Authors notes: I’ve been a Sherlock Holmes fan for years upon years, but this is the first time I’ve written him. It’s written with any Sherlock in mind but I’ve been particularly taken with Henry Cavill recently
Warnings: mildly sexually suggestive at the end, tobacco mention
Sherlock kisses you with fierce passion when he gets a spark of inspiration and is momentarily excited about a breakthrough in a case. He’s vanished the next moment, already ten steps ahead of where he was a moment ago, but his soft lips and the traces of his strong hands gripping your cheeks leaves your head spinning
When he’s struggling with a piece of the puzzle, he needs you just as much. Although he often requires silence in these moments, solitude isn’t always preferable. He will occasionally pull you to him and guide you to lay on his chest in complete silence, the pattern of your breathing and the weight of you against him soothing him endlessly as his mind works overtime
Melts when you make notes on his ramblings so he can revisit thoughts he would have otherwise discarded. You know this because his mouth fleetingly curls into a smile and he exhales slowly before resuming his usual pace
You’ll catch him watching you on occasion, when he’s supposed to be breaking some code or other and you think he’s still working on it, but actually he finished with that half an hour ago and, curiosity sated, has been gazing at you lovingly since
Nuzzles into your neck when he actually makes it to bed, your warmth and scent calming him immeasurably. He never realises how touch starved he is until his mind isn’t occupied with riddles and mysteries and your body feels so soft against his
His scent varies depending on where he’s been investigating, which tobacco he’s used, what he’s experimented with in his makeshift lab, and whether he’s been dressing in disguise. But there are always staple scents underpinning his aroma; white musk, honey and something smoky with a slightly bitter twist of ink
When he’s bored, he will find ways to occupy himself with you whilst trying his hardest not to appear needy. It always fails, however, and usually ends up with you both tangled together on the little sofa, whispering sweet nothings, giggling and kissing like lovesick teenagers
When he’s feeling sentimental, he calls you his Little Problem, because despite being far from problematic to him, he’s endlessly fascinated with you
Never believes you when you tell him he’s handsome, particularly when he’s been wearing pyjamas for three days and hasn’t bothered to comb his hair, but your extra little touches and kisses go a long way to convincing him that at least you believe it to be true
When he’s finding a social situation tricky, he surreptitiously grasps your hand in his. No one else can see, but the reassurance of your fingers squeezing his back makes his breath even out and his heart slow down
Adores the tender moments of domesticity that you share. They’re all too rare with his erratic schedule, but you bring him tea in a morning when he doesn’t want to get out of bed, or lovingly help him dress with gentle fingers carefully buttoning up his shirt, or smooth his hair down with a smile at his soft, natural curls, and he practically swoons
Always having being a fan of A Touch of The Dramatic™, he’s a hopeless romantic when he has the energy to pour into spoiling you, pulling out all the stops to make you feel special and loved. He knows that his work can make you feel lonely sometimes, so he likes to balance that out when he can with his attention solely focussed on you for a while
After a particularly taxing case, he loves nothing more than to hibernate with you. It starts with a hot bath, laying together in the silky water for hours as blissful silence washes over him, counteracting the overload of his previously racing mind
When he gathers enough energy, he whispers in a low grumble, ‘I’ll always come back to you, darling. You know that, don’t you? No matter where a case takes me, I’ll always return.’
Then, if you encourage him, he will join you for a meal before bed, where he can finally sleep soundly, relaxed in your arms — but not before spending a few more hours relishing in your touch (and your reaction to his)
No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: A curious man wanders into your dress shop with a lot of questions.
Characters: Sherlock Holmes (Cavill)
Note: thanks for waiting on this one.
As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.
Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.
I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖
The carriage stops outside a brick building. A walk-up in Marleybone, just along Upper Baker Street. An address you couldn’t even dream of living near, let alone within. You peer up at the facade, the orange brick unstained by the coal and smoke of the backstreets.
Gavin appears to open the door and sets a step down before you can emerge. He offers his hand gallantly and you let him assist you down to the road. You thank him as you peer up at the arched front door of 221b.
“You need only knock, miss,” Gavin goes to pat the horse’s haunch as it kicks. “Ask for Mr. Holmes, he is expecting you.”
You grip your bag tight and set your chin. You might not belong but only you are troubled by it. You climb the steps alongside the iron rail and lift the heavy knocker mounted on the thick wooden door. It’s clang rattles even you.
You wait, both hands on the handles of the bag. Gavin appears behind you with the rolls of fabric, breathless as he struggles to keep them from touching the ground. You return your attention to the door as it opens.
“Hello, I’m looking for Mr.--”
“Holmes,” the very man you’re seeking stands before you, “forgive me, my housekeeper... resigned.”
“Not to worry, sir,” you assure him.
“Come in,” he backs up, gesturing you within with his large hand. “And how was your journey? I hope you didn’t come upon any scoundrels.”
“Only upon her destination, sir,” Gavin japes as he steps in behind you.
“Eh,” Holmes tilts his head at the driver, “allow me.”
Holmes takes the rolls of fabric from Gavin. He hugs them effortlessly in on arm as he faces you again, dismissing the driver with no more than a nod. You stand rigidly by the wall, hesitant to go any further. The door closes and the click makes you flinch.
“Allow me to show you around,” Holmes offers, looming in the tight space of the entryway.
“I need only see your sister,” you insist.
“Ah, yes, Enola, you will, but it only polite to get you acquainted with the space,” he rebuffs.
“With respect, sir, I’ve come out of my way and without warning to this appointment. More work does await me at my shop,” you squeeze the leather handles until they squeak, “it is a lovely home, I’m sure, but I’ve come upon business, haven’t I?”
“Yes, but it wouldn’t take very long,” he counters, “yet, if you’d rather keep this formal, by all means, I will take you to my sister.”
“Thank you, sir.”
You bite down, wondering if perhaps you were more curt than you should be. The apartment is rather far from your neighbourhood and the travel time alone will impose upon your ongoing commissions. You don’t expect he considered that. He does seem the type to command rather than ask.
He directs you to the stairs, just across from the door, and waves you onward. He follows as your skirts brush the top of your boots with each step. The wallpaper is tightly decorated with framed newspapers and portraits, cluttered together but not garishly so.
You get to the top and he advises you to go left. You obey as he keeps pace.
“Did you... discover what led to that woman’s fate? Or who she was?” You ask as you take measured steps.
He isn’t demure as he walks next to you, crowded against you as his broad figure allows for little space, “sadly, yes and no. Not her name. Only that she was a factory woman. I won’t say much on the matter as it is ongoing and confidentiality is a part of my contract, I would only gird you to keep your doors locked and yourself alert.”
You chew on his answer. It makes you nervous. You know the woman was found close to your shop and home. The news has been whispered for blocks.
“I will be sure to hede your advice,” you say.
You walk past a door as he stops to knock on it. You spin back, skirts swirling around you, and he glances at you as he plants his hand on the door frame. There is activity from within, scratching and creaking. He sighs and stands straight as he slides his hand down the pillar. He raps with his knuckles again.
“Enola,” he booms through, his voice shaking you. “I told you to be ready.”
You hear furious footsteps and the lock flicks back with similar furor. It opens and a young woman with a slumping bun greets Mr. Holmes. Strands fall loose from the clip and her blouse is half untucked as her sleeves are rolled to her elbows. She has a long oval face, flushed as she shows her teeth.
“I told you, I’m busy--”
“Not so busy that you would waste this good woman’s time,” Holmes insists, “she traveled all this way. We discussed this.”
She flutters her lashes and huffs. Her eyes flit over to you and she softens her expression, “if her time is wasted, it is hardly my fault.”
“Hm,” he hums flatly, “isn’t it? It wasn’t I who fed your dresses to the furnace.”
She smiles, a smug look that pinches her cheeks, “I was cold.”
“Sister,” he warns dangerously, crossing his arms, his breadth wider than ever.
“You know what, I welcome her company. Much preferable to your own,” the woman sneers and turns her shoulder to her brother, “come on, then. Suppose I need a dress for the banquet.”
You inch forward. A flare of resent burns in you at the position Mr. Holmes has put you in. Plainly, this appointment was not upon his sister’s behest. She holds the door for you and her brother exhales deeply.
“All you need do is stand still, I’m certain you can handle that, sister,” he rebukes, “do let me know when you are finished and I will call the carriage.”
“Thank you,” you utter without looking at him. He sets the rolls just inside the door and backs up to watch you.
You enter the bedroom and find it cluttered and cramped. There are books in stacks with more littered around the bottom. A dried-up paint palette and an easel draped over with several jackets and unpaired stockings. There is a four-post bed with scrambled covers and a canopy twisted around the poles. Vials upon vials line shelves and an inkwell stands uncapped over untidy sheets of paper.
“Very well,” the woman shuts the door, “I am Enola, the famous detective’s ne’er do well sister and you are the seamstress who will make me a peacock.”
You stare at her and swallow tightly. You offer your name before you begin, “I’ve only come upon his request--”
“Ah, yes, I’m certain you have. He’s still trying to make a lady of me. I see through his guise, though he doesn’t think it. He underestimates me, see. He lies but I will go along for I will more easily avoid his snare if I do.”
You nod and narrow your eyes. The wealthy can always afford to be so eccentric. You don’t think any woman you know would view a new dress as such a curse. She is young, she cannot know.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll only take your measurements,” you offer, “I can always fit upon the dress form.”
“Do what you must,” she sighs, “shall I strip down?”
You put your bag on a chair as she unbuttons her blouse, “not-- if you--” You look up at her as she reveals a corset and reaches to undo her skirt. You focus on your bag and scoop out your measuring tape.
You approach her as her skirt heaps at her feet. She is tall, her legs on long, her figure lithe. You begin your work silently. She raises her arms as you request and puts them back down.
“Suppose if I wasn’t here, I might’ve become a dressmaker. I always enjoyed stitching,” she muses as you scribble down each number, “it seems lonely work. Quiet work.”
“It’s work,” you say as you take out the envelope and unfold the page to examine the dress again. You hold it up and glance past it at Enola.
“May I see that?” She asks but doesn’t await an answer before she snatches the paper. “Oh, is this really what he chose? No, no, no, this won’t do. I want my shoulders covered.”
You slip the envelope back in your bag, “it is only what I was given. If you prefer adjustments, it is your dress.”
“Yes, my dress and my body,” she crumples the paper and tosses it onto the rug.
You close up your notebook and go to the rolls of fabric, “would it be too much for me to do some piecework?”
“If you insist,” she pouts.
You take out your scissors and turn your back to her. She isn’t rude, per se, but you’re not in the habit of associating with this sort of clientele. You get numbers on a sheet and you sew. A living form is not quite your forte.
-🪡
When you finish, you can sense Enola’s agitated impatience. You don’t blame her. It’s plain she didn’t want the dress or your visit. It is more so upon the shoulders of her brother. Mr. Holmes. You’re similarly irked that he would put you in this position.
Enola is already fiddling with some instrument before you can go. You emerge and pull the door shut after you. You stand in the hallway, bag at the crook of your elbow as you hug the fabric. You move with hampered steps towards the stairs. As the top creaks beneath your weight, your name is called from further down the hallway.
