeling that, despite the tension in the room, you were still playing this game better than anyone else. And even if your friends were struggling, at least you had the insight to see through the fog, to pull meaning from the dense words of Dostoevsky. But it wasn’t lost on you that in this strange, academic world, Cumberbatch had already marked you as different—a challenger to his quiet authority in the room.

The lecture continued, each minute feeling like it dragged longer than the last. Cumberbatch’s voice was steady and unwavering, dissecting the moral philosophy embedded within Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment with a precision that left little room for interpretation. His delivery, while cold and analytical, held a certain intensity—an intensity you couldn’t help but be drawn to. Unlike Felix and Cassie, who seemed to shut themselves off from the professor’s lectures, you found yourself captivated, eager to immerse yourself in the complexities of the text. His ability to lay out Raskolnikov’s inner turmoil in such a clear-cut way fascinated you, even if his emotional detachment sometimes left you yearning for a deeper, more nuanced conversation.

As he spoke, you stole a glance at Cassie. Her blonde hair was tangled messily around her face, her fidgeting betraying the clear frustration she was feeling. She was rolling her eyes, muttering under her breath whenever she thought Cumberbatch wasn’t paying attention, but it was no use. She had been struggling with the course from the very beginning, and it only seemed to be getting worse. Despite her usual exuberance, Cassie’s mood was a sharp contrast to the enthusiasm that had once defined her.

Felix, on the other hand, sat hunched over his desk, fingers drumming against the wood in a rhythmic pattern of frustration. The sarcasm he usually wore so comfortably had faded. Every so often, he would turn toward you, raising his eyebrows or giving you a look that conveyed how little he was absorbing. Felix had always found it hard to keep up with Cumberbatch’s cold, calculating way of teaching, and his growing frustration with the course was becoming more evident by the minute.

You, however, felt something different. Where your friends saw an unapproachable, distant professor, you saw someone who, beneath that frosty exterior, had a depth of knowledge and passion for the material that was impossible to ignore. You had come to admire Cumberbatch’s ability to dissect Crime and Punishment with such an exacting lens. His focus on Raskolnikov’s philosophical dilemma, the conflict between his desire for transcendence and the moral weight of his actions, resonated with you on a level that others just didn’t seem to grasp. You were beginning to understand the power of his teaching style, even if it wasn’t what Cassie or Felix appreciated.

But as the lecture continued, Cumberbatch’s eyes scanned the room with a sharp, calculating gaze. His piercing look swept over the class, pausing briefly on each student’s face, as though weighing whether they were paying attention, or whether they had succumbed to apathy. You couldn’t help but feel that, in some way, he was constantly testing you, evaluating your understanding of the material.

“Let’s delve deeper into Raskolnikov’s character,” Cumberbatch said, breaking the silence that had settled over the room. “What does his justification for murder reveal about his view on society? Is his theory of ‘extraordinary’ individuals something that could be applied to the real world, or is it a sign of his inherent instability?” His eyes locked with yours, waiting for a response.

You straightened up in your seat, heart beating slightly faster. There was something in the way he phrased the question, a subtle challenge buried within his words. You knew this wasn’t just a simple answer about the book—it was a way for him to gauge your depth of understanding. You leaned forward, fully aware of the weight of the question.

“Raskolnikov’s justification for murder is deeply tied to his alienation from society,” you began, choosing your words carefully. “He sees himself as above the law, an ‘extraordinary’ individual who can transcend moral boundaries for the greater good. His theory reflects a radical rejection of traditional moral constraints. But ultimately, this belief is a dangerous delusion. It’s not so much that he believes he’s above the law, but that he’s unable to reconcile his intellectual ideals with his emotional and moral self. It’s a manifestation of his inner turmoil—his instability.”

Cumberbatch’s eyes narrowed, a faint glimmer of something—whether approval or contemplation—it was hard to tell. He gave a small nod, as though considering your words.

“Interesting,” he muttered, his voice low but clear. “So, you would argue that Raskolnikov’s philosophical beliefs are a symptom of his inner conflict, rather than a clear-headed rationale for murder?” His tone was clinical, as though he was conducting an experiment and you were a specimen under the microscope.

“Yes,” you responded, the conviction in your voice surprising even yourself. “Raskolnikov’s belief that he’s above others is rooted in a deep-seated insecurity. His rejection of the law is an attempt to rationalize his own weakness, to create a framework in which he can justify his actions. But it’s unstable. He can’t fully escape the moral consequences of what he does.”

Cumberbatch leaned back slightly in his chair, his gaze unwavering. “And do you think his belief is entirely unique to him? Or could it be something that exists in others, albeit in different forms?”

You paused for a moment, mulling over the question. You had always believed that the core of Raskolnikov’s struggle was his isolation, his inability to connect with others. You saw it as an existential crisis, a personal reckoning that many might face in different ways, even if not so drastically. “I think it exists in others, though perhaps not in such extreme forms,” you said slowly. “The belief that one is somehow above society’s rules—whether it’s a direct rejection of law, or more subtle justifications for selfish actions—can emerge in anyone who feels disillusioned with the system or trapped by it. But Raskolnikov takes it to an extreme, believing that murder is justified for a higher cause.”

Cumberbatch’s lips quirked slightly, though it was hard to tell if he was impressed or merely evaluating. “Very well,” he said, turning his gaze to the rest of the class. “Anyone else care to weigh in on this?”

The rest of the class fell into a brief, awkward silence. You knew that most of your classmates were either too intimidated by Cumberbatch or too lost in their own confusion to contribute. Cassie was staring at the desk in front of her, her frustration mounting as she clenched her jaw, no doubt stewing over her inability to grasp what you were discussing so easily. Felix shifted uncomfortably in his seat, eyes glazed over.

But the focus shifted away from the class as Cumberbatch continued his lecture. He moved on to the philosophical implications of Raskolnikov’s actions, discussing the tension between theory and reality in Dostoevsky’s narrative. You remained immersed, following along, your mind buzzing with ideas and questions. The rhythm of Cumberbatch’s teaching, no matter how cold, was beginning to form a kind of structure in your own thinking. It felt like you were slowly piecing together a puzzle that no one else could see.

Cassie shot you a quick, frustrated glance, but you offered her a small, sympathetic smile. She shook her head in response, silently communicating that she was done trying to follow. Felix, too, seemed to have checked out, though he gave you an approving nod when Cumberbatch returned his attention to the rest of the class.

The rest of the lecture seemed to pass in a haze of intellectual fervor, each word from Cumberbatch drawing you deeper into the complexities of Crime and Punishment as though the novel itself had taken on a life of its own within the classroom. Your mind spun with new insights, while your classmates—Cassie and Felix, especially—remained mired in confusion. Cassie’s blonde hair, which had once glowed like sunshine in the lecture hall, now looked like a tangled mess as she sighed, repeatedly running her hands through it in frustration. Felix’s usual sharp humor was entirely absent, his gaze locked on his desk with a look that screamed exasperation. They hated the way the professor ran the class, how his cold exterior made him almost impossible to approach. But for you, it was different. There was a certain intellectual spark in his words that drew you closer, making you feel like you were engaging in an actual conversation, even if he barely acknowledged it.

Every time Cumberbatch’s eyes flicked over to you, there was an almost imperceptible pause, like he was checking to see if you were following him or if you’d be the one to speak next. You didn’t shy away from it—on the contrary, you leaned into it. Each time he posed a question or made a provocative statement about Raskolnikov’s philosophical dilemmas, your hand was the first to shoot up. You weren’t afraid to engage, and it felt as though you were gaining his respect with each response.

The tension between you and your friends was subtle but ever-present. As Cumberbatch’s lecture stretched on, you could feel the palpable discomfort in Felix’s posture—his arms crossed tightly, a faint scowl on his lips—and the almost physical distance between you and Cassie as she slouched further into her chair, eyes fixed firmly on the paper in front of her, where she was doodling aimlessly, likely to distract herself from the frustration mounting inside her.

It didn’t escape your notice that they rarely looked at you anymore. They were irritated by your enthusiasm for the class, though they never said it outright. Still, you could sense the subtle discomfort, especially from Cassie. Her resentment of the professor had only grown since the beginning of the semester, and now, it was almost as though she resented you, too, for the way you seemed to thrive in Cumberbatch’s presence.

Felix was quieter now, his sarcastic remarks stifled beneath his frustration. You knew he had never been good at hiding his displeasure, but even he seemed to have given up on finding humor in the situation. It was as though they had both resigned themselves to the fact that they didn’t understand what Cumberbatch was teaching, and no matter how many times they tried to voice their confusion, the professor never seemed to care enough to offer more clarity.

“You’re quite engaged in today’s lecture,” Cumberbatch remarked in his low, clipped tone, as though the words were meant only for you. He had been pacing the front of the room, lost in his own thoughts about Dostoevsky’s exploration of morality and human nature. When his eyes landed on you, there was that same faint, inscrutable look, like a challenge wrapped in quiet approval. “I appreciate that. Most of the class has been… shall we say, distracted.”

Cassie’s eyes shot up at the mention of the word “distracted,” and her jaw tightened as she met your gaze. You knew she didn’t like being singled out, especially not when Cumberbatch made it clear she was struggling to grasp the material. Felix, too, shifted uncomfortably, though his expression remained neutral, almost dismissive. But you didn’t feel the need to defend yourself. You simply nodded, maintaining eye contact with the professor, aware that his praise came with an unspoken challenge.

“Yes, Professor,” you said, your voice steady and composed. “I think the themes of moral degradation in Crime and Punishment are particularly compelling. Raskolnikov’s descent into madness isn’t just about his crime—it’s about the philosophy that fuels it. His inability to reconcile his theory with the reality of human emotions, guilt, and remorse makes his justification for murder completely unstable.”

Cumberbatch’s gaze seemed to linger on you just a bit longer than before, his lips curling slightly, though his face remained impassive. “Interesting,” he said, his voice cool but laced with something that resembled… approval? You couldn’t be sure. “And how does this philosophical conflict relate to the more practical aspects of the story? How do Raskolnikov’s interactions with others—the people he encounters—serve to challenge or reinforce his beliefs?”

You thought for a moment, careful to piece together your answer. “Raskolnikov’s interactions with people like Sonia and Marmeladov are crucial to his internal conflict,” you replied, feeling a spark of excitement as you spoke. “They represent the humanity that Raskolnikov is trying to distance himself from, the moral compass he denies but can’t fully escape. Sonia’s self-sacrifice and moral clarity challenge his intellectual justifications. And in his mind, people like her only reinforce his belief that the world is divided into the ‘ordinary’ and the ‘extraordinary.’ But, ultimately, it’s Sonia who cracks his façade. Her forgiveness is the catalyst for his eventual collapse.”

Cumberbatch didn’t respond immediately, instead allowing a long, thoughtful pause to fill the air. His eyes never left you as he continued to weigh your words. For a moment, it felt like you were the only one in the room, and the lecture had ceased to be a mere discussion of Dostoevsky’s novel. It felt personal—intense, almost.

“You’ve captured it well,” he finally said, his voice slightly softer than usual, though still commanding. “Raskolnikov’s belief in the superiority of his theory is shattered by his interaction with others. It is in these interactions that he’s forced to confront the very humanity he wishes to escape. There’s power in that confrontation. More than Raskolnikov understands.”

You nodded, though his words lingered in your mind. There was something about his analysis, something in the way he looked at you, that made you feel like he wasn’t just lecturing. It felt more like he was speaking directly to you—inviting you to understand Raskolnikov not just as a character in a book, but as a reflection of something deeper, something that transcended the text itself.