“Ah, are you set then?” Mr. Holmes asks as he stops just outside a door, “I was thinking, to make up for your efforts, you might want to stay for tea.”
You look down at your armful and back to him, “that’s very generous, but--”
“I believe I paid an adequate fee for the appointment,” he strides slowly towards you, “but I am open to a barter if it was not sufficient.”
You feel the heavy sovereign tucked into your jacket. You crook your lips and raise your chin, “no sir, it will do for today and the making of the dress. The fabric... I don’t have any as rich as the style requested.”
“Another service I may require of you. If you wouldn’t mind to select the material, I would be happy to reimburse the expense.”
“Would there be a colour? A fabric preferred? Velvet? Satin? Chiffon?” You prompt, “I solely work in cotton and wool, as I forewarned.”
“Perhaps we might find a fabric seller at Covent Garden? You could accompany me on my next sojourn--”
“I don’t know if I would have the time. I could write down some fabrics which would suit the silhouette we agreed upon,” you offer.
“Mmm,” he hums, “you are rather professional. How about tea, then? Melinda from across the road sent some mutton over.”
“The hour should see me back to my shop,” you shift your bag.
“You are fastidious,” he stops before you and puts a hand on the fabric, “please, allow me, you are overburdened.”
“I’m--”
You can’t argue as he takes the fabric from you. You let him have it if only to avoid disaster you lean back on your heel. He angles the rolls under his arm easily and grins. A curl strays down his forehead.
“I suppose you are right, given recent events, it would be best to see you home before the evening sets,” he says, “I would gladly see you home safe, miss.”
He is overly polite, or perhaps you aren’t used to it. It is his home, he supplied the carriage, and he has paid generously. It makes each denial feel trite.
“If you must, but I would be just fine on my own comportment,” you accept.
“It isn’t any fuss, I will fetch a jacket and the driver,” he extends his arm past you, “after you.”
You spin on your heel and face the staircase. You descend with your hand on the railing. As you come to the bottom, you wander towards the entry way and take in the fineness of the decor. Is much more becoming than your slanted rooms.
Mr. Holmes places the rolls just beside the door and takes a jacket from the rack. He pulls it on and tells you to wait before he disappears outside. You linger as you are, sliding your bag down to your hands.
When he returns, he reaches within to retrieve the fabric first. “Gavin is bringing up the carriage,” he declares and offers his free arm, “shall we?”
You consider him. You wouldn’t want to be unkind. You step through the door, pulling it shut as you accept his bent arm, your hand in the crook. He accompanies you down the narrow steps, each step crowded by his.
Gavin appears in the driver’s seat and reins the horse to a halt. The beast looks miserable. Mr. Holmes escorts you to the door and releases you to open it. He helps you with a strong hand and you sit within with your bag on your lap. He shoves the fabric in ahead of him, his head bowed as he fits through the small door.
He closes it with a snap and settles on the bench on the other side of you. You stare across at the cotton, expecting he’d have taken that seat instead. His leg is on your skirt.
You keep your hands on your bag. He knocks on the ceiling and the carriage rumbles into motion. You rock with it along the street, silent as you wring the leather handles.
“I hope my sister did not cause too much stress. I know she can be a lot but she’s old enough now. She should start behaving as a lady,” he spreads a large hand across his thigh. “Perhaps, once she finds a husband, that will be easier.”
You nod, uncertain of a proper response.
“Not to mean... I don’t mean to assume, I am known however for my observations, and I have concluded you are not married,” he continues, “I gather if it were the case, you might not have a shop to sew in.”
“Suppose not,” you reply dully.
“It is only to say that my opinion of my sister isn’t general. A woman such as yourself is admirable.”
“A spinster?” You supply.
“I didn’t--”
“I’ve chosen not to marry, that is true. I am not bothered by that fact,” you say, “isn’t that what you deal in, detective, facts?”
“Fair,” he shifts on the bench, “but not everyone can detach emotion from facts.”
“And why should I be emotional about that fact? I am much more happier than any woman could be with a husband,” you stare at the opposite wall of the carriage. “And I will assume, sir, as I am no detective, that you have neither taken to the altar.”
He curls the fingers on his left hand, “I have not.”
“And I’m certain you enjoy your bachelor lifestyle in your grand apartment,” you return, “while my own is not so extravagant, I find solace in it. On that, I think you might understand me.”
He takes a breath and lets it out with a thoughtful hum, “I suppose we are similar in some way.”
No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: A curious man wanders into your dress shop with a lot of questions.
Characters: Sherlock Holmes (Cavill)
Note: I hope you all enjoy this random idea.
As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.
Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.
I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖
One hand guides the fabric as the other turns the wheel. Your work is slow but steady, every stitch perfect, every seam precise. Your fare may be modest and your product simple, but its quality cannot be contested. Your labour as yourself is honest and plain.
The noise of the machine is your only company. The one-room shop nestled behind the butcher’s rarely sees a customer through its door. Instead, the orders are sent from the factories, returned with the printed adverts you disperse outside their doors. The writs are sent along with an envelope of pence and shilling and you complete each with equal diligence before sending them back bundled in paper and twine.
The operation isn’t especially fruitful but the profit is enough to subsist. Enough to guarantee your independence; a small apartment just above and a pot of stew to last you through each week. This humble existence is preferable to any marriage you’ve witnessed.
The letters from your sisters reaffirm your spinster’s fate. You’d rather a hand wheel and a needle than a brood and broken back. A husband seems to provide several jobs at once, you’ll happily settle for one.
As your hands work from memory and your head wanders from tedium, the bell above the door gives a single sharp toll. You ease the wheel to a halt and leave the seam unfinished. You peer up above the black iron machine, reminding yourself to fix your hunch as a client enters. You can’t but wonder if he may have come to the wrong shop.
By his attire, he is a class above the factory women who require gray skirts and simple stays. His waistcoat is embroidered and his jacket is pressed and clean. He is tall, locks part tidily so his curls lay gracefully. His face is fresh-shaven, square jaw with a cleft, and shoulders broad and strong. He does not share the same sinewy gauntness as the labourers with the coal-dusted noses.
He carries a fine leather bag. Another clue to his status. His shoes, another. Polished and without creases.
You stand to greet him, “good afternoon, sir. Might I help you with something?”
His answer is not prompt. He takes in the finished dresses hung by the east wall and turns to examine the rolls of wool and cotton. At last, he returns his attention to you.
“Afternoon,” his deep timbre fills the small space, “you are the dressmaker.”
It isn’t a question, but you answer, “I am.”
He narrows his eyes as he approaches your desk, the sole fixture in the space. From without, the shop is just as bare. The blackened windows offer not insight into the business, its only suggestion the sign hung above the door, though the paint requires a fresh coat.
“And the shop owner?”
“That is me as well, sir,” you assert. The presumption is not uncommon.
“Ah,” he accepts your explanation without comment, “so, you will have sewn this.”
He puts his bag on the desk, nearly knocking your shears from the corner. You try not to flinch as they teeter near the edge and he pulls open the top of the leather bag. He pulls out a swath of grey. You recognise it and he rolls the cuff to show your initials sewn within.
“Sir,” you say precariously, “is there some issue with it? Is it your wife’s dress?”
“Wife? No, no,” he dismisses, feeling the fabric between his fingers, “rather I am in search of the dress’s owner. The initial must belong to them, yes? So you would have a name for the buyer.”
“Mm, no, those are mine,” you point at the letters, “as it is my handiwork.”
“That makes sense,” he frowns in disappointment. “So you wouldn’t know who would wear it?”
You rub your chapped lips together. You find your tongue sliding over them often when you work, turning them raw with the habit. The man’s lips are rosy and smooth, as well-kempt as the rest of him. He is no factory worker’s husband.
“I might… would you take it out?” You ask.
He obliges as you pluck up the metal cylinder from your desk and unfurl the tape measure from within. He shakes out the dress, holding it by the shoulders to reveal salt stains along the skirts and unleashing a dingy smell in the shop. You wiggle your nose at the stench but worse roils in from the butcher’s on hot days.
You take the measure of the sleeves and the waist, then to the hem. You scribble the numbers on a scrap and take that to compare with your ledger. The measurements are in now way defining but might narrow it down. He keeps the dress aloft and you return to him to check the thread along the seams. A few months ago, you changed the thickness as the factory workers complained of splits under the arms.
“Hm, it is a recent purchase,” you assure him and return to the ledge.
He lowers the dress and approaches. You snap the book closed and turn your face up to consider him once more, “why do you need to know, if it is not your wife?”
“You are very discerning,” he remarks as he folds the dress and drapes it over his bag, “I’m certain then you can surmise the woman who wore this dress did not meet a kind fate.” He tugs up the hem and shows a tear trimmed in scarlet, the colour not obvious from a distance. “Holmes, Sherlock Holmes. I’m a detective and I’m trying to identify a poor woman found not far from here. I believe it is in your own interest that I discover her assailant.”
“I cannot say for certain which she is,” you turn over the scrap and re-open the ledger. You write down three names which match the measurements and hold the paper out to him. He takes it, his thick fingertips brushing yours. “Those are the ones which align with the dress.”
“Mm,” he hums as he tucks the paper into his chest pocket, “and your name? I couldn’t make it out on the sign.”
You recite your name flatly, “it isn’t on the sign.”
“It requires new paint,” he admonishes, “I could hardly find you.”
“I am aware,” you reply. “Thank you for noting.”
He’s quiet, “being a detective, however, I did indeed put together the clues.”
Is he making a joke? You cannot tell. He folds up the dress completely and puts it back in the leather bag. The smell persists.
“What are you prices?” He asks abruptly.
“Sir, I sew dresses for factory women, sometimes a few communion pieces, but I’m afraid I don’t do much suit work.”
“My sister requires a dress,” he sniffs, “as simple as it is, I can see your work is fine.”
“I have only wools and cottons,” you counter.
“Do you always turn away business?” He challenges.
“I wasn’t, sir, I’m only clarifying what I currently do. My prices are set for those fabrics,” you explain.
“I will pay for the muslin and velvet,” he waves his hand staunchly, “you will be paid for your labour. Can you sew with more than wool and cotton?”
“I can, sir, but you could find a ready-made dress in a market boutique if the dress is required promptly.”
“I can afford the time and coin,” he insists. “You are not a talented advertiser, are you?”
You’re taken aback by his bluntness. Often, his ilk have that demeanour. It’s why you’d rather the factory workers and the fish sellers’ wives.
“I suppose not,” you agree, “I would need measurements before I begin. You may send the numbers along with the fabric, then. And I would require a style. Perhaps your sister is a purveyor of fashion magazines?”
“I will send a messenger,” he shrugs. “Thank you for your time. I shan't get in your way any longer.”
“Good day, sir.”
“Good day to you,” he takes the bag from your desk and the shears fall to the floor with a clatter.
You skirt around to grab them as he bends and swipes them up first. You recoil as he closes the blades with a snap. He examines them before placing them back on the desk.
“Apologies,” he says, “and miss,” he looks at you, “take to heart what I’ve told you today. Keep away from the allies and perhaps you may consider locking your door.”
“Thank you, sir, your concern is appreciated.”
“Rather you might just keep those close, eh,” he points to the shears and his cheek dimples.
Again, you can’t be certain of his humour. You keep a placid expression, neither smiling nor scowling. He clears his throat and runs his hand down his jacket, gripping the lapel.
“Very well then, I’ll be off.”
He turns on his heel and marches to the door. You stay by the desk as the bell rings with his departure. Once the door closes, you cross the shop. You turn the lock into place, his foreboding lingering with the stale scent of dirty water.
🪡
Despite the unusual visit, your days roll on like a hand on a clock. The thought of the woman’s tragic fate looms like a shadow but fades. You have too much stitching to do to fret over that man and his ominous words. You assume his interest in your work thereafter was wholly feigned as he does not return.
That day, you pass off six parcels to Eustace, the driver who takes them down to the stacks to hand off to the floor bosses who will parse them out to the women they’ve been cut for. You pay him his toll before he climbs back into the seat of his cart, his horse kicking impatiently.
“Excuse me, sir,” another driver clops up along the other side of the street, a narrow squeeze between the slanting buildings. “I’m in search of a dressmaker. I believe the store is tucked behind the butcher’s and…” the man’s voice drifts off as his eyes flit to the meat sellers marquee.
“Right here, good sir,” Eustace responds, “wouldn’t ya know, she’s right here.”
You lift your chin to see past the cart and spy the driver. He removes his cap as his gaze meets yours. Eustache dips his chin as he adjusts his own hat and snaps his old mare into a canter. As you're left alone with the carriage driver, a vehicle rather lofty for a block like this, you fold your hands behind you.
“Sir, you hardly look in need of a work woman’s dress,” you say.
“Miss,” he ties the reins off and jumps down from his seat, “I am sent for you, not a dress.”
“For me?” You echo.
“Mr. Holmes has sent,” he crosses the muck and nearly slips. “He said he made an appointment for a seamstress.”
“An appointment? I wasn’t informed of the time,” you rebuff. “I’ve a shop to run, orders paid for. I can’t simply leave.”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Holmes made mention of a fee,” the man feels around his striped coat, “he said a deposit would be needed.”
He takes out a brown envelope and hands it over. You take it, a small weight within. You look at the driver before you pull back the flap and peek inside. A large gold sovereign sits in the corner of the paper; a whole pound. That’s at least three days work.
You hold your breath, trying to maintain some composure. If that’s the deposit, what is he offering for the rest? You slip out the folded paper within, a page torn from a fashion journal. The dress is elegant if not extravagant. You don’t often do off-the-shoulder or ruffles like that but it isn’t beyond your skill.
You fold the flap closed again and lift your chin to face the driver, “I must lock up, you see?”
“Take your time, miss,” he says kindly. “Mr. Holmes isn’t expecting you to hurry.”
“Thank you, sir,” you bow your head and turn away.
You measure your steps along the facade of the butcher’s shop and curl around to the alleyway. You let yourself into your shop and tuck the envelope into your apron pocket. You take your sewing bag from under the desk and shake off the dust. You don’t often have reason to use it.
You open it up and pack away your shears, a measuring tape, pins with a cushion, your notebook, and a few other bits and bobs. Just in case. You grab a role of linen from against the wall. It’s heavy but you can manage.
You take the key from your desk drawer and switch off the overhead light. You lock the door and continue back out to the street. The driver puffs smoke from a pipe as he waits.
“Miss, allow me,” he snuffs out the pipe and puts it in his pocket. He nears and reaches for the roll of linen.
“It’s quite alright, sir,” you say.
“I insist, miss, can’t have a lady doing all that,” he takes it, not forcefully, and you let him.
As he goes to the carriage and opens the door, you give pause. You don’t know if you should be so easily swayed on a gold coin. Mr. Holmes hadn’t been entirely pleasant and you do prefer your simple work. Still, you can hardly turn your nose up at a pound. Not with the summer fizzling to a finale.
You lift your skirts and cross the street to the open carriage, “sir, might I have a name?”
“Gavin,” he answers, “and I have yours. Mr. Holmes made sure of it.”
“Yes, very good,” you say as you approach, another sliver of doubt trickling through. Mr. Holmes claimed to be a detective but is that really the reason he was strolling around with a dead woman’s dress? You gulp and look at Gavin then the carriage, “might I keep the window open?”
“Surely you can,” he agrees amiably. “Mr. Holmes lives quite a ways, shouldn’t mind the air. I’ll be certain to stay away from the stacks.”
“Thank you, sir,” you accept his proffered hand and he helps you up into the carriage.
You settle on the bench as the door shuts and you open the window from within. You lean back, your hand grasping the top of your bag. You unclasp it as you feel Gavin climb up on the driver’s seat. You dip your hand inside and clutch your long shears.
What a marvelous beginning to a mystery! The atmosphere and our heroine's characterization are so perfectly suited to the time period, and captured so well through both dialogue and description. I so look forward to further chapters!
🤭 ok so bridgerton sherlock was a wip i started back in the spring when i was rewatching bridgerton seasons 1&2 and also reading the colin and penelope book, so i was deep into bridgerton and i wondered how far off the time period was from sherlock (it's quite far) but i just couldn't stop thinking about like "what if the queen brought in sherlock to find the identity of lady whistledown? and what if reader is the only one in the ton who's figured it out? and what if sherlock spots that right away?"
and then i was watching the first sex scene between simon and daphne in season 1 and i just had a slutty little thought that i bet sherlock would be a better man for your first time because he'd make sure it didn't hurt (or, like, hurt as minimally as possible).
SO all that's to say, that fic is more like two parts of a story, the first is when sherlock and reader meet and the second is their first time together (after being married, of course). once i finished all my bridgerton consumption, i didn't have as much motivation to continue with the fic, but i want to get back to it eventually!
here's a little snippet below the cut (unedited of course):
“Do you have a theory, miss…” he asked in such a way that it would’ve been rude not to provide your name, so you did, before asking a question of your own.
“A theory about what, my lord?” you asked in a soft voice, even though you knew precisely to what he was referring.
Out of the corner of your eye, you watched Mr. Holmes give you a considering look, then answered. “About who Lady Whistledown might be,” he elaborated. “It seems all the young ladies have a theory that they simply must relay to me.”
“And how long did it take you to figure out that all their theories were made up solely for the purpose of talking to you?” you asked, your mouth curving in a sly smile as you cut a glance to the detective.
He huffed a little laugh. “Oh, before the first chit opened her mouth,” he muttered.
You cut a glare to the man for his crass word.
“Forgive me—before the first lady opened her mouth.” When you nodded, he went on. “But I must endear myself to your ton if I’m to sus out this gossip monger that vexes the queen so.”
“Her highness is often mentioned in gossip sheet,” you said noncommittally.
This is fun and sizzles nicely! Should you ever return to it, I'll be tripping over myself to read it! There's hardly a Sherlock I don't love, but I do VERY MUCH like Henry's Sherlock. Indeed, I swoon for him.
Henry's Sherlock is my favorite, but it's also very intimidating writing someone so SMART. but i'm glad the banter works, i do feel like Sherlock needs a reader who's clever and witty, and when i do eventually get around to editing this fic, i'll probably try to add even more banter 🤣
OMG HOW HAVE YOU BEEN WHY DID U LEAVE WHY ARE YOU BACK AGAIN
IM SO HAPPY TO SEE U HERE AGAIN OMG GAHHHHHHHHHHHHH
My “real life” writing and a new job stole away my attention for a time, but I am absolutely delighted to return to ✨romance✨ and fellowship with you all.
…and I fell in love with my very own Sherlock, and we’re getting married in the spring! 😘
I am most delighted and honored to accept your proposal…
Utmost Merit - Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V (All chapters 18+)
I cannot believe I’ve reached almost 600 followers; thank you all so very much!!! It amazes me that you all want to read my silly, smutty little stories, and I’m so glad you’re here. Your comments and reblogs and the amazing prompt I received mean the world to me. 💌 💌 💌
I am not much of an artist, but I put together a little collage of these two from Utmost Merit. 🥰
Character: Henry Cavill as Sherlock in Enola Holmes
Summary: Sherlock presents the Reader with a most unconventional proposal.
Content: Absolutely 18+ for very very very filthy language, smut with minimal plot, purposely unprotected sex, breeding kink, spouses-to-lovers, pregnancy, and some period-typical gender roles, but nothing unkind or insidious.
Notes: What if I told you I'm back?
Previous Chapters: Part I Part II Part III Part IV
The first week of your married life is like a dream.
The day after your wedding, Sherlock whisks you off to his family estate, a rambling manor house set back within acres and acres of woodland paths and open fields, even more beautiful than he promised. His brother and sister’s absence and his generous afternoons and evenings off for the staff give ample opportunity for you to indulge in one another…all over the house.
He takes you in the library, pressed up against the shelves; bends you over the billiards table; and, with a wolfish grin, kneels and turns his lips and tongue to profane purposes as you perch upon the edge of his desk, clutching him closer by his hair and crying out in exaltation.
At first, this heedless freedom of passion is enough to distract you from the feelings which only grow the more time you spend with your husband, from your hours on the train and in the carriage—the conversation flowing and gentle touches exchanged—to boisterous picnics ending in you laughing your way across the lawn naked, with your ravenous lover in hot pursuit.
In these tender and impassioned moments, you find you can forget yourself: your fear and your longing fade as he pins your wrists above your head and ruts into you like an animal, growling sacrilegious curses into your ear, or when he gently, maddeningly slowly drags the head of his cock across the delicate bud at the apex of your thighs, cooing, “Such an impatient creature you are, Mrs. Holmes. I’ll have your pleasure from you first, then I will give you my cock…”
But these interludes of relief, when you can almost pretend that he returns your love in full measure, are more and more fleeting. As soon as your head rests upon his chest and your eyes flutter closed, drowsy in the warmth of his arms, you must shake yourself awake again, lest some sleepy murmur of affection escape you. When he tosses and turns in his sleep, you long to comfort him with promises of eternal devotion, your heart a safe harbor for all his worries and fears, but you can only try to comfort yourself with the knowledge that at least you get to bask in the light of him for all your days, even if the shadows cast by that light mar your joy.
A fortnight since the wedding and near a month after you first gave yourselves to one another fully, those shadows have prevailed. For the third morning in a row, you have awoken melancholy and quiet, slipping out to walk the grounds before he wakes. Your heart is most compromised in the morning, seeing Sherlock at his most vulnerable: fluttering eyelids, half-parted lips, his colossal form stretched out and laid bare to your besotted eyes and fervent hands. If you woke him with a kiss—or anything more—you knew you might not leave bed for hours.
But you cannot risk it today. If he so much as opened his eyes, your first words would be “I love you”, and the spell would be broken, the arrangement betrayed, the trust between two equals thrown into an even greater imbalance. You are protecting him, you reason as you quietly dress, from a revelation that would only cause you both greater pain. The fresh air, you hope, will do you good and clear your head, and perhaps you will contrive as you walk some means by which you can fall out of love with the man who, you suspect more and more each day, has already given you his child.