The moment passed, and Cumberbatch moved on, his next question directed toward the rest of the class, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that this conversation—this exchange—was far from over. Cassie shot you a quick glance, the flicker of annoyance still evident in her eyes, and Felix gave you a small, tight-lipped smile, though it was unclear whether it was meant to be encouraging or sarcastic.

But for you, the moment held something different. It was clear now, more than ever, that you and Cumberbatch were beginning to share a deeper understanding—one that went beyond the classroom. You weren’t just answering questions in a cold, detached lecture hall anymore. You were engaging with him, and that connection was something neither Felix nor Cassie could understand.

“Remember,” Cumberbatch said, his tone authoritative, “the crux of Crime and Punishment lies not in the act of murder itself but in the mind of the murderer, the ethical philosophy that drives it, and the inevitable disintegration of that mind under the weight of guilt. We’ll continue to explore these themes next week.”

There was a brief silence as everyone gathered their belongings, the only sounds the rustle of papers and the soft click of laptop screens closing. You glanced at Felix and Cassie—Cassie, as expected, had already begun muttering under her breath, likely cursing both the class and her luck with it. Felix, on the other hand, still looked as though he was wrestling with a million thoughts, his gaze far off and distant. Neither seemed particularly eager to talk, but they both knew you well enough to understand that you’d been thriving in Cumberbatch’s environment.

Felix gave you a fleeting glance, an almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It wasn’t the sarcastic, mocking grin he often wore after a class he thought was a waste of time. This one was more sincere, tinged with a slight sense of amusement—or maybe resignation. “Looks like you’re his favorite now, huh?” he muttered low enough for only you to hear, his voice soft but filled with that familiar hint of teasing.

You rolled your eyes, but there was no malice in your response. “Don’t be ridiculous,” you said quietly, knowing full well Felix’s half-joking jab was a defense mechanism. He wasn’t used to seeing you thrive in something you were so clearly passionate about, and the idea that you were somehow slipping away from him, aligning yourself with a professor he despised, seemed to irk him.

Meanwhile, Cassie, who had been busy stuffing her things into her bag, let out a loud sigh as she shot you a pointed look. “I don’t get it,” she said bluntly, not bothering to keep her voice low. “He’s such a… a pompous jerk. Why are you so into him? You’ve read the book a million times, so I get that, but he’s not exactly easy to, I don’t know, get along with.” Her words hung in the air, tinged with frustration and something else—jealousy, perhaps? She didn’t really understand how you could find Cumberbatch’s coldness stimulating, but that was precisely what had drawn you in. His aloofness only added to the intensity of the class, and his ability to challenge you, to make you think in ways you hadn’t expected, felt like a rare opportunity.

You shot her a quick, understanding glance, feeling the unspoken tension between the three of you. “He’s just… different,” you replied, your voice steady. “It’s not about liking him as a person—it’s about the way he makes us see things in a new light. Sometimes that’s more valuable than just being ‘liked.’” You could feel Cassie’s glare intensify but chose to ignore it, opting instead to pack your own things.

As you stood up to leave, you noticed Cumberbatch standing at the front of the room, seemingly lost in his thoughts. He was scanning a few papers, not paying attention to the students filing out. But just before you turned to join your friends, he caught your eye. His gaze held yours for a beat longer than usual, an unspoken acknowledgment passing between you. For a fleeting moment, it felt like you were the only two left in the room. It wasn’t warm, exactly—not the kind of acknowledgment that made you feel welcome or valued—but it was something deeper. Something that spoke to an understanding, a shared intellectual connection that no one else in the room could see or experience.

You stood there for a moment, caught between leaving with your friends or taking that extra second to savor the subtle but meaningful exchange. Finally, you broke the stare and turned, joining Felix and Cassie as they made their way toward the door. As you walked past Cumberbatch, you could still feel his presence, his silent attention on you. It was both unnerving and exhilarating in equal measure.

Outside the classroom, the air felt different—charged, perhaps, with the weight of the discussion you’d just had, or with the awkward tension between you and your friends. Felix walked beside you, his face still unreadable, but Cassie’s posture was stiff, her body language a clear sign of her frustration. You knew this wouldn’t be the last time they’d voice their discontent with the class or the professor. And yet, part of you found it hard to care. You’d never felt more connected to the material, and even more so to the professor who had been an enigma since day one.

As the three of you exited the building, the cold air of the late afternoon hit you, but it felt oddly refreshing after the stuffy intensity of the lecture hall. You took a deep breath, knowing this would likely be the first of many more such encounters with Cumberbatch. You were more than prepared for it.

The walk back to your apartment was a quiet one. Cassie kept her distance, walking slightly ahead of you and Felix, her usual energy subdued, likely from her growing frustration with both the course and, particularly, Cumberbatch. Felix walked beside you, his shoulders hunched as if he was already bracing himself for the inevitable conversation that would happen once you got home.

As you reached the front door of your apartment building, Felix gave you a sideways glance. “Are you really going to keep playing this game with him?” he asked, his voice laced with a mixture of disbelief and concern. “I mean, I get that you want to excel, but you’re not going to get anything out of it if he keeps treating you like some sort of… puzzle to be solved.”

You didn’t answer immediately, taking a moment to unlock the door. His words stung a little, but you knew Felix’s tendency to overreact. “I’m not playing a game,” you said softly. “I just think there’s something more to him. And… I don’t know. I feel like I understand his approach better than you do. You’re both too focused on the way he treats you—”

Cassie, having already opened the door to your shared apartment, whipped around sharply. Her expression was a blend of frustration and something else—maybe jealousy. She crossed her arms, her blonde hair falling in a perfect curtain around her shoulders. “You don’t get it, do you? He doesn’t treat anyone well. And you’re just letting him get away with it,” she snapped. “It’s not about what he’s teaching. He’s just a pompous jerk, and he’s going to end up ruining your grade just like he ruined mine.”

You paused, looking between Felix and Cassie. You could feel the tension growing, and the last thing you wanted was for it to escalate, but it was hard to ignore how their frustrations had been festering since that first lecture.

“I don’t think he’s trying to ruin anyone,” you said, keeping your voice steady, though it had a slightly defensive edge. “You two aren’t the only ones who’ve had issues with him. I’m not saying he’s perfect, but he’s teaching in a way that makes me think. And isn’t that the whole point?”

Cassie snorted, clearly annoyed. “Look, I don’t care how much you try to defend him, but I’m telling you, he’s no different from every other professor who thinks they’re above everyone else. And I’ve had enough of it.”

Felix sighed, rubbing his temples as he flopped down onto the couch. “Great. This is going to be one of those weeks again, huh?” His tone was dry, but you could sense the weariness in it.

You didn’t want to fight. Not today. Not when you still had the lingering warmth of Cumberbatch’s subtle attention in your mind, his unspoken acknowledgment that made your pulse quicken. It was the kind of thing you couldn’t easily explain to Felix or Cassie, who were both too caught up in their disdain for the professor to see the allure in the challenge he presented.

You made your way into the kitchen, trying to break the tension with the routine of making tea. You knew Cassie and Felix were still processing the class, the professor, and the odd sense of distance that had been growing between you and them. But as the tea steeped, you couldn’t help but wonder if this was just the beginning. Cumberbatch’s cryptic remarks, the way he lingered just a little too long in his gaze, the undercurrent of something more… it made you crave another conversation with him.

As you poured the tea into mugs, Cassie followed you into the kitchen, her arms still crossed. “You’re being too naive,” she said, her voice softer now but still tinged with frustration. “You don’t see it, do you? He’s using you to make himself feel superior.”

You paused, the mug halfway to the counter. Her words cut, and you weren’t sure how to respond. Maybe there was some truth in what she said. But part of you also wondered if you were being too aware. What if Cumberbatch wasn’t just a professor trying to manipulate his students? What if he genuinely saw something in you, something that intrigued him just as much as it intrigued you?

“I don’t think he’s using me,” you finally replied, setting the mug down. “I just… I don’t know. I think he’s challenging me in ways no one else does. And it’s hard to explain, but I feel like there’s something more there.”

Cassie let out a long sigh, her expression softening just a little. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt,” she muttered, her gaze shifting toward the window. “He’s trouble. All those professors are. They don’t care about us—they just care about proving how much smarter they are.”

You turned to her, your mind drifting back to that exchange in the lecture hall—the way Cumberbatch had asked you the questions that no one else dared to ask, the way he had sought your answers and listened. It wasn’t like the other professors who rushed through material, barely acknowledging the students who contributed.

But you knew, deep down, that Cassie was only saying these things because she cared. Even if she didn’t understand why you were drawn to Cumberbatch, she still wanted to protect you. You could appreciate that, even if you didn’t fully agree with her.

“I’m not blind,” you said quietly, lifting the mug to your lips. “I can handle it.”

Cassie didn’t respond immediately. She just watched you for a moment, her eyes softening as if she were trying to gauge whether you truly understood what she was saying. Eventually, she sighed and pushed away from the counter. “I hope so,” she muttered before heading back into the living room.

You stood there for a moment, the weight of her words settling over you. As you slowly sipped your tea, you couldn’t help but wonder what tomorrow’s lecture would bring. Would Cumberbatch continue to push you further, to challenge you in ways you hadn’t anticipated? Would you find yourself growing closer to him, or would that distance between you and your friends only grow wider?

One thing was certain: you were ready for whatever came next.

[duvetfawn]

A Case to Die For

- Masterlist

INTRODUCTION: The bones told stories only you could read. As an anthropologist, you were brought in to assist on a chilling case—a serial killer carving intricate patterns into the bones of his victims. It was meant to be about the work, about solving the mystery. But then you met Sherlock Holmes. Brilliant, maddening, and utterly magnetic, he challenged you at every turn. The case pulled you both into the depths of human depravity, but it was the tension between you and the detective that threatened to consume you entirely.

PAIRING: Sherlock x fem!reader

WARNINGS: This story contains SMUT (it's at the end, I put a warning before the scenes), MDNI, oral sex (both receiving), fingering, vaginal sex (different position), cursing, etc.

WORD COUNT: 5.7k

A/N: Hello people! I've had this idea for a while. As you may have guessed I enjoy writing one-shots quite a lot. Don't worry though, I'll update my main story soon. Sorry about grammar mistakes (if there are any). Enjoy your reading!

The knock at the door was brisk, almost impatient.

You glanced at the worn numbers marking the address—221B Baker Street—and adjusted the strap of your bag, the weight of the files inside pulling at your shoulder. The letter from Detective Inspector Lestrade, which had summoned you here, was crumpled in your coat pocket, and you briefly considered turning back. You weren’t sure what unnerved you more: the gruesome details of the case you’d been asked to consult on or the man you were about to meet.

The door swung open before you could knock again.

Sherlock Holmes stood in the doorway, taller than you’d expected, his lean frame emphasized by a dark suit that seemed tailored to the millimeter. His sharp cheekbones caught the light filtering in from the window behind him, and his piercing blue eyes swept over you with clinical detachment.

“Finally,” he said, stepping aside to let you in. “You’re late.”

“I was told noon,” you replied, stepping into the cozy yet cluttered sitting room. The air smelled faintly of tea and books, with an undertone of something more chemical.

“It’s five past,” he said, his tone clipped as he gestured toward the couch. “Sit. Let’s get this over with.”

“Charming,” you muttered under your breath, but you complied, placing your bag beside you.

As you settled in, Sherlock was already pacing, his eyes darting over you like a scanner. He tilted his head slightly, as if piecing together a puzzle. “Forensic anthropologist. Academic background, but you’ve spent time in the field—South America, recently, given the faint traces of mosquito bites on your arms. You’re meticulous, perhaps overly so. Single—though not by choice. No pets. Late nights working have left shadows under your eyes. Addicted to caffeine. And—”

You cut him off before he could continue. “I drink tea, not coffee. And I left South America three months ago, not recently.”