Hours later, having traced course of a babbling brook back and forth a half dozen times and circled the tallest tree of the estate over and over again, your spirit and body grow weary—and your stomach unsettled—and you know you must return home. As you approach the house, you can see Sherlock through the wide window in the parlor, fully dressed and pacing back and forth, raking his hands through his hair. He catches your eye through the glass and, to your dismay turns away, whether in anger or embarrassment you cannot tell. Your heart plummets. You know you must go in to him, and when you arrive in the parlor, he faces you and acknowledges you with a slight bow, as if you were virtual strangers again.
“Was your walk pleasant?”
“Yes, thank you.”
For the first time since his proposal, a tense, wary silence grows between you. His manner is as sober as your own, and you uneasily hover in the doorway, unsure as to whether he welcomes your presence or would rather you go right back out again.
“Will you come and sit with me?” he asks at last, and you gingerly join him on the settee below the window. Not quite meeting your gaze, he continues, “Rosamund, these past few days, I have sensed a distance, such as has not been since we were strangers. Even when we…when I hold you most nearly…a veil has fallen between us.”
“I cannot deny it,” you murmur, steeling yourself for the conversation you have been dreading.
“Do you know the cause?” he asks.
He knows. He must know. And now he would have you name it.
“I know…I have realized that our feelings for one another…differ.”
He nods slowly, murmurs, “I have deduced the same,” and turns his face away from you, taking a slow, deep breath. The moment seems to stretch for hours, each second heavier than the last.
“Well. We are more fortunate than most,” he says at last in a measured tone, a pained smile barely flickering across his lips as he glances back at you, only to look away again immediately. “In that our minds, our tastes, and our purposes in life are so aligned. It would have been too much to ask of providence that our hearts be likewise matched, do you not think so?”
“Indeed,” you manage, feeling tears pool in your eyes. You know he does not mean to hurt you, in bringing this matter to light—entirely the opposite. You promised one another perfect honesty, but you began to think suffering in silence and doubt was far better than this excruciating surety: he had recognized your love, but did not requite it.
“If you are yet amenable to our shared purpose, I myself am wholly undeterred. Every word I have said to you is true: my respect for you, for the exemplary wife and someday mother you show yourself to be, takes precedence over all. But given the circumstances, we might perhaps continue with a more…restrained approach. If you prefer to cease our relations for the moment and wait until such a time as you may have surety of your condition, I will resume my lodgings at Baker Street in anticipation of a verdict. We may then renegotiate our terms, one way or another. But you must know that no matter what, you will never be without my protection and devotion. And my utmost fidelity.”
“Oh, oh, no, Sherlock, how could I ask—?”
“And, if one day you find you love another—”
“Love another?! I could not love another, I love only y—!”
“—I will turn my eyes away and bear it without hesitation or complaint. But I can no longer pretend! I love you. I will love you till my dying breath and whatever remains of me beyond this life will still seek your service, your comfort, your good. I cast myself upon your mercy, Rosamund!”
Sherlock Holmes, his eyes brimming with tears, falls upon his knees before you, taking your hands in his.
“Will you forgive me that I cannot pretend any longer? Will you still have me? Will you still allow me to be a husband to you, to care for you and build a life for you and for our…?”
His voice trails off into a stifled cry, and you throw your arms around him, covering his face with kisses as your own tears flow.
“Sherlock! Please, oh please don’t cry, my love!” The torrent of adoration you have stemmed for so long pours fourth from you as though a dam had burst. “My dearest friend, my very heart…we have mistaken one another! I thought you did not love me!”
Sherlock’s demeanor shifts in a heartbeat, as if he has been struck by lightning.
“You love me?”
“I have loved you since long before I knew it! And every minute we share delivers me a new reason to love you more, every day better than the last, every word I speak to you a profession of my love! I could not pretend either…for no other reason could I tear myself from your side. Forgive me my coldness! I thought it for the best—”
“No, no, there is nothing to forgive,” he insists, rising and drawing you up to stand, completely enveloped in his arms, pressing fervent kisses to your cheeks and forehead and lips. ““I have most of all deceived myself in swearing I was no romantic! What a fool to think I could resist the call of a soul’s companion? My perfect angel, my salvation! I will spend a lifetime making up for a month’s lack of telling you of my love.”
“I shall never grow tired of it,” you promise him, each breath a sigh of relief, a prayer of thanks, a new dawn of hope.
“There is no man alive who knows my joy, nothing on earth that can surpass it!”
“Nothing?” you reply very quietly, unable to be measured or careful now…it was far, far too late for that. “Then you do not wish to hear of another happiness?” For the second time in a single morning, the whole earth’s axis shifts as Sherlock’s eyes widen. You quickly continue, “It is early yet. Too early. But yet I…I feel it, in my heart, as surely as I feel I love you.”
Sherlock Holmes bows his head and weeps in earnest, burying his face in your hair as he holds you tightly and whispers over and over again, “My love, my wife…”
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Author's Note: Thank you for all the recent follows, I'm starting to work on my blog again after taking up writing fanfiction again. I hope to post more content soon. Enjoy!
When she saw the look on his face, she knew it wasn’t really him looking at her.
There was always a sparkle in Bucky’s eyes for her. The man in front of her had flat, blank eyes. Tension strung the air around him and she could feel how alert he was. Long strands of chestnut hair curled around his tight jaw. He crossed the threshold from the hallway into her laboratory. When he was inside he pressed the red button on the keypad. Behind him the doors slammed shut. Then they whirled, sealing. She recognized the sound of the lockdown procedure for a chemical spill being initiated.
Their gazes met and the blank expression shifted into one of intent.
Was she his target? Swallowing hard, she took a step back. Her phone was at her desk in the far corner. She could call for help. The lockdown wouldn’t trip any alarms. For her work chemical spills were common enough that they usually didn’t warrant outside help for clean up. She could clear the lockdown from her tablet. Where was her tablet?
Bucky moved with quick, efficient movements, coming towards her like a bulldozer. Her back hit the edge of the work table and she gasped. Ordinarily this would make him stop on a dime. But this wasn’t Bucky Barnes, her best friend.
The Winter Soldier caught her by the wrist and jerked her into his hold. The metal arm whirled as plates moved, drawing her tight against his body. The flesh hand dug into her soft skin. It was almost painful. But not quite. The lack of pain didn’t make sense, given the stories she’d heard about the man facing her now. Not a man, she corrected. Machine. He’d been created as a weapon. And it’s what he was.
The Winter Soldier nuzzled her neck, brushing his nose over her pulse point.
Was he a machine? He wasn’t acting like one now. The press of a heavy erection into her belly suggested Hydra’s greatest weapon was very much a man.
Heat flooded her core as the arm around her waist contracted. Wetness grew between her legs and she knew her panties were soaked. The muscles of her channel squeezed. She shut her eyes and tried to formulate coherent thoughts. He’d grabbed her but so far neither of them had spoken. Did she scream? No, the lockdown protocol made the room soundproof. It wasn’t deliberate, just part of closing a space off when vapors might be involved in a chemical incident.
He smelled nice. Like soap and a hint of pine.
Her free hand pressed against his chest, into the Kevlar vest of his uniform. The Avengers were due back today. He must have just come in from his mission with them.
“Bucky-”
The soldier growled. His tongue swiped over her neck and the teeth nipped at the soft skin. She had to press her lips together to hold in a whimper as pleasure flashed through her nerves, down her spine to the center of her desire.
He didn’t like that name, she guessed. What had Hydra called him?
“Soldier?”
He grunted. The sound was approving.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
Silence.
Did the soldier know how to speak?
“Need you.” His voice was rougher than Bucky’s.
Oh. Judging by the nudge he gave her, his arousal pressing deeper into her softness, she could infer what he meant.
“Soldier, did you take control from Bucky? Does he want this or do you?”
He pulled his head back and from superior height, icy blue eyes glared.
“He wants you. But he doesn’t ask. Need. Need you.”
The voice was an octave deeper than she was used to hearing from him. And it made her nipples pebble against the lace of her bra.
Focus. She couldn’t figure out how to soldier had been triggered. The words Hydra had used to control him were removed.
“How did you get out, soldier? Bucky can’t be triggered anymore.”
“I pushed him aside. The desire for you makes him weak. But I want you too. And I was able to take over him after the mission. So that I can take you.”
Sympathy rushed through her chest, tugged at the edge of her conscience.
One part of her desperately wanted to say yes and let him throw her back on the table. The erection cradled to her lower belly was nothing compared to the desire coiled painfully tight in her pelvis. She needed just as much as the soldier did, but there was one other in this odd little love triangle who hadn’t given his consent.
“Bucky wants me? Or is this just you forcing him?”
“We need you. I can smell you. Your body tells me what you feel. It smells musky and sweet.”
Her thighs clenched and the soldier’s mouth pulled up at the corner, half smiling.
“I know. I’m interested, and I want to, but Bucky-”
Once she’d said she wanted, he dropped her wrist and the flesh hand sought the hem of her skirt, hiking it up. She gasped as he ripped at the band of her panties.
“Soldier!”
“I want to taste if you’re as sweet as you smell. Going to eat you until I’m ready to fuck you.”
He lifted her with his metal arm, onto the work table she’d backed into when he’d herded her into this corner of the lab. The cold metal pressed against the heated skin of the backs of her thighs.
“Bucky, please!”
Her conscience won over her body’s needs. Her hand shoved at his chest.
The soldier snarled and pushed her hand away. He moved close, his face set in harsh lines of unhappiness and lust.
“Want you now. Let me. You need me, you’re squirming and clenching your thighs. The smell is so good, let me taste. That’s what you need.”
“Bucky doesn’t want this. You can’t hijack his body, whether I want this or not. You need his consent as well.”
“No.”
The soldier’s voice was curt.
“He’s still in there isn’t he? A passenger?”
“He knows. He fights for control. He thinks I’ll hurt you.”
“Will you?”
“I’m going to make you scream. Over and over again. And you’ll come for me. I’ll satisfy your dripping cunt like he never will. You’ll beg him to let me have you again when I’m done.”
Heaven help her. She could have orgasmed from the description. But still, Bucky was inside of him and if this wasn’t how he wanted his body to be used… she couldn’t accept it.
“I’m going to need him to tell me yes.”
“He thinks about you when he mastrubates in the shower.”
She felt her face flush at that, but couldn’t deny the thrill of happiness. Bucky was her friend. He had been since a few months after coming to the Avengers Compound. He’d accidentally ducked into her lab one day when he was trying to avoid Steve. The over helpful golden retriever super soldier was one of her favorite people. But she could understand the urge to escape from his ever present concern. Bucky had nearly turned around and left her lab when he’d realized it was occupied. Instead she’d bid him to stay and then brushed off Steve when he’d come looking for Bucky a few minutes later.
Since then, whenever Bucky wanted peace and quiet he’d come down to the lounge area of her mechanics lab and sprawl on the couch to watch her work. He brought her snacks and iced coffees and was always willing to help her move heavy equipment. She loved him as a friend and wanted him as something more. But caution held her back. Good friends were special. The sense of comfort Bucky’s quiet presence brought her was unique. She didn’t want to spoil anything. So her fantasies remained just that. Fantasies.
The Winter Soldier had decided to take the choice out of their hands it seemed.
Her hands flattened against the swell of pectoral muscles. The slope of his chest was palpable even with the body armor.