Sherlock stopped mid-step, his lips twitching upward into a faint, almost imperceptible smirk.

“Impressive,” came a voice from behind you. Turning, you saw Dr. John Watson standing in the doorway, arms crossed and a warm smile on his face. “Not many people interrupt Sherlock.”

“Someone has to,” you replied, shooting a pointed look at Holmes.

John chuckled. “Well, you’ll fit in just fine here.”

“Enough pleasantries,” Sherlock interrupted, his smirk fading as quickly as it had appeared. He moved to a cluttered desk piled high with books, papers, and vials of indeterminate substances. “Lestrade claims you have insights into the carvings on the bones. Show me.”

You bristled slightly at his abrupt tone but reached into your bag, pulling out the folder containing photographs of the remains. You set it on the table, and Sherlock was on it immediately, his fingers quick and precise as he flipped through the images.

“These carvings,” you began, pointing to one of the photographs, “aren’t just random marks. They’re runic, but not purely historical. Someone’s added their own cipher to them, which is why no one’s been able to decode them yet.”

Sherlock didn’t look at you, but his lips parted slightly, and he let out a low hum of interest.

“They’re not just decorative,” you continued. “They’re instructions—or warnings. And they’re meant to mislead.”

“Fascinating,” Sherlock murmured, finally glancing up. His gaze was intense, the weight of it almost physical. “And you’ve decoded these… instructions?”

“Not yet,” you admitted. “But I’ve narrowed down the language and symbolism to something that originates from Norse mythology. Whoever is behind this knows their history but is using it to obscure their true intent.”

Sherlock straightened, his tall frame towering over you as he considered your words. Then, without warning, he turned to John. “Get the laptop. Now.”

John sighed, muttering something under his breath as he retrieved the requested item. “You could at least say please once in a while, you know.”

Sherlock ignored him, his attention already back on you. “Your methodology. Show me.”

You opened your own notebook, flipping to a page filled with notes, sketches, and translations. As you explained your process, Sherlock’s eyes darted between your notes and the photographs, his brow furrowing in concentration.

“You’re thorough,” he said finally, his voice softer than before. “Almost obsessively so.”

“I have to be,” you replied, meeting his gaze. “Lives depend on it.”

His lips twitched again, as if he were on the verge of another smirk, but he turned away abruptly, the moment passing.

Hours passed as the three of you worked. The initial stiffness between you and Sherlock began to dissolve, replaced by a grudging respect. John chimed in occasionally with practical observations, but most of the time, it was you and Sherlock, your minds sparking off one another as you dissected every detail of the case.

The bones belonged to multiple victims, all of whom had vanished under mysterious circumstances. The carvings on the remains suggested a connection to a cult, one that used ancient rituals as a cover for their crimes.

As the day wore on, the atmosphere in the room grew heavier. The implications of the case were grim, and the pressure to find the killer mounted with every passing moment.

It was well past midnight when John finally stretched and stood. “I’m calling it a night. Some of us need sleep, you know.” He clapped Sherlock on the shoulder, then glanced at you. “Good luck keeping up with him. He’ll be at this all night.”

You smiled faintly as John left, but the tension in the room remained.

“You should go, too,” Sherlock said, not looking up from his laptop.

“I’m staying,” you replied firmly. “This case doesn’t just affect you, Sherlock. I’m involved now, whether I like it or not.”

He glanced at you then, his blue eyes narrowing slightly. “Stubborn.”

You shrugged. “Dedicated.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, unexpectedly, Sherlock’s lips curved into a genuine smile. It was fleeting, but it transformed his sharp features into something softer, more human.

As the hours dragged on, the weight of exhaustion began to set in. You leaned back against the sofa, stretching your legs as Sherlock continued to pace the room, his mind clearly racing.

“Do you ever stop?” you asked, your voice tinged with amusement.

“Rarely,” he replied without missing a beat.

You watched him for a moment, noting the way his dark curls caught the dim light and the way his sharp jawline flexed as he mulled over the case. He was undeniably striking, but there was something more captivating about the way his mind worked—relentless, brilliant, and entirely singular.

“You should sleep,” he said abruptly, breaking the silence.

“So should you.”

He stopped pacing, his piercing gaze locking onto yours. “I can’t.”

The honesty in his voice surprised you. For a moment, you saw beyond the genius and arrogance to the man underneath—a man burdened by the weight of his own mind.

“Sherlock…” you began, but he shook his head.

“Don’t,” he said quietly, almost pleading.

You didn’t press further, but the moment lingered, the air between you charged with unspoken words.

The silence stretched between you and Sherlock, thick with unspoken thoughts. He returned to pacing, the sharp lines of his face etched with concentration.

You rose from the sofa, crossing to the table where the photographs of the bones lay spread out. The weight of the case had settled heavily on your shoulders. The carvings weren’t just the work of a killer—they were the work of someone meticulous, someone who enjoyed leaving a trail, daring others to follow.

“Why bones?” you murmured, half to yourself.

“What?” Sherlock’s voice cut through the room, sharp and sudden.

“Why bones?” you repeated, turning to face him. “The killer could’ve left messages in any number of ways. Why carve them into bones? It’s labor-intensive, messy, and… personal.”

Sherlock’s expression shifted, his eyes narrowing as he considered your words. “Because they want us to see the victims as something more than flesh. Bones are timeless. Eternal. To them, this is art.”

The thought made your stomach churn. “So we’re dealing with an egotist. Someone who wants to be remembered.”

“Exactly.” Sherlock’s lips curved into a grim smile. He stepped closer, his movements fluid and purposeful. “And egotists always leave clues. They want to be found—eventually. It’s a game to them.”

You nodded, your mind already racing ahead. “But the runes—there’s a pattern. I don’t think they’re random.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up, a spark of excitement flickering in their depths. “Show me.”

You reached for your notebook, flipping to the page where you’d sketched out the carvings. As you explained your theory, Sherlock leaned in, his proximity making the air between you hum with tension. You could feel the heat of him, the sharpness of his gaze as he absorbed every word you said.

When you finished, he straightened, a rare look of approval crossing his face. “You’re good,” he said simply.

“Better than you expected?” you shot back, unable to resist the jab.

His lips twitched. “Much.”

Hours later, the two of you stood side by side at the kitchen counter, a map of London spread out before you. You’d identified a pattern in the runes—coordinates, perhaps, or some kind of geographical marker.

“Here,” you said, pointing to a section of the map. “The killer’s movements trace a path through these locations. They’re circling something.”

Sherlock leaned over your shoulder, his hand brushing yours as he followed your line of sight. “They’re closing in on a central point,” he murmured. “A hub. But what?”

Before you could respond, the sound of the door opening interrupted you. John stepped into the room, his expression curious.

“You two still at it?” he asked, his gaze flicking between you and Sherlock.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, not looking up.

John sighed. “Of course you are. Did either of you eat? Sleep? Do anything remotely human?”

“I had tea,” you offered.

John shook his head. “Right. Well, if you need me, I’ll be in my room. Try not to burn the flat down.”

As John left, Sherlock straightened, his attention fully on the map once more. “We’re close,” he said, more to himself than to you. “I can feel it.”

It was well past three in the morning when the breakthrough came. You’d been poring over the map, exhaustion tugging at the edges of your mind, when Sherlock suddenly froze.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“What?”

He grabbed the map, pointing to a section near the Thames. “The carvings aren’t just coordinates. They’re dates. Look—each location corresponds to a disappearance, and the runes indicate the order.”

You stared at the map, your pulse quickening. “So the central point…”

“Is where the killer will strike next.”

The realization sent a jolt of adrenaline through you. But before you could react, Sherlock turned to you, his expression serious. “You’re staying here.”

You blinked, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“It’s too dangerous,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “The killer knows who you are. If you come with me, you’ll be a target.”

“And you won’t?” you shot back. “Sherlock, I’m not staying behind while you run off to confront a murderer alone.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might argue. But then his shoulders slumped slightly, and he sighed. “You’re insufferable,” he muttered.

“And you’re overbearing,” you replied, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

The tension between you remained thick as you prepared to leave for the central location. Sherlock was quiet, his usual sharp remarks absent as he packed a small bag with tools and evidence.

“You’re worried,” you said softly, breaking the silence.

He glanced at you, his blue eyes unreadable. “I’m always worried.”

“About me?”

His gaze lingered on you, and for a moment, the mask he wore slipped. “Yes,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

The admission hung in the air, heavy and charged. You stepped closer, your heart pounding. “Sherlock…”

He didn’t move, his tall frame unnervingly still. Then, slowly, he reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek. “I can’t afford distractions,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“I’m not a distraction,” you said, your voice steady.

His lips curved into a faint smile, and before you could react, he closed the distance between you. His kiss was sudden and consuming, all the tension and frustration of the past days boiling over in a single, electrifying moment.

The kiss lingered for a moment—unspoken emotions breaking through the controlled veneer that Sherlock so carefully maintained. But just as quickly as it began, he pulled back, his sharp features hardening as if he’d remembered himself.

“This is a distraction,” he muttered, turning away abruptly.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “A distraction?” you echoed, your voice edged with disbelief. “You kissed me, Sherlock.”

“And I shouldn’t have,” he said, his tone clipped. He grabbed the map from the table, his long fingers gripping it tightly. “The case comes first.”

You felt a flush of anger rise in your chest. “You don’t get to decide what’s important for both of us. I’m here because I want to be.”

Sherlock turned to you then, his blue eyes flashing with something you couldn’t quite place—anger, perhaps, or something deeper. “And what happens if you get hurt?” he snapped.

“I could say the same to you,” you shot back, stepping closer. “You’re not invincible, Sherlock.”

For a moment, the two of you stood there, the tension between you crackling like static electricity. But before either of you could speak again, Sherlock’s phone buzzed on the table.

He snatched it up, his expression darkening as he read the message. “Lestrade,” he said shortly. “There’s been another body.”

The air was cold and damp as you arrived at the scene, the faint mist of the Thames clinging to your skin. Lestrade met you both at the edge of a cordoned-off area, his face grim.

“Another one,” he said, nodding toward the forensics team working under a floodlight. “Same carvings. Same precision. This one was left out in the open, though—almost like they wanted us to find it.”

Sherlock pushed past him without a word, his long coat billowing behind him. You followed closely, your heart pounding as you approached the body.

The victim was laid out on the ground, their arms folded across their chest in a disturbingly serene pose. The runes were etched deep into their skin, trailing up their arms and across their torso.

“Another message,” Sherlock murmured, crouching beside the body. His fingers hovered over the carvings, his sharp eyes scanning every detail.

You knelt beside him, your stomach twisting at the sight. “It’s different,” you said, pointing to a series of symbols near the victim’s collarbone. “These weren’t on the last body.”

Sherlock tilted his head, his expression sharp. “A variation in the pattern,” he said softly. “Why?”

“Because they’re escalating,” you replied. “The killer’s becoming bolder, more confident. They’re taunting us.”

Sherlock’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Or they’re telling us exactly where to find them.”

Lestrade approached, his hands shoved into his pockets. “Anything?”

Sherlock stood, his tall frame casting a long shadow over the scene. “Yes. The killer is leaving breadcrumbs—and we’re about to follow them.”

Back at 221B, the two of you worked furiously to decipher the new symbols. The atmosphere in the flat was charged, the earlier tension between you and Sherlock now overshadowed by the urgency of the case.

“These markings,” Sherlock muttered, pacing the room. “They’re not just coordinates. They’re a challenge—a riddle.”

You stared at the notes spread out before you, your mind racing. “It’s a location,” you said suddenly, the pieces clicking into place. “The symbols form a map—a rough one, but it’s there.”

Sherlock stopped pacing, his piercing gaze locking onto yours. “Show me.”

You grabbed a pen, sketching out the pattern of the runes and overlaying them onto the map of London. It was crude, but the alignment was unmistakable.

“Here,” you said, pointing to a spot near the outskirts of the city. “An abandoned warehouse. It’s isolated, easy to control. If I were them, that’s where I’d be.”

Sherlock’s lips curved into a rare smile—one that sent a jolt of electricity through you. “Brilliant,” he said, his voice low and almost reverent.

Your breath caught, but you quickly pushed the moment aside. “So, what’s the plan?”

“We go,” Sherlock said simply. “And we end this.”

The warehouse loomed before you, its broken windows and rusted exterior shrouded in darkness. You could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on you as you and Sherlock stepped inside, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the empty space.

“Stay close,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

You nodded, your heart pounding as you followed him deeper into the building. The air was thick with the scent of damp and decay, and every creak of the floorboards set your nerves on edge.

Then, you saw it—a figure standing in the shadows, their face obscured.

“Mr. Holmes,” the figure said, their voice smooth and cold. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Sherlock stepped forward, his posture rigid. “And here I thought you’d try harder to hide.”

The figure chuckled, a low, unsettling sound. “Why would I hide? This is my masterpiece, Mr. Holmes. And you’re the final audience.”

You felt Sherlock’s hand brush against yours—a silent reassurance. Your pulse quickened, but you held your ground, ready for whatever came next.

Sherlock’s hand brushed against yours again, a fleeting touch, but it steadied you. His blue eyes flicked toward you for the briefest of moments, and you nodded, understanding his unspoken command to stay close.

The figure stepped forward, their face finally illuminated by the dim light filtering through the broken windows. A man, tall and gaunt, with sharp cheekbones and a glint of madness in his eyes. His hands were clasped in front of him, as if he were a host welcoming guests to a party.

“You’re braver than I expected,” the man said, his voice eerily calm. “I didn’t think you’d come here so willingly.”

Sherlock tilted his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “You’ve been practically begging for my attention. Did you think I wouldn’t come?”

The man’s smile faltered, his eyes narrowing. “And you’ve brought company,” he said, his gaze shifting to you. “How… quaint.”

You stiffened under his scrutiny, but Sherlock stepped slightly in front of you, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “She’s not your concern.”

“Oh, but she is,” the man said, his smile returning. “She’s part of this now. Part of my design.”

Sherlock’s expression darkened, his hands clenching at his sides. “Your design is flawed,” he said coldly. “You think yourself a mastermind, but you’re nothing more than a petty narcissist playing with symbols you barely understand.”

The man’s smile vanished, replaced by a flicker of anger. “You don’t know me, Holmes. You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

“I know enough,” Sherlock replied, his voice like ice. “You carve your messages into bones because you crave permanence. You want the world to remember you, but you don’t understand what true brilliance looks like. You’re a coward hiding behind theatrics.”

The man lunged forward, his face twisted with rage. But Sherlock was faster. He moved with a precision that took your breath away, sidestepping the attack and pinning the man against the wall in one swift motion.

“You’ve made your last mistake,” Sherlock hissed, his voice low and dangerous. “This game is over.”

The man struggled, but Sherlock held him firm, his tall frame towering over the killer. You felt a surge of relief mixed with admiration as you watched him work, his sharp mind and physical prowess in perfect sync.

It wasn’t until the police arrived that the weight of the confrontation truly hit you. The man was dragged away in handcuffs, his defiance replaced by a sullen silence. Lestrade patted Sherlock on the shoulder, muttering something about a job well done, but Sherlock barely acknowledged him.

Instead, his attention was on you.

“You’re shaking,” he said quietly, his piercing gaze softening as he stepped closer.

You hadn’t even noticed until he pointed it out. The adrenaline that had carried you through the night was fading, leaving behind a hollow ache in your chest.

“I’m fine,” you said, though your voice wavered.

“No, you’re not.”

Sherlock’s hands were on your shoulders before you could protest, his touch firm but gentle. He guided you away from the chaos, into the quiet corner of the warehouse where the shadows offered a semblance of privacy.

“You shouldn’t have been here,” he said, his voice low. “I shouldn’t have let you come.”

“I had to be here,” you replied, meeting his gaze. “You needed me.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, you thought he might argue. But then his hands tightened on your shoulders, and something in his expression shifted—something raw and vulnerable.

“I did need you,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

The confession hung in the air, heavy with meaning. You felt your breath catch as he stepped closer, his blue eyes locked onto yours.

The first kiss had been a crack in the wall. This one was the collapse.

The warehouse was silent save for the echo of your hurried breaths. The tension in the air had reached a breaking point, and when Sherlock’s lips crashed into yours, it was like a dam breaking.

The kiss was urgent, heated, his hands coming up to cup your face with an uncharacteristic lack of control. His body pressed into yours, pinning you against the cold, dusty wall. His lips were surprisingly soft, but his movements were anything but gentle. His teeth grazed your lower lip, his tongue slipping past as he deepened the kiss, leaving no doubt about the desperation behind it.

Your hands found their way into his hair, tangling in the dark curls you’d wanted to touch far longer than you cared to admit. A low groan escaped him as you pulled him closer, the sound vibrating through you.

But just as quickly as it started, he pulled back, his breath ragged, his blue eyes dark with something primal.

“This isn’t the place,” he said, his voice strained, but his hands remained on you, his thumb brushing over your jaw as if he couldn’t quite let go.

You nodded, your chest heaving, unable to form words.

He stepped back reluctantly, running a hand through his hair as he tried to collect himself. “Come to Baker Street.”

It wasn’t a request.

You followed him outside, the cold night air doing little to cool the fire raging beneath your skin. The drive to 221B was a blur—Sherlock barely spoke, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, the tension between you palpable.

By the time you arrived, the front door was barely closed before he had you pressed against it, his lips on yours once more. This time, there was no hesitation, no restraint. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him, and you could feel just how affected he was.

“Upstairs,” he murmured against your lips, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down your spine.

You didn’t argue, letting him guide you up the narrow staircase to his flat, every step building the anticipation to a breaking point.

Sherlock’s lips were everywhere—your neck, your jaw, your collarbone. His hands roamed with purpose, as if memorizing every curve of your body. But it wasn’t hurried. There was an uncharacteristic tenderness in his movements, a contrast to the raw hunger in his kisses.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and strained, as if he couldn’t believe the words were leaving his mouth.

The sound of him—usually so controlled and precise—undone in this moment sent a jolt of heat through you.

You let your hands roam over his chest, marveling at the lean muscle beneath his pale skin, the way his body seemed almost sculpted, yet undeniably real. He was all sharp lines and ridges, a perfect contradiction of strength and vulnerability.

“Sherlock,” you breathed, his name tumbling from your lips without thought.

He paused at the sound, his head lifting to meet your gaze. His blue eyes were blown wide with desire, yet there was something else in them too—something softer.

“I’ve thought about this,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “More than I care to admit.”

Your breath caught. “And?”

His lips quirked into a small, almost shy smile—so unlike him it made your heart ache. “And now that I have you, I’m not sure I’ll ever let you go.”

The vulnerability in his words stole your breath, but before you could respond, he was on you again—his lips searing against yours as if he couldn’t stand the distance for another second.

He guided you to the bed in the corner of the flat, his hands never leaving your body. When the back of your knees hit the edge, you sank down, pulling him with you.

“Lie back,” he commanded softly, his voice like velvet.

You obeyed, your pulse racing as you reclined against the pillows. Sherlock followed, his tall frame looming over you as his hands trailed down your sides.

“You deserve to be worshiped,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your stomach. “Let me show you.”

His hands slid to your hips, and with a fluid motion, he rid you of the last barriers between you. The cool air against your skin was a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his body, but any nervousness you felt dissolved the moment his mouth replaced his hands.

The first touch of his lips against you sent a shockwave through your body. He worked slowly at first, his tongue tracing deliberate patterns, his hands gripping your thighs to keep you steady.

“Fuck, Sherlock,” you gasped, your fingers tangling in his dark curls.

He hummed in response, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure through you. He was meticulous, as if solving a puzzle—reading every gasp, every shiver, adjusting his movements until he had you unraveling beneath him.

His tongue pressed harder, his pace quickening, and you couldn’t stop the moans that spilled from your lips.

“Don’t stop,” you begged, your voice breaking.

He didn’t. If anything, he doubled down, his hands tightening on your thighs as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge. When his fingers joined the fray, slipping inside you with a skill that left you breathless, it was too much.

Your release hit you like a tidal wave, your back arching off the bed as his name tore from your lips. 

But Sherlock didn’t stop—not until you were trembling, every nerve in your body alight.

When he finally pulled back, his lips glistened, and the smug look on his face would’ve annoyed you if you weren’t still recovering.

“Impressive,” he said, his voice laced with amusement.

You managed a weak laugh, your chest heaving. “Cocky bastard.”

He smirked, leaning down to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his lips.

As the haze of pleasure began to fade, you found yourself wanting more—needing more. You pushed against Sherlock’s chest, flipping him onto his back with a boldness that seemed to catch him off guard.

“Your turn,” you said, your voice low and teasing.

His eyes darkened, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Be my guest.”

You moved down his body, taking your time exploring every inch of him. His sharp collarbones, the defined lines of his chest, the faint trail of hair leading lower—it was all intoxicating. When you reached the waistband of his trousers, you paused, glancing up to meet his gaze.

“Off,” you demanded.

His smirk widened, but he complied, lifting his hips to help you. When he was fully exposed, your breath hitched.

“You’re staring,” he teased, echoing your earlier words.

“Shut up,” you shot back, leaning down to kiss him in a way that wiped the smirk off his face.

You started slow, letting your tongue trace along him, savoring the way his body tensed beneath you. His hands fisted in the sheets, a low groan escaping his lips.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, his voice rough.

You smiled against him, taking him deeper. His reaction was immediate—his head falling back, a string of curses spilling from his lips as you worked him with a combination of precision and fervor.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he groaned, his voice strained. “If you keep that up, I won’t—”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. “Good,” you said, your voice laced with mischief.

He growled, his hands tangling in your hair as he pulled you back up to him.

Sherlock’s hands tightened on your hips as he hovered above you, his breathing ragged, his dark curls falling into his face. The weight of his body pinned you beneath him, his lean frame pressing into yours in a way that made your pulse race.

He slid into you in one fluid, deliberate motion, the stretch and fullness stealing your breath. A guttural moan escaped his lips, his forehead pressing against yours as he stilled, letting you adjust.

“Christ,” he muttered, his voice hoarse and strained. “You’re… incredible.”

You dug your nails into his back, urging him to move. “Sherlock, please,” you whispered, your voice trembling with need.

He didn’t make you wait. His hips began to move, a slow, torturous rhythm that left you gasping.

Each thrust was measured, precise—just enough to leave you wanting more. His lips brushed against your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he murmured, “Tell me how it feels.”

“So good,” you gasped, your hands gripping his shoulders as you arched into him.

His pace quickened, each thrust deeper, harder. You could feel every inch of him, the way his body fit perfectly against yours. The sounds of skin against skin, of his low groans and your cries, filled the room.

“You’re driving me fucking insane,” he growled, his voice raw with desire.

You couldn’t respond, too lost in the sensation of him. His hand slid down your thigh, hooking your leg over his hip to pull you closer. The new angle sent a shockwave of pleasure through you, and you cried out, your nails raking down his back.

“More,” you begged, your voice breaking.

He obliged, shifting again, this time pulling your legs over his shoulders. The depth was overwhelming, every thrust hitting a spot that left you trembling.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice low and authoritative.

You opened your eyes to find his piercing blue gaze locked onto yours. The intensity of his stare was almost too much, but you couldn’t look away.

“You’re stunning like this,” he said, his tone reverent. “Completely mine.”