“Soldier, that’s not the same thing. I mean does he want me now? Here? If he were in control and not you, would this be happening? I don’t want to hurt him. If we do this, with you taking over, it’s a violation.”
“You’d deny yourself for him?”
“Yes.”
Before she could stop him, he pushed up her skirt and used his metal hand to rip the panties away. She fell back on the metal work table as he shoved the skirt up to her waist. Her gasp of surprise turned into a throaty moan when he dipped his cold metal fingers into her folds, collecting her juices and swirling them to coat her clit.
She jerked at the sensation and cried out when he picked up the pace.
“Yes, princessa. You’ll come like this, skirt rucked up, legs spread wide on the table. Bucky sees what I do to you. He’s furious that I’m the one who gets this. He hates that it’s me who gives you pleasure.”
She couldn’t respond because his flesh hand was sliding into her pussy, searching her front wall until he found the spot that made her sob. All the while his metal fingers teased her clit with light strokes that had her panting. He wasn’t gentle and she was relieved that he didn’t tease her when she needed him so much. Her hips rolled into his hand. The soldier purred as he watched her reactions.
“You put his fantasy to shame. He couldn’t dream up such tight wet heat. Show him how much better the real thing is. Squeeze my fingers, princessa. Take your pleasure from your soldier.”
His deep rumbling voice as he bent his head towards her and spoke.
The sensations blurred her reality as he kept the quick demanding pace. Tears gathered in her eyes as the pleasure crashed through her body, driving her higher than she’d been before, to a pinnacle she hadn’t known existed. She jerked, muscles clenching around his fingers, but he kept going, sinking his fingers deeper and grinding his palm into her clit.
Throwing her head back, she screamed. He spoke but she couldn’t hear the words. Her body took over, riding his hand, sobbing out incoherent words, taking everything she could from his hand. Tears streamed down her face. Her sobs faded into whimpers as the sensations eased their grip on her. Thighs trembling she tried to close her legs in the aftermath.
“He never suspected what he was missing out on,” the soldier growled. “You’re breathtaking when you come for me.”
Her damp eyes opened to meet his pale eyes. The expression he wore was feral. Her pussy clenched in response and she whimpered at the aftershocks that ran through her.
“Princessa, you come so beautifully. Do it again for me.”
“I can’t!”
His eyes narrowed. “Yes.”
“Please, I’ve never…”
His strong fingers flexed and dug into her g-spot. She bucked into his hand again, groaning at the heat that raced up her spine, spreading through her body.
“I haven’t orgasmed like that before. I need a second, please!”
He slowed his fingers but didn’t entirely stop. The touch was lighter but just as presisistant. She quivered as she tried to come down from the high. His palm was held back from her clit and she was immensely grateful for the reprieve. But his fingertips toyed with her g-spot, teasing it so the muscles in her legs shook. He was using his right hand. The dominant hand, despite his metal arm being stronger, she could vaguely recall. Her mind was muddled from the orgasm.
“Squirt for me.”
“What?”
He pushed more firmly at her spot and she gasped, thrashing on the table.
“Let go. Let me give you the best pleasure of your life.”
“No, you don’t understand. I can’t do that. I don’t know how.”
“You gushed on my fingers. You can squirt for me. Your spot is even more sensitive now.”
His voice rang with authority and his fingers picked up speed again, silencing her by bringing cries to her lips rather than denials. From her body’s helpless reaction and the juices already slickening her pussy, it appeared the soldier knew her body better than she did.
“Oh, Bucky! Please!”
She didn’t know what she was asking for. White edged her vision and she jerked under his ministrations, the pitch of her voice turning low and raw as he drove her past the point of sanity.
His name kept coming from her lips, she couldn’t stop repeating it even as her breath turned so shallow air was barely in her lungs. Her throat burned from panting. She lifted her hips, seeking more, then pulling away, trying to escape the crazed pleasure. His metal arm snaked around her hips and pinned her down.
“No, princessa. Take it. Give me my orgasm. Let me show you how it can be. Show him.”
The dirty words sent her over the edge.
Her hips lunged into his hand and as if he already knew, the soldier began to use his fingers hard, stroking her without mercy. When she flew over the edge her body bowed up, her back arching and the crown of her head pressing hard into the surface of the metal table. Her legs tried to close up, to deny the intensity of the act, but he held them open and pushed the pace harder.
Her scream hurt her dry throat. And she couldn’t stop once she started. The arch of her back snapped, throwing herself down on the table. She lifted her shoulders and pulled her hips back, away from the edge of the table where he held her, away from his insistent fingers that tormented her with blinding pleasure.
“Bucky! Bucky, please! Too...too much! I can’t!!”
“You are, princessa. You soak my fingers like a good girl. You can take it. You’re doing so good for me.”
She sobbed and tears poured from her eyes.
“That’s it. Show Bucky, kitten. Show him your needs are just as intense as his. He thinks he’ll break you, but I know different. I know you want to be broken. You want the pleasure to rip you apart and destroy this sweet little cunt.”
As if to prove his point he brushed his thumb over her clit. Once. Twice. Swirling it on the third pass. Her mouth went slack. The thrashing of her body stopped as he brushed over her clit with the lightest of touches while he forced his fingers roughly into her spot. Her entire body quivered. All she could let out was a guttural sob as release clawed its way free. She twitched, legs flexing, spine curving, her fingers clawing at the smooth metal table. There was nothing to hold onto. Her hands curled into fists. She groaned again and the fingers inside of her became rougher. The moment of suspended intensity broke.
The orgasm hit like a hurricane. She was helpless as it shredded her senses. Throwing herself into his touch, gyrating into his hand, clawing at the table and crying out her release as it came in wave after wave.
He was a monster, fingers moving to drive her even higher. She felt the screams and heard herself as if from a distance. When liquid finally began to soak his hand, he growled and jerked his hand, dragging her body back to the edge of the table from where she’d crawled to when she’d tried to escape the unbearable pleasure. His thumb took over on her clit and she jackknifed off the table, nearly throwing herself off. He caught her and locked her to his body using the metal arm against her.
“Bucky, Bucky!!”
“Princessa, keep going! So good, such a sweet thing. Do this for me. Don’t you dare stop.”
She wasn’t able to control the responses of her body, could only throw her head back and ride it out. Wet, sopping sounds accompanied each pull of his fingers. She wept and her channel pulsed, reacting to his stimulation, beating her with more pleasure than one person could possibly tolerate. It went on and on until finally her muscles just gave out. She went limp as he finally freed his fingers. Her eyes slit open to watch as he lifted the soaked digits to his pink lips and lapped at them delicately, as if tasting something rare and exquisite. She shuddered from the erotic vision. The soldier smiled.
“Are you okay, doll?”
The words were distinctly Bucky. The voice and the face was still the soldier’s.
“Y-y-yeah…”
Her legs were still shaking. She couldn’t quite keep still even as wrecked as her exhausted muscles felt. His metal arm was the only thing holding her upright. If he let go she’d drop face first onto the floor.
“He thinks I’ve killed you.”
“I’m fine. And what a way to go.”
Her voice was dreamy with the aftermath of pleasure.
He laid her down and stepped back. The soldier began to undo the buckles on his vest. She planted her elbows and dragged herself up on shaky arms to watch as the winter soldier undressed. The place where metal met skin was scarred and looked painful. But the muscles in his chest were a sight to behold. Marks from battle covered his skin and she wished she could kiss them. He unlaced his boots and took them off. His hands went to his belt and she drew herself up to sit on the edge of the table. He shoved down his pants and boxers in one move and stepped out.
The thick, swollen cock that sprang free took her breath away. She was delighted by the heavy veins and ruddy color that told her he wanted her with a passion. His girth stroked a tiny edge of fear in her mind.
He approached the table where she waited with a predatory gleam in his eyes.
“He’s screaming in my head, you know. He wants this to be him and he thinks I’m going to devour you. And he’s right. I’m going to ruin that sweet pussy. I haven’t gotten to taste it the way I want to yet.”
He took her by the waist and lowered his mouth to hers, brushing a kiss over her lips. His hands went to the shirt she’d forgotten she still wore and began to undo the small buttons with impressive dexterity.
“Are you going to? Devour me?”
His sharp blue eyes were heated with sincerity.
“Yes. But first, I’m going to piss him off a bit more, Malishka.”
She recognized the Russian endearment. Malishka. Baby girl.
“Stand up for me.”
He grabbed her wrist and dragged her off the table. She scrambled for footing but found her knees were still weak. The Winter Soldier held her by the elbow and didn’t offer aid. Rather, he looked as if he enjoyed the sight of swaying on shaky legs. He laid a hand on the small of her back and pushed at her, nodding towards the couch.
“Walk to the sofa and get on your knees on the floor.”
She obeyed even with her legs trembling. Fresh heat coated her folds and the slick from her previous orgasm felt sticky and wet on her inner thighs. How would she go back to normal sex after this? He’d teased her before ‘you’ll beg him to let you have me again.’ She knelt on the rug next to the couch and hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
“Put your hands on the cushion. Arch your back and push your ass out.”
He wouldn’t. She looked back over her shoulder at the man standing with a smug expression on his face. He licked his lips and the smirk widened into a wicked smile.
“Does my princessa like to be spanked? I know she does. With my hand or my belt?”
He laughed and she knew Bucky had reacted to his plan. When he spoke again the words seemed addressed to the other man inside of him.
“What can you do about it? She’s on her hands and knees for me. Her pussy drips for my cock. If I decide to spank her or choke her sweet little throat, it’s my choice.”
His eyes turned to hers.
“Hand. Or belt.”
“Your hand.”
She wasn’t brave enough yet for the belt. But maybe.
He approached and planted his feet over her, turned to straddle her torso. In this position she was on her knees, hands braced on the couch cushions and he stood, a leg on each side of her waist. He faced away from her looking down at her presented bottom.
“Arch your back better, princess. Show him you want it. Do you want me to paddle you just a little? Or slap your ass until it burns? I have to, but the how is up to you.”
“Do whatever pleases you,” she whispered.
The soldier groaned.
A hand reached down, gripping the inside of her right thigh as he pushed her legs further apart.
“I want to see you squirm, kitten.”
That voice made her tremble like he’d touched her. It was dark and filled with longing. She felt like squirming already and he hadn’t even begun.
His hand came down on the left. Her body jerked at the impact and her fingers sank into the couch cushion. The slap hurt, and the strength he’d put into it was an affront to her senses. A blaze of pain ran through her nerve endings. There wasn’t a chance to adjust mentally to what had happened. He struck the right cheek and she flinched.
“Oh! Bucky!”
Smack!
“Soldat. Say it. Say my name.”
He gave a quick, stinging slap over already abused skin. She rolled her hips to try and alleviate the burning.
“Soldat.”
His hand came down. There was a pattern now, right, then left. He changed the pace - fast to slow. The fast strikes tingled like electric bursts of discomfort that sizzled, straight to her core. Slow was harder. He kept those back, but surprised her occasionally by delivering two or three to the same cheek until she whimpered. The harsher strikes were paced. He let the burning heat of the blow ripple through her body and then either kept it going or distracted her with a swat to the opposite cheek. His calloused hand was a torment. Painful. Merciless. He was delivering on his promise and spanking her with abandon. She hadn’t predicted that it would hurt like this.