The possessiveness in his voice sent a shiver through you, and you tightened around him, pulling a sharp gasp from his lips.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his control slipping.

He slowed suddenly, his movements deliberate as he leaned down to kiss you. The change in pace was almost maddening, but there was something intimate in the way he took his time, as if savoring every moment.

“I want to see all of you,” he murmured, his lips brushing against yours.

Before you could respond, he pulled out, leaving you aching and empty. He flipped you onto your stomach with ease, his hands guiding your hips into the air.

“Stay like this,” he commanded, his voice dark with lust.

You shivered as his hand trailed down your back, pausing to squeeze your hips. When he entered you again, the angle was deeper, more intense, and you couldn’t stop the moan that escaped your lips.

“So good for me,” he praised, his hands gripping your hips as he set a relentless pace.

You braced yourself against the bed, each thrust sending you closer to the edge. His fingers dug into your skin, leaving marks you knew you’d feel tomorrow, but the pain only heightened the pleasure.

“Sherlock,” you moaned, your voice muffled by the pillow.

He leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back as he murmured in your ear, “You feel fucking incredible. Do you know that?”

You could only whimper in response, the words lost as he hit a spot that made your vision blur.

“I need to see your face,” he said suddenly, his voice softer but no less commanding.

He pulled out again, guiding you onto your side. He lay behind you, one hand lifting your leg as he slid back inside. The position was intimate, his chest flush against your back, his lips brushing against your shoulder.

“Touch yourself,” he murmured, his hand trailing down to guide yours.

You obeyed, your fingers finding the spot that had you spiraling. His thrusts grew slower but deeper, his lips never leaving your skin as he whispered filthy praise into your ear.

“You’re perfect,” he said, his voice a mix of reverence and need. “So fucking perfect for me.”

The intensity built again, the pace quickening as he turned you onto your back once more. His body covered yours, his weight grounding you as he drove into you with a ferocity that left you breathless.

“You’re close,” he said, his tone confident.

You nodded, unable to form coherent words.

“Let go,” he commanded, his hand slipping between your bodies to push you over the edge.

The orgasm tore through you, your body arching as you cried out his name. The waves of pleasure were overwhelming, leaving you trembling beneath him.

Sherlock followed moments later, a guttural moan escaping him as he buried himself deep inside you. 

His body tensed, his grip on your hips almost bruising as he found his release.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the room filled only with the sound of your ragged breathing.

Sherlock collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms as he buried his face in your hair. His body was warm against yours, his breath still uneven.

“You’re remarkable,” he murmured, his voice soft but sincere.

You smiled, your head resting against his chest. “So are you.”

He chuckled, the sound low and soothing. “I suppose we make a good team, then.”

“You think?” you teased, looking up at him.

His blue eyes softened, a rare, genuine smile gracing his lips. “I know.”

And for once, Sherlock Holmes had nothing else to say.

[duvetfawn]

The Code

- Masterlist

INTRODUCTION: In a world of intellect and intrigue, no one challenges the brilliance of Sherlock Holmes—except you. A case steeped in mystery brings the two of you into a tense standoff, your playful defiance the one puzzle he can’t easily solve. As desire and wit collide, the line between hunter and hunted blurs, leaving Sherlock caught in a web he never saw coming. This is more than a battle of minds—it’s a test of will, passion, and surrender.

PAIRING: dom!Sherlock x sub!fem!reader

WARNINGS: SMUT, MDNI, unprotected sex, vaginal sex, oral sex (reader receiving), degradation kink, eventual cursing etc.

WORD COUNT: 2k

A/N: Hello people, I've been thinking about writing something smut for a while and I had this idea since I started writing about Benedict. Sorry if there are any grammar mistakes! Enjoy your reading.

The dim light of the room cast long shadows across the walls as Sherlock Holmes paced back and forth, his sharp mind racing through possibilities. The case was maddening, a labyrinth of encrypted messages and dead ends. And then there were you. The one person who had the solution but refused to hand it over.

You lounged on the edge of the bed, your legs crossed, a smirk playing on your lips. 

“You’re going to burn a hole in the carpet if you keep pacing like that.”

Sherlock stopped, turning his piercing gaze on you. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Your smile widened. “I am. It’s not every day the great Sherlock Holmes is at someone else’s mercy.”

He stepped closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over you. “You said you have the code.”

“I do,” you replied, tilting your head. “And I’ll give it to you—on one condition.”

His jaw tightened. “Name it.”

You stood, closing the distance between you until you were mere inches apart. Your voice dropped to a whisper, your words a taunting caress. “I want you to make love to me. Here. Now.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you thought he might laugh, dismiss you outright. Instead, his lips curved into a smirk. “That’s your price?”

“Yes.” You held his gaze, your pulse quickening under his scrutiny. “Take it or leave it.”

He studied you for a long moment, his sharp mind calculating, analysing. Then, without warning, he reached out, his fingers gripping your chin firmly but not unkindly. “You think you can manipulate me,” he said softly, his voice like silk over steel. “But I’m going to enjoy proving you wrong.”

Before you could respond, his lips crashed against yours, stealing the breath from your lungs. His kiss was demanding, dominating, leaving no room for hesitation. You melted into him, your hands fisting in his shirt as he backed you toward the bed.

Sherlock broke the kiss abruptly, his eyes blazing. “You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?”

Your cheeks flushed, but you met his gaze boldly. “Yes.”

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest as he pushed you onto the bed. He followed you down, his hands already working at the buttons of your blouse. “Then let me show you how foolish you were to think you could control this.”

His hands were everywhere—firm, confident, as they stripped you of your clothing. Each touch sent shivers racing through you, a mixture of anticipation and vulnerability. When you were bare beneath him, he paused, his gaze sweeping over you.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, almost to himself. Then, leaning down, his lips brushed the shell of your ear. “And you’re going to beg for me by the time I’m done with you.”

His mouth trailed down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you gasp. He moved lower, his lips closing around your nipple, his tongue flicking over the sensitive peak. You arched into him, your breath hitching as his hands gripped your hips, pinning you in place.

“You’re so responsive,” he said, his voice laced with amusement. “I wonder—how much more can you take?”

His lips continued their descent, leaving a trail of heat down your stomach. Sherlock settled between your legs, his broad hands firm on your thighs, spreading them wider with a deliberate, almost commanding motion. The air in the room felt heavy with anticipation, and you found yourself holding your breath as his blue eyes roved over you, taking in every exposed inch of you with an intensity that made your heart race.

“Do you even know how tempting you look right now?” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, sending shivers through you. “I don’t think you do. But I’m about to show you.”

Without waiting for your reply, he leaned forward, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. The first touch was light, a soft press of his mouth that made your hips twitch. He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against your skin. “Eager already? We’ve only just begun.”

His kisses grew firmer, trailing higher until his breath ghosted over your centre. You squirmed beneath him, a soft moan escaping your lips as he lingered there, his warm breath a tantalising tease. Then, with an excruciating slowness, his tongue flicked out, tracing a single, deliberate stroke along your folds.

The sensation was electric, sending a jolt of pleasure through you that made your hands clutch at the sheets. Sherlock hummed against you, his hands sliding to your hips to hold you steady. “Mmm,” he murmured, his voice rich with satisfaction. “You taste exquisite. Like you were made for this.”

He licked you again, this time slower, more intentional, as if savouring every reaction he drew from you. His tongue explored you with an almost scientific precision, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention on your most sensitive spot. Your breath hitched, and you let out a shaky moan, your fingers tangling in his dark curls to ground yourself.

“Such a good response,” Sherlock muttered, his lips curling into a smirk as he pressed a kiss to your swollen flesh. “So sensitive. I can feel you trembling.”

You gasped as he sucked gently, his mouth sealing around you in a way that sent heat pooling low in your belly. “Sherlock,” you whimpered, your voice barely above a whisper, but it was enough to spur him on. His tongue moved faster now, alternating between teasing flicks and firm, deliberate strokes that had you writhing beneath him.

Your hips bucked against his mouth, but his hands tightened their grip on your hips, holding you still. “Patience,” he said, his voice muffled but commanding. “Let me finish what I’ve started.”

The vibrations of his voice against you sent another wave of pleasure rolling through you, and you cried out, your back arching off the bed. Sherlock glanced up briefly, his eyes dark and hungry as he took in the sight of you unravelling beneath him. “You like this, don’t you?” he said, his lips glistening. “You like it when I suck on your clit? Knowing how much I enjoy it.”

“Yes,” you gasped, your head falling back as his tongue circled your most sensitive spot, the pressure just enough to drive you closer to the edge. Your body trembled, your thighs tightening around his head as the tension coiled tighter and tighter within you.

Sherlock’s pace quickened, his mouth working you with a relentless focus that left you breathless. Every flick of his tongue, every soft, wet sound, sent you spiralling closer to your breaking point. Your moans grew louder, your fingers gripping his hair as your body tensed. “Sherlock, I’m—” you tried to warn him, but your words dissolved into a cry as the wave of release crashed over you.

He didn’t stop. He held you through it, his tongue gentler now but no less attentive, drawing out every last shudder and gasp until you collapsed against the bed, utterly spent. Only then did he pull back, his lips trailing soft kisses along your inner thighs as your breathing began to steady.

When he finally rose to meet you, his lips brushed yours in a kiss that was both tender and possessive. You tasted yourself on him, and the realisation sent a fresh wave of heat through you.

“You like tasting yourself on my lips, don’t you?” he said, his voice low and teasing.

You nodded, unable to form words.

“Say it,” he demanded, his hand gripping your thigh.

“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes, I love it.”

“You’re remarkable,” Sherlock whispered, his voice soft but laced with a dark satisfaction.

“Your turn,” you whispered, your hands tugging at his belt.

He allowed you to undress him, his body taut and powerful as he settled between your thighs. “Look at me,” he said, his voice softer now. You did, and the vulnerability in his eyes took your breath away.

Sherlock moved above you, his body strong and sure as he positioned himself between your thighs. The intimacy of the moment hung thick in the air, your breaths mingling as you stared at each other. His hand cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over your flushed skin, a rare tenderness softening his usually sharp expression.

“Are you ready for me?” he asked, his voice low and raw, the confidence in his tone undercut by a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice trembling with anticipation. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your heels pressing into the small of his back, urging him closer.

Sherlock adjusted his hips, one hand guiding himself to your entrance. He paused there, his tip pressing against your warmth, teasing you in a way that made your toes curl. Your breath hitched, and your fingers dug into his shoulders, your body straining toward him.

“Don’t rush,” he murmured, his lips curving into a smirk. “I want you to feel every inch of me.”

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he began to push into you. The stretch was exquisite, your body yielding to him as he sank deeper, inch by inch. You gasped, your head falling back against the pillow as the sensation consumed you—a delicious mix of fullness and heat that left you trembling.

“God, you’re tight,” Sherlock muttered, his voice a guttural rasp. His hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as he buried himself to the hilt. He stilled for a moment, his body taut and trembling, as though he were barely holding himself back. “You feel incredible,” he said, his voice thick with awe.

You could barely form words, your body adjusting to the fullness of him, every nerve ending alive with sensation. “You… you’re perfect,” you managed, your voice breathless.

A flicker of pride crossed his face, and he leaned down to capture your lips in a searing kiss. His hips shifted, pulling back slightly before pressing forward again, the slow, deliberate movement sending a shockwave of pleasure through you.

He set a rhythm, each thrust deep and controlled, his body moving with a precision that spoke to both his intelligence and his intensity. Your hands roamed over his back, your nails raking lightly down his skin as he filled you again and again, each stroke igniting a fresh wave of heat between you.

“You’re taking me so well,” Sherlock murmured against your lips, his voice low and dark. “Every inch of you wrapped around me. It’s maddening.”