She squirmed with every blow. And after the pain began to blend into one sensation of varying intensity, her body started to give a shocking reaction. Heat began to bloom in the deepest part of her sex, a curling warmth that had nothing to do with pain. He’d strike her bottom and the pain that ran through her body teased the arousal higher and higher.
When she started to cry, it wasn’t from pain.
She was so wickedly excited that she struggled to take a full breath. Her toes curled. The couch cushions were her only center in the storm. She was drenched and it wasn’t from their previous activities. The soaking wetness that dripped past the folds of her sex to her inner thighs was from the beating he delivered.
As the desire peaked, pain faded. The blows didn’t hurt, they sent streaks of pleasure through her. Sensation became heightened and she was scientist enough to recognize the effect of endorphins. Her nipples drew tight and just the air on her breasts was almost too much to tolerate. It was euphoric and miserable, both feelings vibrating through her body in equal measure, at the same time. And that made her cry, sinking forward to bury her face in the couch cushions as tears broke free and she began to sob.
His hand softened, caressing her bottom. The stroke of his thumb made her mewl, even through the torrent of tears. She’d never been spanked like this before and didn’t know how to cope with the reaction she was experiencing. Her throat was closed by a lump that made speech impossible. He petted the flesh he’d mauled seconds before.
“That’s my princess. Such a good girl. Your skin is so pretty right now. Never seen anything like it before.”
She choked on another sob and wept into the couch as he continued to soothe the abused skin. There was more tenderness in his touch than she’d have guessed the Winter Soldier could offer. It occurred to her, in a faint corner of her mind where she was still coherent, that he hadn’t used his metal hand to spank her. Only his flesh hand. Her heart turned over and there was a rush of pure warmth in her chest. As she was starting to come down from the shock, he scooped her off the floor without warning.
The metal arm snaked around her waist and he flipped her into his arms. The soldier stepped to the end of the couch, where the chaise lounge allowed him to sit and stretch out his legs. He held her in his lap, arms tight, and nuzzled her forehead. A soft kiss made her sobs ease to gasps as she fought to get a hold of herself.
“Good kitten. Tell Bucky you’re okay. He’s a mess.”
Wiping away the tears and trying to focus through swimming vision, she looked up at the Winter Soldier’s expression. He looked content. Perhaps even happy.
“I’m alright.”
A hand cupped her breast, lifting its weight and rubbing over the hardened nipple as his fingers squeezed. She arched into the touch.
“Sensitive for me, doll?”
The endearment was spoken with heavy sarcasm and she recognized the shot at Bucky, who was trapped somewhere in the soldier’s mind. Before she could reassure Bucky, his hand dipped between her legs. He slid a finger into her throbbing sex.
“Oh, fuck yes! You’re drenched from getting your ass beat.”
He sank a second finger inside of her, pushing through the folds, delving into the hot center of her body. He flexed upwards, touching the over sensitive spot, and she screamed.
“Bucky!”
He growled into her ear. The stubble on his jaw scratched against her skin.
“My name is Soldat.”
“Ah! Soldat! S-soldat! Please…”
If she was completely honest, the prospect of another orgasm was too much. Her muscles were weak from all they’d already given. Her mind was devastated after he’d pushed past so many barriers so quickly. His fingers were swirling in quick circles that made her jerk in reaction. His metal arm was tight. She had no hope of escape.
“Gush on my fingers, princess. Show Bucky that you like my manhandling.”
Again? Impossible.
Her mind protested. And her body betrayed her.
Thick juices from her cunt were creaming all over his hand as he ground his palm into her clit. The order threw her over the edge. Inner muscles already taunt with need seized around his fingers and pleasure ripped through her body, flooding her mind. His metal arm was tight, but her hips still rolled up, seeking more stimulation as the orgasm pounded through her body. His lips pressed to her shoulder and she trembled.
When the climax faded and her muscles relaxed, her eyes slid shut and she was left sprawled in his arms. A warm hand cupped her soaked core.
“I’m going to fuck you hard, princess.”
The thick erection pressing into her was evidence of his desire. She wiggled against him. Her body felt weak from the exertion she’d already been through. But she wanted this. She wanted to feel all of him.
“Mmmhh. Now.”
He rolled with her and settled her so she was on her back, head towards the end of the chaise and feet pressed to the back of the couch. Her body was pliant for him as he pushed her legs open and settled himself between her thighs. The girth of his cock was intimidating and she was grateful the previous orgasms had prepared her for his intrusion.
“You want my cock.”
His tone was smug. She could tell the words were directed at the man he was restraining.
So she responded by reaching for his shoulders and pulling him into her arms. The soldier turned his face into hers, his lips brushing over hers lightly.
“Yes. Inside of me, Soldat. Now.”
Heat flared in the icy blue depths of his eyes at her words, at the use of his name.
His cock dragged over her clit as he guided himself to her entrance. The contact made her gasp. Heat flared inside of her, like a sun flare exploding from the burning surface of the sun. Fresh sweat beaded on her skin.
“Say it,” he said.
“I want your cock. I want it inside of me.”
His jaw flexed and a ragged expulsion of breath brushed her cheek. “That’s my good girl. So needy for me. Gonna ruin you, princess.”
She should have guessed that the Winter Soldier liked it rough.
But when he impaled her with a quick, brutal thrust, she screamed. The intrusion was too much. Her body was ready but the thickness was more than she’d ever had before.
“Oh!”
Her shocked exclamation made him grunt.
Hands, metal and flesh, caught her hips as she pushed her heel into the back of the couch to escape the searing pain that flared. The Winter Soldier pinned her down.
“No. Not a good girl. Take it.”
He pushed into her again and she whimpered.
“Please, it hurts.”
His hips rocked into her, pressing the head just past her entrance as the ring of muscle quivered. Resistance was still there.
“Open up for me, princess. My pussy. Mine.”
“Go slow?” she asked, voice wavering.
There was a trickle of fear. She was completely vulnerable to a man who’d inflicted brutality on so many others. But something she’d always understood about the Winter Soldier was that he was a part of Bucky. A separate personality with all of the most violent qualities of the man, yes. That was true. But he’d been created under years of torture. He existed as a protector. And he’d saved the life of the man she loved. For that, she cared deeply about the person holding her down. There was fear. But it wasn’t enough to push her away.
Thumb brushed over her clit.
“Soften up, doll.”
His words were Bucky’s. And the voice held a note of gentleness that the Winter Soldier wasn’t capable of. She felt her body relax.
He sank into her and the channel throbbed, slowly taking the intrusion. His hard mouth clashed with her soft lips as he leaned down, bracing his weight on his elbows, while he impaled her inch by inch. All the wetness from earlier was a blessing now. Her body was almost unbearably stretched but he glided into her body, aided by the slickness he’d drawn from her cunt with his fingers.
Her body was quivering with desperation as he held her in place for his thrusts. The burning as he parted her was intense. And when he sank all the way into her, so there was no space separating their hips she hissed from the sting of him that deep inside of her.
His hips snapped, setting a rhythm that turned her nervous tension into desire. When she began to move with him the pace became frantic. It felt as if he were trying to drive her through the chaise as he pounded deep. Her head tossed as he cupped her bottom, still sensitive from the spanking, and drove even deeper.
“Soldat! Oh, oh, uuuhhh….”
Her cries turned into a drawn out moan. Language disappeared from her brain as he fucked into her like a man possessed. The press of his thumb to her overstimulated clit ripped a scream from her throat. He thrust harder at the sound of her cry. Hard and fast, he kept a punishing pace that made her vision go white as the climax broke free, claiming her once again.
“Come, princess! Come for me.”
Cream dripped from her opening as she did what he commanded. His thumb kept up the slow flicks. She lost all control and cried, arching, hands seeking his shoulder for steadiness in the savage riot of pleasure that shredded every nerve ending.
The soldier was praising her, at least the tone sounded encouraging. She was so far gone his voice didn’t permeate her mind. All that existed was the thrust of his hips and the white hot burn of pure, unbridled pleasure.
Her body was utterly limp in the aftermath.
The Winter Soldier wasn’t finished. He shoved her thighs wider, pushing them back until her knees were up near her shoulders. In this position his pelvic bone rubbed her clit. Tears spilled down her cheeks and she wept, wretched sounds she couldn’t hold back spilling from her as he turned feral. The slowness he’d given her earlier when she’d been too tight for him was erased and she saw the man who’d been a machine, a weapon, the individual who didn’t know mercy.
His hips thrust like a jackhammer, deep and harsh. The thick cock pummeled her sensitive sheath. All she could do was hold onto his shoulders as he used her body for pleasure.
The soldier shouted a curse in Russian, then slammed his cock into her so deep she keened. A twitch from the head of his cock and his release was hot and wet on her cervix. It felt so good that she trembled. He collapsed into her body, the weight of him crushing her. She hugged his torso close and sniffed back tears. He was still buried inside of her and she could feel him going soft.
Lying underneath him and holding Bucky in her arms was a pleasure of its own. She felt sticky from sweat and blissed out from the orgrasms. His body was hard and ever so warm as he panted into her neck. This was an intimacy with him that she’d fantasized about but had never dared to hope for.
A deep groan let her know that Bucky was back.
He pulled away from her and she let him go. When he moved to separate their bodies, she gasped at the flare of sensation.
“Sorry! I’m so sorry, doll. It wasn’t me…”
“Shh..” she laid her hands on his shoulders and shifted, letting him slip free. “It’s okay.”
He couldn’t look at her. His eyes were focused on her left shoulder.
“Bucky. Talk to me.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I hurt you.”
“Bucky, I’m not hurt. It’s alright,” she said. Her tone was tender as she wrapped her arms around his waist and held him close.
He slumped into her, burying his face in her hair. He was shaking and it scared her when she felt his tears dampen her shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” she said, guilt welling up.
“What...do you mean?”
His voice was thick with tears and sadness.
“I should have said no. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Hurt me?” Bucky shook his head. “Baby, you’re going to have bruises from my hand. I couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t! I’d never…”
He couldn’t continue. He couldn’t describe what had happened. Instead he burrowed into her arms and crushed her body to his.
“I let it happen. I didn’t protest, and I knew he’d taken control from you. I’m so sorry.”
“S’not your fault.”
“I wanted everything that happened, Bucky. Whatever you believe, please hear that, okay?”
He went still. “Doll?”
Her heart stuttered at the question in the single word.
“I wanted you as more than a friend. I wanted this, so when he came in here, I didn’t try to stop him. I asked him if you were okay with it...but I guess he lied?”
“I was there,” Bucky said. “I remember that. But what he did next. I’m sorry for that. It was over the line and you were crying and I wanted to stop but he... he just took over and pushed me so far back that I couldn’t even see until I was inside of you and we were…ah…”
“Fucking?”
He flinched. “Yeah.”
“He went slow for me. When it hurt a little, at first. He was careful because I asked him to be. For a moment he sounded just like you. I thought you’d taken over from him for a second.”
Bucky leaned back and faced her, his eyes still damp and filled with regret.
“This isn’t how I wanted our first time to be.”
“You wanted us to have a first time?”
“I was going to ask you out. But I was afraid it would destroy our friendship. And I need you, doll.” His tongue darted out, moistening chapped lips. “I love you. As more than a friend.”