Your legs tightened around him, drawing him even deeper, and he groaned, the sound vibrating through you as his rhythm faltered for a moment. “Do you feel that?” he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper. “How perfectly we fit together?”

“Yes,” you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. “I feel it. I feel you.”

His pace quickened, the restraint slipping as your bodies moved together in perfect sync. The wet, rhythmic sounds of your joining filled the room, mingling with your soft cries and his quiet groans. Sherlock’s head dropped to the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as his thrusts grew more urgent.

“You’re mine,” he growled, his voice rough with possession. “Every part of you—mine.”

“Yes,” you moaned, your hands sliding into his hair, holding him close. “I’m yours, Sherlock. Always.”

Your words seemed to ignite something in him, and he drove into you harder, the force of his movements pushing you closer and closer to the edge. The pleasure built to an almost unbearable intensity, your body arching beneath him as you clung to him, your gasps turning into cries of his name.

“Look at me,” Sherlock demanded, his hand gripping your chin as he thrust into you again, deeper than before. You obeyed, your eyes meeting his, and the raw emotion in his gaze stole what little breath you had left.

“I want to watch you fall apart,” he said, his voice low and commanding.

With one final thrust, he pushed you over the edge, your release crashing over you in a tidal wave of sensation. You cried out, your body trembling violently as the pleasure consumed you, and Sherlock followed you a heartbeat later, his own release shuddering through him as he buried himself deep inside you.

For a moment, you stayed locked together, your bodies entwined, your breathing ragged. Sherlock’s forehead rested against yours, his eyes closed as he tried to steady himself.

“You’re remarkable,” he murmured, his voice softer now, the rough edges smoothed away by the intimacy of the moment.

“So are you,” you whispered, your hands tracing the lines of his face as a soft smile curved your lips.

“Ready for the code?” a satisfied smirk on your lips.

He raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued.

You leaned in, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered, “Sherlock.”

He froze, then pulled back to look at you, his expression a mix of exasperation and amusement. “You’re insufferable,” he said, but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“And you’re mine,” you replied, pulling him down for another kiss.

This time, he didn’t argue.

[duvetfawn]

Chapter III

<Previous chapter> | <Chapter Masterlist>

A/N: Hello people. Sorry for updating so late, I've been a bit busy. I made this chapter longer as an apologise. Thanks for all the likes and reposts, it means a lot <3. (Oh, and in case I made some grammar mistakes, I truly apologise, English isn't my first language.)

PAIRING: Professor!Benedict Cumberbatch x fem!reader

WARNINGS: Some eventual swearing. Nothing in particular.

WORD COUNT: 4.1k

“There’s no way you actually went to see him.” Cassie was drinking her third shot, but not even alcohol was helping her relieve the shock. It’s not like didn’t want you to join, she knew you loved poetry, but at the same time she considered it a suicide. She didn’t want you to cry during nights like she did because of Cumberbatch.

“You’re a graphic student, why on Earth would you want to take some lessons about poetry?!”

Your friend was too drunk to have a civil conversation, but you knew Felix wasn’t approving that either. 

“She has a point, Phoebe. You don’t know him.” Your guy friend tilted his head to the side, perfectly convinced you weren’t understanding the situation. 

They really cared about you, and since they knew how much of a twat Cumberbatch could be, they simply didn’t want you to make the same exact mistake. That professor was the only one who could make Felix cry over a grade, and he was always careless about school. The man really drove both of your friends crazy. They were just trying to save you, but only God knew how much he intrigued you. It was the danger – that intrigued you, actually. You started to see it as a challenge; you wanted to prove to your friends that getting good grades with Cumberbatch was possible.

“He’s not that bad.” Your friends almost choked on their drinks before quickly putting the glasses down.

“Not that bad?!” they exclaimed in unison, unable to believe what you had just said. 

You leaned back in your chair, thinking about the professor. The way he challenged your friends, pushed them to the limit... It wasn’t about being nice; it was about respect. And maybe that’s what you liked about him. It wasn’t something your friends understood. But you didn’t care.

“You guys don’t get it. He doesn’t just hand out grades. He makes you earn them. You don’t know the whole story. Trust me, there’s more to him than just being tough.”

“Like what? He secretly loves kittens?” Cas joked, while glancing at the “attractive” (that’s how she considered him) waiter. She won’t sleep at the flat tonight. – you thought.

“No, but... maybe you’ll find out soon enough.”

You weren’t sure what those words meant, you were sure you were going to get at least an A with him though.

The night had wrapped up, and the pub was slowly emptying out. You watched as your friends chatted, laughing and poking fun at each other, while you stayed mostly quiet, still thinking about the conversation you'd had about Cumberbatch. It wasn't like you to get so defensive, but there was something about the challenge he presented that pulled you in.

Cassie wasn’t the type to back down from a challenge either, though her challenges usually involved something a little more... adventurous. You saw her give a sly glance toward the waiter—tall, dark-haired, with an easy smile. She had always had a way with people, especially when she was in the mood for something more than just a casual conversation.

As the hours passed, the energy in the pub shifted. The music grew louder, the conversations more animated. You couldn’t help but notice her making her move. A few teasing words, a laugh, and suddenly, the waiter was sitting with her, sharing a drink. It didn't take long before they slipped away, disappearing into the night.

You didn’t think much of it at first. Cas was always unpredictable, and you’d learned not to be surprised by anything she did. But as you stood up to leave, you noticed her phone buzzing on the table. She hadn’t come back to grab it.

You grabbed it, sending her a quick text saying you were heading back to the flat. But then you paused, a little hesitant. There was a message from the waiter, something about meeting up later. It was more than casual—it was flirtatious. A smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. 

The walk back to the flat was quiet. The city streets were empty now, the late-night crowd thinning out, the cold air biting at your skin. You slipped into the building, climbed the stairs, and unlocked the door to the flat, feeling the familiar warmth of home.

Inside, the silence felt odd. Your roommate wasn’t back yet, and there was a strange stillness in the air. You dropped your keys onto the counter, stripped off your jacket, and made your way into the living room. You tried to distract yourself by scrolling through your phone, but your mind kept wandering back to the night. Cassie and the waiter. What had really happened after they left the pub?

Suddenly, the door creaked open, and she walked in, her face glowing in a way that caught your attention. She looked... different. It wasn’t just the way she carried herself—it was more like she had a secret, something she wasn’t sharing just yet.

“You’re back late.”

“Yeah, I lost track of time.” She tossed her purse onto the couch. Her eyes sparkled with something you couldn’t quite place, but you weren’t sure if you wanted to know. “And you? How was the walk of shame?”

“It was fine.” You gave her a sidelong glance, but she didn’t seem to be paying much attention. She was too busy scanning the room, like she was looking for something—or someone.

You opened your mouth to ask if she was okay, but then stopped yourself. There was no need to ask. You could already see it in the way she moved, the way she kept glancing at her phone, the slight flush in her cheeks.

As you grabbed a glass of water, she finally spoke up, her voice light but with an edge of mischief.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you what happened.”

“Try me.” You leaned back against the counter, crossing your arms, still a little curious but not sure if you wanted to hear the full story.

She looked at you for a second, considering whether or not to say more, before a laugh escaped her lips. “I might have gone home with the waiter. And... It went really well.”

You raised an eyebrow, trying to keep a neutral expression, though a small part of you was surprised by her candour. She didn’t usually share details unless she wanted to.

“Really? How well?”

She gave a mischievous grin. “Well enough that I stayed over.” She stretched her arms above her head, clearly amused with herself. “I think he might be a little smitten. Let’s just say it wasn’t just a one-time thing.”

You didn’t respond right away, just sipping your water. Part of you wanted to be sarcastic, to joke about it, but there was something else—an unspoken understanding between you. You knew her well enough to know when she was being serious, and right now, she seemed to be savouring the moment, letting it sink in.

The mood shifted slightly as you processed what she’d said. You both had your wild nights, but this felt... different. Maybe because you had no idea how to process what she had just done. It wasn’t about judgement, just the realisation that your world was shifting, ever so subtly, and you weren’t sure where it would land.

“So, what now?”

She shrugged nonchalantly. “We’ll see. For now, I’m going to take a shower and figure it out.” She turned away, leaving you alone in the living room, the weight of the night pressing down on you.

You stared at your phone again, but this time you weren’t thinking about the professor. You were thinking about Cassie —and whatever happened with the waiter, you had a feeling it wasn’t going to be the last secret she kept from you.

The flat was quiet. The soft glow of the desk lamp flickered gently in the corner of the room, casting long shadows on the walls. You had intended to spend the evening reading, to dive into the worn copy of Notes from Underground that you’d picked up a few days ago. Dostoevskij had always intrigued you, his exploration of the human psyche—its contradictions, its darkness, its beauty—had always felt like something you could connect with, in some way.

After your conversation with Cas earlier, you'd promised yourself that tonight would be different. You’d push aside the distractions, the thoughts of Professor Cumberbatch, and focus. You needed to focus.

You sat on the couch, tucking your legs underneath you, the book open in your lap. The first few pages were filled with the usual musings of the Underground Man, his bitter, self-loathing observations about society, about himself. You tried to focus on the words, the rhythm of Dostoevskij's sentences, but as you read, your mind began to wander again. 

It had been a simple request, really—just a quick meeting to discuss whether you could join his course. But when you walked into his office, something in the air had shifted. It was as if you’d entered a different world entirely, one where rules were set by him and only him, where even the smallest gesture seemed significant.

His eyes, so sharp, so calculating. That slight frown when you spoke, as if every word you said was being measured against some invisible standard. His voice had been cold, as it always was, and yet there was something else in it—a hint of something that couldn’t quite be defined. Was it curiosity? Or was it just the way he viewed everyone: as another puzzle to solve, another enigma to dissect?

You tried to shake off the memory, but it clung to you like a shadow.

You forced your eyes back down to the page of the book. The Underground Man, now deep in his musings, was reflecting on his own alienation from society, his frustration with his inability to act on his desires. It should have been comforting. After all, you were feeling a similar sense of frustration—not with society, but with yourself. With Professor Cumberbatch.

It wasn’t just that he was cold or distant—it was the way he saw people, the way he seemed to know exactly where their weaknesses lay. The way he had looked at you that first time, his eyes narrowing slightly, his lips barely moving as he gave you the approval to join his class. It was as though he had known you weren’t like the others, and that made you both anxious and… intrigued.

The Underground Man’s internal dialogue, so full of self-hatred, was suddenly too familiar. You could almost hear his voice—“I want to be everything, to be admired, to be desired. And yet, I remain here, on the outside, watching, always watching, but never truly seen.”

You felt that way sometimes, too. Like you were watching from the outside, never quite allowed in, never quite understood. But with Cumberbatch... it was different. You weren’t just watching. You wanted to be seen by him. You wanted to break through that cold exterior, to make him see you as more than just another student, to make him notice you in a way that was beyond grades or lectures.

You sighed, closing the book with a snap. The words of Dostoevsky had faded, now irrelevant in the face of your own swirling emotions. His coldness was beginning to consume you, a constant, nagging presence at the back of your mind. You didn’t know what it was, exactly. Was it admiration? Or something darker, something more dangerous?

You glanced at the clock on the wall. It was late—too late to be thinking about him so intensely, but you couldn’t stop yourself. The idea of him lingered, wrapping itself around your thoughts like smoke. Why did you even care so much? You couldn’t say for sure. You didn’t want to care, but every time he spoke, every time he looked at you, you felt the pull again.