“Are you sure?”
The insecure words spilled out before she could stop them. Sex brain was a freaking truth serum for her, damn it.
He studied her face, taking in the nervous but hopeful expression, and softened.
“Yeah, doll. I love you.”
“I love you too, Bucky.”
And then she got her first kiss with James Buchanan Barnes, all thanks to the Winter Soldier.
Though grateful for his intervention, you never ask for him to come out again. Because Bucky, the real man behind the personality, is what your heart needs.
Thank you so so so much!!! 🥰😍❤️ I'm so grateful to everyone who reads my stories and leaves such beautiful messages and reblogs and comments!!!
I promise a new chapter of Utmost Merit soon, as well as the much-requested Part Two of Your Only Warning, and responses to two amazing prompts I've received! I just moved so it may be a few days before I have time to sit and write it all, but let me assure you all: Sherlock and I are on the case. 😘
you’ll always be the sexiest man alive to me, captain
pairing: avenger!steve rogers x SHIELD agent!reader
summary: steve rogers is named people's sexiest man alive and his fellow avengers—along with their SHIELD support team—won't let him live it down, but when you make a smartass joke in front of your new colleagues, you catch the eye of captain america himself. turns out he *really* likes it when you call him captain.
warnings: 18+ content, smut, piv sex, dirty talk, captain kink, dumbification (steve calls reader a dummy along with other pet names—mostly sweetheart)
word count: ~8k
-
“I would just like to remind everyone,” Tony Stark began, holding court at the head of the table in the kitchen of Avengers Tower, where Earth’s Mightiest Heroes and members of their SHIELD support team were gathered for dinner. Everyone around the table stopped talking and waited for Tony to go on. He drew out the pause for dramatic effect before finally continuing. “That I was named People’s Sexiest Man Alive long before Rogers was even pulled from the ice.”
“Yeah, but only because Captain Rogers was still in the ice.” The muttered comment was out of your mouth before you could think better of it. You hadn’t been speaking to anyone in particular and, truthfully, you’d expected no one to hear you with how loud and rowdy dinner at Avengers Tower was in your short experience with it. But no one else had responded to Tony’s statement, and your comment tumbled out into the rare quiet moment of the assembled group.
Heat flooded your face instantly when the silence dragged on and you looked up from your meal to see everyone—from your supervisor Maria Hill and Captain America himself, Steve Rogers, to Tony Stark and the rest of your SHIELD team—staring at you. The urge to look down at yourself was strong, like your first instinct was that somehow they were staring at you because you’d gotten food on your post-workout t-shirt and joggers, but you knew better.
Synopsis: Your husband has always been protective of you, given his line of work. However, when he offers to teach you the basics of self-defence, it quickly becomes clear that his intentions may not be quite so innocent after all…
Warnings: Mild reference to bodily harm, light smutty behaviour, spoilers for the second film.
A/N: Oh, how I’ve missed Enola Holmes. I loved the books, and the films are just as great in their own way, so expect a bit of spam for the next few weeks - apologies in advance.
Masterlist
“Now, try again-”
“-Sherlock-”
“No. Come on. Focus, darling. Once more, from the beginning. Eyes forward-”
Oh, that was it.
You were going to kill your husband. Slowly… and painfully… It would be the least he deserved, torturing you as he was.
Prompt because your work is aMAZing: when it’s before Sherlock and y/n’s wedding day, and he’s being an insufferable gentleman but she bats her eyes going “do you not want me” and he absolutely loses it 😏😏
Your Only Warning
Character: Henry Cavill as Sherlock in Enola Holmes
Summary: Alone in the library with his betrothed, the Reader, Sherlock fights to remain a gentleman…with limited success.
Content: 18+ for incredibly filthy language, explicit description of future sexual intimacy, dominant, angsty “I AM A GENTLEMAN” Sherlock, with a side of mild “look what you’ve made me do” rhetoric from our dear detective, but for the benefit of the very eagerly consenting Reader who absolutely intended to make him do precisely what he’s done.
Notes: Thank you so much for the prompt; I loved it, and hope you like the story, Anon!
It is a rare occasion that your future husband allows you to be alone with him.
Ever the gentleman, ever possessed by the fine arts of propriety, justice, compassion, and self-discipline…all the qualities for which you find yourself more deeply in love by the day…Sherlock has become increasingly distracted, sometimes even dismissive, of your endeavors to cultivate closeness, as the day of your wedding draws near. You do not know what precisely has caused his detachment; never once has he expressed any regret for his proposal, nor suggested he does not wish to proceed with the marriage, but something has changed.
You cannot recall the last time he was tender—if ever he truly was. No soft words, nothing of your beauty, certainly, rise to your memory, even as you entertain the recollections of shared laughter, discussions of books or music, your eager interest in his cases and his equal enthusiasm to share his work with you. Meanwhile, you long to pour out your heart on the subject of his handsome face, his gorgeous eyes, how much you long for his touch, his kiss, his…
Well.
Sherlock’s true feelings for you are a mystery that only he could solve, and finding the time alone to ask him to unravel his secrets has been nigh impossible. But tonight, at another interminable dinner party for your family and his, a challenge from Enola to discover the secret passages of the Holmes estate has led you to the library, opening a hidden door behind a bookshelf to your delight…and the surprise of Sherlock, whom you discover pensively staring out the wide window behind his desk. He looks back over his shoulder, slightly startled, but smiles when he recognizes your familiar form emerging from the shadows.
“Very well done, Miss —,” he praises you, and your heart flutters happily at the accolade. “My sister will be most pleased to have such a companion as yourself with whom to roam these halls. When we can coax her back home, that is.”
“I hope you will find me a fine companion, too,” you offer, stepping out from the passageway and into the library proper. You look about you: no one else is there. Good.
“Naturally,” he replies, leaving the sanctuary of his desk, but still keeping a polite distance. “It will be entirely pleasant to share a home with you, here or in London. I have too long breakfasted alone, beginning the day in sullen silence, only to let supper grow cold, too, for want of more companionable nourishment.”
“Yes, I quite look forward to that, too,” you reply politely, a few tears of disappointment pooling in the corners of your eyes. His once ardent interest truly does seem to have waned into a wish for company over meals. Still, your hope preservers; perhaps this is only a gentlemanly demurring from more intimate matters? You have had some success in delving into his captivating mind. What line of inquiry might unlock his heart?
“And you must never hesitate to make use of this library.”
“Thank you. But…Mr. Holmes…”
“Yes?”
“I mean…certainly we shall share other…other rooms, too?”
“Of course. You must be honest with me in the correction of my bachelor habits.”
“Yes, and you must similarly address the conventions of my customary solitude.”
These mirrored platitudes are maddening. You steel your courage and make a bolder proposition.
“But is it not true that, as is only proper, to my understanding, that when we marry, we will be…as one?”
At this, he meets your eyes for a brief, flickering moment, then turns away from you entirely, and begins to meticulously examine the books on the shelves, uttering a monosyllabic: “Ah.”
You wait.
And wait.
And wait.
At long last, he clears his throat slightly and says, “I hope that if you should have any concerns of that nature, you might seek out the counsel of a recently married woman of your own age—Mrs. Watson, for example, is a lady of faultless virtue and excellent education, and might allay your fears—“
“I have no fears!” you exclaim. “I have…great anticipation. Longing, for a closeness I thought you equally desired. Sherlock, please I long to know and be known as a wife, to share with you every facet of my life, including—my…our—“
“Please, Miss —“
“But of late you scarcely look at me—“
“Dear girl,” he interrupts again. “I beg you to cease this line of inquiry!”
Your frustration bubbles over. Determinedly, you cross the room to where he stands, and slip around his hulking frame, insinuating yourself betwixt him and the bookcase, demanding his attention whether he will or no.
“What is it, Sherlock?” you ask, gazing up at him through your eyelashes, feeling your pulse quicken at his nearness. “Do you not want me?”
“Do I,” he growls through gritted teeth. “Not want you?”
In an instant, he has you restrained against the bookshelves, one hand pinned above your head and the other left to grasp frantically at his lapel, feeling the hard muscle and pounding heart beneath his fine coat, like an ember burning beneath your fingertips.
“Every moment I am plagued with wanting you! Do you not understand why I have withdrawn from you, why I must keep my distance from the woman I love?”
Sherlock lays his palm against your cheek, then slides his fingers down your neck, across your collarbones, coming to rest against the heaving swell of your breast over your gown.
“This is why. To prevent this.”
Hands over hearts, you are more closely entwined than you have ever been, and you can see with perfect clarity that his eyes burn with deep, profound emotion as well as increasingly unbridled yearning. Pinioned there by his full weight and bulk, you are completely helpless to his whims, and nothing has ever felt so freeing in your entire life. Finally, finally, finally, you exalt in your mind, and you sigh his name, unable to suppress a slight moan, which only seems to afflict him further.
“Oh, Sherlock…”
“I am a gentleman of unimpeachable conduct, but you would turn me into a brute. The more time I spend in your presence, the closer the day draws near when you will be mine, the more I find my resolve tested,” he despairs, drawing in a deep breath, and shuddering as the scent of your hair, your skin, permeates his senses. “Look at us, look what you have done! All this time I have resisted, but you undo it in a mere minute…”
His lips are practically touching yours, his grip on your wrist grown tighter, the press of his unmistakable hardness against you firm and unyielding.
“This,” he explains, his voice gone ragged and low. “Is your only warning, my dear sweet bride. If you speak another word of wanting before I may lawfully, licitly show you every way a man may possess his wife, if you touch me—or, or, you perfect minx, my gorgeous tormentor, if you with all your whiles force my hand…if you insist I kiss your glove in public, or ask for my arm to cross the street…I will make you pay for it the minute we are wed. I will turn you over my knee and spank your backside bruised. I will have you in every room of the house; damn who might see us. I will hunt you down across the estate and take you in the fields or the forest like an animal, for so you make me, darling. I will bind your hands to my bed and make you come for me over and over again until you have not a single thought left in this brilliant little mind, and then I will fuck your pretty weeping cunt until I’m sated and you are dripping with my seed. And that for a start.”
Sherlock, eyes glittering with his barely leashed lust, presses a light, chaste kiss to your cheek.
“Are we understood, Miss —?”
“Yes, yes,” you gasp, and, with the final indulgence of skimming the pad of his thumb across your trembling bottom lip, he very gently, courteously releases you, and then promptly flees to the opposite side of the room to pour himself a substantial drink. He downs it in one gulp, then takes several very deep breaths, and though he keeps his back to you, you can tell, with a secret thrill down your spine, that he is adjusting his clothes in a futile attempt to disguise his arousal.
“You were best return to the drawing room at once,” he instructs, almost bashful at his body’s insistence against his mind’s prudence. It is incredibly endearing. “I must compose myself.”
“Of course. Forgive me, sir, that I have discomposed you so.”
“No, no, it is I who must apologize. Can you forgive me, dearest girl, that I have not made clear to you that you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen? I was never a man of sentiment until now, and feared that to linger too long on the object of my desire, might make me lose all control. But I will tell you every day, ten times a day—from now until the end of my life, that your loveliness of body and soul is to me as vital as the air I breathe.”