You tried to read, but the words just wouldn't stick. You couldn’t escape him, not even in the pages of a book. You closed your eyes for a moment, the silence of the room swallowing you whole, and all you could see was Cumberbatch’s sharp gaze, that unshakable calm, as though he was always five steps ahead of you. Maybe it was the challenge that drew you in, you thought, the way he made you feel like you were always trying to catch up, always striving to prove yourself. Maybe that was it. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t just about proving anything. It was about him. About how his coldness made you feel like you needed to be more than what you were.

You had read somewhere that the most intriguing people were often the hardest to understand. That the more distant they were, the more fascinating they became. Perhaps that was what it was. You couldn’t stop thinking about him because you were trying to figure him out, trying to decode him like some impossible puzzle.

But you also realised, with a twist in your gut, that maybe you were trying to decode him for an entirely different reason. 

You shook your head, pushing the thought aside, but it was no use. 

The silence of the flat was suffocating, the kind of silence that made your thoughts feel louder than they should be. You had tried, really tried, to focus on the book in your lap. The weight of it seemed heavy in your hands, but not because of its content. No, it wasn’t the book that weighed on you—it was the battle raging inside your head. 

Every time you read a sentence, every time you tried to immerse yourself in the Underground Man’s bitter rants, your mind would drift back to that man. His face, his voice, that cold, assessing gaze that had been burned into your memory since the first time you’d met him.

You hated that you couldn’t push him out of your mind. You had tried so hard. You had closed the book, shifted on the couch, taken deep breaths, even tried to replay the dull, comforting monotony of your day to drown out the thought of him. But it was useless. His image crept into your thoughts like smoke, seeping into every corner of your mind, twisting everything around.

Focus, you told yourself. Focus on the book, on the Underground Man’s cynicism, on his contempt for the world. Focus on something that makes sense.

But it was impossible.

The thought of Cumberbatch lingered like a shadow, taunting you. What was it about him that had you so utterly captivated? You barely knew him, for God's sake. You knew nothing about his life outside of class, nothing about his personal history. And yet, there was something about the way he carried himself, that air of indifference mixed with intellect, that had gotten under your skin in a way you couldn't explain.

You shifted uncomfortably, your heart racing for reasons you couldn’t quite name. You didn't want to think about him. You really didn’t. The thought of liking him—of feeling something for him, something other than disdain or annoyance—made you feel… dirty. It wasn’t right. He was your professor, after all. The power dynamic between you two was something you couldn't ignore, and yet your body had betrayed you, repeatedly, in ways you couldn’t control.

Why was it so hard to just stop thinking about him?

You hated this feeling. It wasn’t admiration; it wasn’t respect. It was something else. Something that made your stomach twist uncomfortably, as if you were standing on the edge of a precipice and couldn’t quite bring yourself to step back from it.

Why couldn’t you just leave it alone? Why did your thoughts keep drifting back to him, like he had some magnetic pull over you?

The mere idea of him—of liking him, of being attracted to him—made you want to crawl out of your skin. You could feel the shame creeping up your neck, heat spreading across your face.

This is ridiculous, you thought, clenching your hands into fists. He’s your professor. He doesn’t care about you. He probably doesn’t even see you as anything other than just another student—just another face in a sea of faces.

But no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself, the discomfort wouldn’t go away. The thought of him lingered like a taste you couldn't wash from your mouth, sweet and sour all at once.

You stood up abruptly, pacing the small flat. The low hum of the city outside the window seemed to taunt you, as though the whole world was moving forward while you were stuck in this strange mental loop. Every time you thought you’d gotten rid of him, he'd slip back into your thoughts.

I need to sleep, you told yourself, desperate for some escape from the dissonance swirling in your mind. Sleep is what I need. Forget about him. Just sleep.

You grabbed your book and threw it on the nearby desk, suddenly unable to stand the sight of the pages anymore. Your breath was shallow, your hands trembling slightly. This wasn’t like you. You weren’t one to obsess over things like this. You weren’t someone who let a professor—someone who barely even noticed you—take up so much of your mental space.

But you were. And it scared you.

You moved toward your bedroom, your steps heavy with exhaustion. The night had dragged on far too long, and you felt the weight of your thoughts pressing down on you. You undressed quickly, too tired to think, and crawled into bed, pulling the covers tightly around your body as though they could somehow shield you from the storm of emotions raging inside.

You lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, eyes wide open, the silence almost unbearable. You tried to clear your mind, but each time you closed your eyes, his face appeared. His eyes. That voice.

You squeezed your eyes shut, as if that would banish the thoughts away.

The sunlight filtered in through the blinds, casting soft stripes across the room. You woke up to the familiar hum of the city outside, the world moving on without pause. Your head ached a little, not from the usual hangover, but from the weight of your thoughts, which had stayed with you throughout the night. But for now, you pushed them aside.

You rubbed your eyes, stretching under the covers, still half-dazed from the lack of sleep. It was Saturday, which meant you had the luxury of a lazy morning. The apartment was quiet, save for the faint sound of Cassie moving around in the kitchen. You could already hear her talking, her voice cheerful, full of that easy energy that always seemed to fill the space. As you dragged yourself out of bed, the familiar scent of coffee wafted through the apartment—one of the few things that always made you feel more awake. You walked into the kitchen, where your friend was sitting at the table, sipping her coffee with a mischievous grin on her face. There was a spark in her eyes that was impossible to ignore, a knowing glint that made you immediately suspect what she was about to say.

“Morning,” you muttered, rubbing your eyes one more time.

“Good morning!” Her voice was bright, almost too bright. She leaned back in her chair, casually stirring her coffee, her gaze never leaving you. “So, how was your night?”

You winced slightly, a quick flash of discomfort crossing your face. You hadn’t exactly planned on this conversation. The night had been quiet for you, spent in a dazed attempt to avoid the things swirling in your head. But Cassie had clearly been up to something more exciting, and there was no way she wasn’t going to talk about it now. 

You sat across from her, trying to feign casualness, but the unease you felt about last night’s thoughts—about the guilt you couldn’t shake—was hard to ignore. Your fingers wrapped around the mug of coffee you’d poured for yourself, its warmth a small comfort in the still-chilly morning air.

“So, uh, how was your… night?” You asked carefully, trying to sound nonchalant. You really didn’t want to get into the subject of Cumberbatch, not now, not when you still hadn’t figured out what the hell was going on with you.

Her eyes sparkled with a mischievous grin. "Oh, it was quite something," she said with a dramatic pause, leaning in slightly, as if sharing some kind of inside joke. You raised an eyebrow, dreading the details, but bracing yourself for them nonetheless.

“I told you that waiter was cute, didn’t I?” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “And we had such a fun time talking, you know? He was so easygoing, not like those uptight types we usually meet. And then… Well, we ended up spending the night together.” She shrugged, completely unapologetic. “It just sort of happened. Nothing too dramatic. I think he’s a little younger than me, but it was fun—completely spontaneous. I don’t know, I just felt like doing something different, you know?”

You nodded, still processing her words. For a moment, you just stared at her, feeling that strange sense of disconnection. She seemed to take everything so easily, while you felt like you were being buried under a pile of guilt and confusion. You weren’t even sure what you wanted anymore—everything felt foggy.

“Wow, sounds like quite the night,” you said softly, attempting to sound encouraging without delving into the details.

“Oh, you bet,” she replied with a playful smile. “I’ll tell you everything later, but not while you're giving me that look.” She winked at you, obviously seeing through the facade you were trying to maintain.

You swallowed hard, a sharp pang of self-consciousness running through you. You hadn’t exactly expected to be interrogated about her night with the waiter, but the more she talked about it, the more it reminded you of how distracted you had been with your own thoughts. Thoughts you couldn’t even fully acknowledge yet.

You bit your lip, trying to keep your focus on Cassie words and not on the uncomfortable knot forming in your stomach.

“Hey, don’t look at me like that,” she said, catching your glance. “You’re making it sound like I did something bad. We’re adults, you know.”

It wasn’t that you judged her at all—really, it wasn’t. But there was something about the way she was so carefree that made you feel even more self-conscious about your own internal battle. You suddenly felt so small, so inwardly conflicted. There you were, stuck on a man you couldn’t have, with thoughts you couldn’t control, and all she seemed to care about was whether her spontaneous hookup had been fun or not.

You shifted in your chair, trying to focus on your coffee, as if it could provide some kind of escape. 

“Yeah,” you said, forcing a small, half-hearted laugh. “You always know how to have fun.”

“Of course I do,” she replied, her grin widening. “You know me.” She paused, studying you for a moment, her expression softening slightly. “But, you are okay, right? You’ve been a little... off lately. You know you can tell me if something’s bothering you.”

You hesitated, looking down at your coffee. You wanted to tell her everything—how you couldn’t stop thinking about the professor, how the thought of him made you feel weird, like you were betraying some unspoken rule. But no, you couldn’t. Not yet. Not when you still didn’t understand what was happening to you.

You forced a smile, hoping it looked more convincing than it felt. “I’m fine,” you said quickly. “Just tired, I guess. Nothing to worry about.”

She didn’t seem entirely convinced, but she didn’t press you any further. Instead, she shifted in her seat and grabbed her phone, distracted by a new message.

“Anyway, I think I’m going to see him again,” she said breezily, glancing down at her screen. “Maybe we can all go out next week. You in?”

You nodded absentmindedly, lost in your own thoughts again. The idea of hanging out with her and the waiter seemed like a distant thought now—almost too simple, too light-hearted for what you were feeling. The weight of everything you couldn’t say pressed down on you.

“Sure,” you managed, your voice quiet, far from the enthusiasm you were trying to fake.

You couldn’t bring yourself to ask about the details of her night any more than she had pried into yours. And for the rest of the morning, you sat quietly, trying to pretend that everything was just as it had always been.

But in your mind, all you could think about was the crushing, relentless feeling of wanting something you couldn’t have, something that you knew, deep down, would only complicate things further.

And you weren’t ready to deal with that.

[duvetfawn]

Chapter II

<Previous Chapter> | <Chapter Masterlist>

A/N: Hi peoplee, just wanted to say "thanks" to all those who reposted or liked my previous work. Again, thank you so much. It means a lot <3. This chapter is a bit longer than the first one, well it was my choice because, as I said, English isn't my first language, so I apologise if there are a lot of mistakes. I didn't proofread this since I didn't have time, sorry again!

PAIRING: Professor! Benedict Cumberbatch x fem!reader

WORD COUNT: 1.6k

You were sipping a cup of coffee as you were smiling after reading the man’s response. You felt entirely happy and proud, you loved trying to be useful, especially when it was about your friends. That was what always made you so cheerful. You quickly glanced at the clock to check the hour and felt relieved. It was early, Cassie was still sleeping. The London rain was profoundly relaxing and the sounds that produced were flawless to your ears. You placed down the Sylvia Plath book and walked to the bathroom, there you took a nice, warm shower and did your skin care. Sometimes you felt like your life was a bit too monotonous for your personality, but yet, you couldn’t do anything but admire it. You were the “frazzled english woman”, people on social media always use those words, don’t they? Funny enough, you probably didn’t even know about that “nickname”. In fact you never followed specific trends, that doesn’t mean you were completely ignorant about fashion though. Not at all. You were a girl in your twenties after all, you definitely were very indecisive about your “style”, because you’ve never had one in particular, you liked changing, it was a phase you liked to consider as “exploring”. You did your hair, which means you styled them in a messy bun, a chic yet simple hairstyle that enhanced your features. The annoying sound of the alarm woke your friend, who, after a huge amount of swearing, joined you on the balcony.

“Good morning.” You noticed Cassie.

“Morning.” She smiled after yawning nonchalantly.

“Coffee or tea?” You asked, already knowing the answer.

“Coffee.. Obviously.” The blondie giggled, patting your shoulder before heading to the bathroom.

You nodded after hearing her reply and went to prepare another coffee.

After an hour you and Cas left the apartment and reached the Tube, there, your best friend did her make up and fixed her hair, while you were listening to music through your headphones.

Once you arrived at the final destination you walked for a few minutes till you could finally glance at your uni. After you stepped in, you blew a kiss to your acquaintance and went to the English classroom. You greeted one of your favourite professors and took a seat, positioning your stuff on the desk, feeling utterly determined to focus on your classes.

The time passed surprisingly fast and you weren’t complaining at all. The thought of meeting the most hated professor of the institute intrigued you, but you couldn’t deny you were also kinda anxious. You grabbed your bag and quickly made your way to the teacher’s office. When you noticed that name on the door you immediately bit your lip, starting to question yourself if it really was a good idea. You put a strand of your hair behind your ear and came closer to the room.

You finally knocked, your hand trembling, keeping your eyes on the floor. 

“Come in.” The tone of his husky voice made you look up, before opening the door letting you meet his intense gaze.

When your friend told you the man was attractive, you clearly weren’t expecting that. He was tall and lean, the kind that seemed effortlessly draped in finely tailored suits, with an elegance that belonged to another era yet remained undeniably timeless. His cheekbones were striking, carved high and defined, lending his face a sculptural quality, as though an artist had delicately chiselled each line to capture an almost ethereal beauty. His eyes, a beguiling shade of blue-green, were piercing and deep, holding a touch of mystery, like distant waves glimmering beneath moonlight. They had an uncanny ability to shift from an intense, searing gaze to a gentle warmth that drew you in, inviting you to linger. His lips, full and slightly bowed, seemed crafted for thoughtful pauses, for words spoken with purpose, for the trace of a smile that was as enigmatic as it was charming. His hair fell in waves that were sometimes perfectly in place, sometimes artfully tousled—always framing his face like a portrait painted to evoke quiet fascination. There was a strength to his shoulders and hands, graceful yet firm, as though built to hold something delicate with purpose and care. The lines of his jaw were strong and elegant. The ends of his tight navy blue shirt were rolled up to his elbows, showing an expensive watch that was perfectly positioned on his wrist. You felt those ocean eyes scanning you, but you couldn’t understand if they were expressing disgust or admiration, not before hearing those words.

“Staring isn’t nice, you know?” He evidenced the first word, finally distracting you from those forbidden thoughts you were having. Cumberbatch crossed his arms, his facial expressions impossible to decipher. You felt so stupid, you just met the man and you couldn’t even mutter a syllable. You hated the effect he had on you, because it was something, probably some kind or power or control no one had over you. Benedict carried an aura of mystery and refinement, as if he was a figure from the pages of a classic novel—someone who belonged equally in the smoky allure of an old jazz club or wandering misty cliffs, a romantic spirit woven into the fabric of his very presence.

“Andrews, right? Andrews Phoebe.” He pronounced your name smirking, as if he flawlessly understood the reactions you were giving. You immediately nodded. “Yes, yes It’s me.” You fixed the hem of your skirt, suddenly feeling embarrassed and ashamed of your own attitude, the professor fixed his gaze on your clothes, but you didn’t notice that, you were being too focused on the floor. What was so interesting about it? Absolutely nothing, but you weren’t capable of making eye contact at that moment.

“Take a seat.” The teacher moved behind the desk as he sat on the chair, while you followed his instructions. He turned on his laptop and proceeded to ignore you for a couple of minutes.

“I find it curious how you decided to join just now, Ms. Andrews. Care to explain? Because as you may have guessed, I’m not here to waste my time.” He questioned, moving his gaze to your frame. His annoyed voice almost made you change your mind, but you decided to remain polite for the sake of Cassie.

“I do apologise for not sending that email sooner, I underrated those lessons by thinking the books involved weren’t quality ones, but after taking a look at the examined material during the past classes I immediately changed my mind.” You were a terrible liar, you knew that too, but he seemed to get along with that. At least that’s what you hoped, the professor didn’t look very convinced, not at all, but he totally wasn’t interested in having an argument with a student that wasn’t even his own. Perhaps what intrigued him the most was the fact that a designer student developed a sort of attachment to his lessons, it was strange for him. He never had someone in his course from the graphic sector, so he thought he could give it a try.

“Right.” His short response sent you chills through your spine. A tiny amount of hope still burning in you.

“Luckily for you we didn’t examine much. As you said, the course basically just began, we’ve just started a new book, the author is Dostoevskij.” He explained, keeping his eyes on the laptop.

“Dostoevskij? We’re going to read his books?” You asked while an enormous smile appeared on your lips. He moved his gaze to you, his expression still serious.

“Exactly. Crime and punishment precisely.” You were screaming internally. “How could Cassie hate such lessons?” That’s the question you kept asking yourself. 

It was strange how nothing softened the professor, nothing had an effect or impact on him, or at least, that’s what you believed. You were always considered the “teacher’s favourite”, in any circumstance. Other than being flawlessly pretty, everyone was amazed by your innocent and pure soul. A commendable quality about you was the fact that you were truly interested in others. It wasn’t about what other people thought about you, when someone was in need, you were more than happy to help.

“I’m emailing you an introduction I made about the classical genre, examine it and you can prepare some questions for the next time.” Cumberbatch affirmed in a distant, cold tone, bringing you back to Earth.

“Next time? You mean during the lesson?” You asked, truly confused.

“No. It’s better if you spend an hour right before the course in my office, just like we did today, considering you decided to join just now.” He punctuated the last phrase, finally glancing at you. Your lips broke away at the sentence, you looked down for a millisecond and then returned your gaze to the professor, who anticipated you. You were in complete ecstasy, but you had to contain yourself. You’ve always searched for someone that had the same taste as yours in literature and apparently, the hated teacher seemed to fit in that role perfectly.

“Okay. I will.” You smiled, you were so determined, you wanted to impress him.

“Good.” He closed his laptop and started to prepare his bag. The professor ran a hand through his hair, before reaching his jacket. 

“You can leave now.” Cumberbatch said, a hint of annoyance in his voice, while opening the door for you.

“Oh yeah, right.” You immediately got up, embarrassed and confused at the same time, but could you blame yourself? He was being an absolute twat.

You adjusted the hem of your skirt another time and made your way to the door, your cheeks burning. 

“See you on Monday, professor.” You quickly looked at him before leaving.

“See you.” He glanced at you for the last time.

[duvetfawn]

FORBIDDEN LESSONS

─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・

SUMMARY: “You’re a graphic student, why on Earth would you want to take some lessons about poetry?!” That’s what your dearest friend Cassie told you when you decided to join that secondary course. You’ve always been painfully stubborn, but that time was different, bloody different: You wanted, craved to participate until the reason you were there weren’t those Dostoevskij books anymore, but the one who was recommending them.

WARNINGS: This story contains SMUT (NSFW content) if you’re a minor or if you don’t feel comfortable. Please DON’T interact.

Chapter Masterlist

- Chapter I

- Chapter II

- Chapter III

- Chapter IV

[duvetfawn]

CHAPTER I

A/N: Hello people! I’m new here on Tumbrl and I just decided to give this app a try, sorry if my grammar is terrible but english isn’t my first language. Enjoy your reading!

PAIRING: Professor! Benedict Cumberbatch x fem!reader

WORD COUNT: 1k+

I hate him so much!” Cassie exclaimed while staring incredulous at the screen of her phone. “What now?” Felix, your guy friend, giggled, the young girl was complaining about everything since the beginning of the group hang.

“It’s about the moron.” She rolled her eyes.

Cassie decided to not pronounce that surname anymore. It was like a taboo topic. Pronouncing the word “Cumberbatch”? She would just freeze and imagine an endless amount of terrible situations where the professor humiliated the poor girl. Normally, you would simply tell her that she was being paranoid and that a lot of teachers have a lot of expectations coming from their students. It was like that at uni after all. Cumberbatch was different though, a whole different story. When he started to teach there, the institute split into two parts. Most of the people hated him, while on the other side there were a few “weirdos” (that’s how you used to consider them) that were fangirling. You never saw the man with your own eyes, Cassie admitted that he was extremely attractive too, but it was hard for you to believe that, your vision was blurred by the words your beloved friend used to describe him and his insane attitude and of course it was a huge turn off.

“He gave me a D-! A fucking D-!” She shouted in disbelief, placing a hand on her forehead. You moved a strand of hair behind your ear before massaging her back, trying to reassure her as Felix was trying to tell her how much of a jerk their professor was and that it wasn’t her fault.

“My work was perfect, extraordinary. My mom will kill me.” Cassie kept complaining about the score all the night, in fact, even during the cab ride, she wouldn’t shut up about it, yet you still listened to her, you were such a nice friend, she knew that too. After a while the blondie rested her head on your shoulder, too exhausted to even cry about it. You smiled at the sight, you wanted to help her out wholeheartedly, so while she was sleeping you decided to grab your phone and check the annual schedule of those after class meetings and you must’ve admitted the plans weren’t too bad. Many pleasing lectures were involved and you’ve always loved poetry too. You even started questioning yourself for not joining sooner. It’s not a bad idea – you thought, so you eventually found Cumberbatch’s credentials and decided to email him.

Good evening Professor,

I’m writing this email because I’m deeply interested in your afterschool course.

I know the classes have already started, but since the year just began I thought that I could still try. I promise I’ll catch up with any of the work I missed.

Sorry for emailing this late.

Greetings.

Andrews Phoebe

You clicked the “Send” button and smiled to yourself, feeling utterly determined to help your best friend. Once the ride was over you woke Cassie carefully and gave a banknote to the autist. When you unlocked the door of your apartment your companion immediately ran to the bed and you couldn’t do anything but giggle at the sight. Sharing a flat with her was amazing, you and the girl completed each other. Yes, of course you were different, but it certainly would have been significantly monotonous if you two were the same person, right?

The small pad the two of you shared in London was in one of the most vibrant and creative neighborhoods of the city and even if the area was quite noisy, the apartment was able to maintain a certain welcoming and quiet atmosphere. The main room, an open space that connected the living room to the cooking area, was tiny but well organized. The sofa, soft and consumed by relaxing evenings, was positioned near a window that offered a partial view of an internal courtyard, where green plants from the neighbors created a corner of serenity in the middle of the city. The kitchen, although compact, was well equipped, with shelves spread over the counters and a small dining table next to it, which became the heart of the house: a place where you prepared fast meals during the week, but also where you both stopped to chat for hours on weekends. The atmosphere was enriched by personal details, such as photographs hanging on the walls and some books left around, which gave the environment a touch of familiarity. The bedroom was separate, with single beds that, although those weren’t particularly large, were decorated with colorful blankets and pillows, creating a corner of relaxation and comfort. Both of you had your own personal space, but the room was characterised by a mix of elements that told your university life: some shelves with travel objects, drawings and art objects that recall the moments spent together. The real highlight of the apartment, however, was the balcony. Accessible from the living room through a glass door, it was a little corner of paradise: there were some potted plants that added colour and life, a lounge chair and a coffee table on which often were left cups of steaming tea. In spring and summer, the balcony became the ideal refuge for sunbathing, reading a book or simply chatting while watching life flow in the street below. It was an intimate corner where you took refuge to get away from the bustle of London, enjoying a bit of peace and freshness, despite the city being always so lively and busy. Despite its small size, the flat was a reflection of your personality: simple but welcoming and full of character.

After a delicate cup of vanilla tea you decided to join Cassie, after putting on your favourite silk nightgown of course, not noticing the notification of an email that appeared on your phone.

Good evening Miss Andrew,

As you said the course has already started, but considering the small number of people who decided to join, I guess I can make an exception. Come to my office whenever you get the chance after your classes, I’ll be showing you what we worked on these few weeks. Don’t make me change my mind.

Professor Benedict Cumberbatch