“Are you becoming a poet, Sherlock?” you tease, melting all the more at his rush of tenderness, so looked for and longed for.
“Only for you,” he sighs, and you almost faint away as his hand drops to palm the outline of his cock through his trousers. Realizing the nature of his reflexive gesture, he gives a frustrated groan and points at you accusingly. “Only a romantic fool, and only a devious, seducing scoundrel, because of you.”
You laugh together, and, sneaking one last fervent look over your shoulder as he sinks into his chair and begins to unfasten his trousers, you close the door behind you depart, practically skipping through the halls of the home that will soon be yours, too, to rejoin both sides of the family in the parlor.
About ten minutes later, Sherlock rejoins the party, too, and no one seems to suspect anything untoward, clearly a relief to you both as your eyes meet across the table with a shared, secret glow. Once all parting pleasantries are exchanged, Sherlock follows you and your family out to the carriage, keeping a painfully respectful distance all the while. He offers only a formal bow and a stern, “Good evening” by means of farewell, but you have other designs.
“Good evening to you, too, Mr. Holmes,” you reply with a cheerful smile, and then, in front of the whole company, you elegantly present your hand to your fiancé to be kissed…
I am so, so honored by all your kind replies and reblogs! Thanks to those who commented on my other prompt fic, Pulse Point:
I am most delighted and honored to accept your proposal...
Utmost Merit - Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V (All chapters 18+)
I cannot believe I’ve reached almost 600 followers; thank you all so very much!!! It amazes me that you all want to read my silly, smutty little stories, and I’m so glad you’re here. Your comments and reblogs and the amazing prompt I received mean the world to me. 💌 💌 💌
I am not much of an artist, but I put together a little collage of these two from Utmost Merit. 🥰
Hello, if it's alright to request stuff, may I ask for some soft smut with Sherlock? Like morning, sleepy makeout in bed or something along those lines? Thank you!! I really love all your work! Keep up the great work!!
Taste of Home
Summary: You wake up next to Sherlock in bed after months of being apart. It never felt like home when he was gone. And now finally, he’s there to fill the void in your heart.
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader
Warnings: 18+ smut, kissing, thigh fucking, unprotected p in v, sleepy sex, a tad emotional?- Let me know if I forgot anything!
Word Count: 2k
Any typos are my own!
A/N: Of course, thank you so much for the request! Here’s a very soft and sleepy Sherlock for you, nonnie ❤️
Daylight flooded the room, waking you as it beamed onto your face. The curtains had not been closed, and you were facing the window. The brightness made your eyes ache and you pouted as you covered them.
It was far too early, you decided. You sighed as you tried to go back to sleep, burying your face in the pillows. When you shifted, confusion filled you when your bare skin rubbed against the soft sheets. You realized you were nude. It was not like you to sleep without clothes.
You lifted your head and looked around. A shuffling sound came from behind you on the bed, making you look back. A familiar sleeping face greeted you. Your husband. Sherlock. Who was also nude, judging by the way the blanket draped low on his hips. You had a perfect view of his chiseled torso and defined v-line.
It all came rushing back to you when you looked at him. He came home from a very long work trip the night before. And after a quick dinner, he made love to you till the early hours of the morning. You remembered falling asleep in each other’s arms immediately afterwards.
It was no wonder he was exhausted. As were you. After the workout he put your body through, it was almost like you hadn’t slept at all.
Even now as you gazed at his dozing features, you felt like you could easily fall asleep. Nevertheless, you carefully rolled over so you could get a better look at him. You laid your head on the pillow next to his as he faced you, taking the time to admire how beautiful he was.
To say he was beautiful was an understatement. His curly brown locks tousled, which softened his appearance. His long lashes fluttered as he slept. He looked so peaceful.
Who were you to disturb him? He worked so hard all the time. This last particular case he was working on had been especially tough to solve. Of course Sherlock Holmes closed the case, but even the famous detective ran out of steam.
He deserved to sleep in for as long as he liked. His brows began to twitch as you admired the lines in his face. You tilted your head and watched him. At first, you thought he was dreaming, but then his eyes opened. He took in the sight of you, before he gave you an enamored smile.
“Mrs. Holmes…” Sherlock murmured groggily. “Good morning.”
You didn’t have time to say it back, because his lips were on yours the instant the words left his mouth. Your eyes fluttered shut, letting out a pleased hum. Good morning to you too, husband. He hummed back as you lifted a hand to his cheek, your tongue coming out to lick his bottom lip. When his taste hit your tastebuds, you shivered.
That taste. You missed it so. Like wintergreen and tobacco. It was both bracing and earthy. A taste of him this early in the morning was a treat.
Your mouth watered as you avidly drank down what you could from his lips. If you could bottle up his taste and drink it every morning, you would. He tasted like comfort, like home.
Then, the warmth of his lips was gone. You sluggishly opened your eyes, finding him looking at you as his fingers stroked your cheek.You tried to savor the residual of his saliva on your tongue.
“How long have you been awake, dear?” His question took a moment to register with you, given how exhausted you were. Based on Sherlock’s lazy caressing of your face, you could tell he was just as tired as you.
“Not long.” You muttered when your sense of understanding came back to you.
“Why didn’t you wake me sooner, darling?” He asked you, letting his hand rest on your cheek.
You melted, leaning into it. Bringing your hand up to cover his, you nuzzled your nose against the lines of his palm.
“You needed your rest.” You whispered, pressing a kiss to the crease of his thumb.
“After all the time we were apart, what I need more than anything is to spend time with my gorgeous wife. And I need to be awake and conscious to do so.” He pointed out to you, his voice still laced with sleep.
Sherlock moaned when you nibbled gently on the ball of his palm. His fingers flexed, and he lazily rested his forehead on your temple.
“Or at least lucid enough to admire how angelic you look in the morning.” He yawned softly, his face falling to your neck. “Though I am having trouble keeping my eyes open.” He mumbled against the flesh of your collarbone.
“Perhaps we should rest a little while longer.” You suggested, your fingers in his soft curls.
“Hmm… perhaps. Then again, we should get up and get ready for the day. My guess is we’ve already slept past breakfast. I fancy your idea much more, however. Staying in bed, with you.” He nudged his nose along your jaw, inhaling your sweet scent.
“Sleeping. Staying in bed, sleeping.” You corrected him, smiling softly.
“Hm? Oh, sleeping. Yes, of course.” He hummed innocently, his lips on your jaw. “I wouldn’t be surprised if I find it hard to fall asleep, though. You smell too good.” He moaned, tugging you closer.
You gasped when you felt his erect cock against your stomach. His manhood twitched when it touched your belly.
“And so warm. I’ve missed your warmth.” He murmured, squeezing his length between you as it leaked onto your skin.
His seed was sticky as it oozed onto your flesh. You shivered, it was so warm and you were reminded of last night when he shot his fervid seed inside you. A large hand grabbed the back of your thigh, lifting it so your legs spread slightly.
“I’m willing to bet you're also wet for me.” He reached down to grab the base of his cock.
You watched him guide his manhood towards the crease between your luscious thighs. It wasn’t until he slipped in with ease that you realized your inner thighs were covered in your fluids. Not only a result of his current actions, but also the very pleasant dreams you had of him last night.
A deep blush bloomed on your cheeks. Sherlock further situated his erection, nestling it between your wet folds. You jerked and gasped, your clit pressed against his solid length.
“So wet for me. Mmm…” He gave a sleepy smile and hum. Then he pulled away to look at you. “Tell me, my love, did you dream of me?”
There was no chance of hiding anything from him. His question was answered when you lowered your head bashfully. You took interest in where he buried himself in your thighs, watching as he shifted his hips. The top of his shaft nudged your delicate bundle of nerves. A heat rose in your belly, making you mewl as you rolled your hips.
“I dreamed of you. The entire time I was gone, I dreamed of you every night. It was the only thing that kept me going, the promise that I had you at home, waiting for me.” He sighed as your thighs squeezed him.
“I knew soon enough I would be back here, surrounded by your warmth. Your smell. Your taste. U-Ugh, your taste.” He groaned as he pulled out from between your legs. Your clit was rubbed the other way. You arched your spine with a breathless hiccup.
“Like the sweetest honeysuckle. I can't get enough.” He grabbed your cheeks, moaning as he brought you into a deep kiss.
His tongue slipped into your mouth, lavishing yours in sensual licks. Your flavors paired beautifully together. Honeysuckle and wintergreen. Sweet and refreshing. It made your cunt pulsate as you swallowed.
“Sherlock.” You hiccuped, your hands falling to his chest and you weaved your fingers through his chest hair.
You squeezed your legs together, gripping his cock as he continued to buck between them. He panted against your mouth, hitching your leg up onto his hip. He reached down, rubbing the tip along your now exposed slit.
“I need to be inside you, darling. Need to feel you.” He exhaled into the kiss, and you greedily drank down his breath.
He lined up with your dripping hole, and slowly sank into you. Sherlock held your hips, squeezing when you sucked in a breath. Your body accepted him inside you easily. Like it was welcoming him home.
There was nothing better than this. Being wrapped in the arms of your beloved, being as close as two people can get. Yes. This was home.
You whimpered, pulling him closer with your leg. Pulling away from the kiss, you opened your eyes to stare into his. You cradled his face in your hands.
“I-I’ve missed this.” You admitted, your chest heaving in soft pants as he shallowly began to thrust. “I’ve missed you. I dreamed of you too, Sherlock. Every night-ah!”
You sighed in pleasure. The tip of his cock nudged your cervix and it felt like all your nerve endings sparked. He was so deep.
He cradled your bum, easing in and out you. Your words caused him to moan and press his head against yours.
“Did you always wake up wet for me?” He groaned, licking his lips as he waited for your response.
“Yes. Yes, everyday.” You whined as you remembered the mornings where you woke alone in bed. “It always felt so… cold without you here. I dreamed of this every night. And each morning, I ached for you to fill me. I-I felt so empty.”
A whimper escaped you, your emotions jumbled from the mix of pleasure and fatigue. Sherlock shushed you, grinding his hips to remind you of how not empty you were at the moment. His pelvic bone grazed your clit. You melted, your face falling against his neck as you moaned.
“It’s alright now, my love. I’m here. I won’t ever leave you empty again.” He promised you, burying his face into your shoulder as he gained a little speed, though his pace was still slow and lazy.
His deep momentum had you to the edge in no time. It was all too much. You felt every inch of him and it was making your drowsy head swim. Sleep sounded so good right now, but cumming all over your husband’s cock sounded even better.
“I’ve got you, dove. You can let go. I’m here now.” He breathed into your ear, pulling your body impossibly close.
With one last jolt of his hips, you came with a soft cry. Sherlock quickly pressed his lips to yours, swallowing down all your sobs as he gave his own gasps. He pressed into you all the way, shaking as he shot his load deep inside your cunt. His hot, thick seed covering your cervix only prolonged your orgasm.
You felt his heart thudding in his chest as he pressed it to yours. He held onto you tightly, and you clung to him. As your climaxes subsided, both of you were left panting.
You never wanted this moment to end. Being one with your husband, it was euphoric. Why did it always have to end?
He shifted, and you whimpered. You tightened your leg around his side. He grunted when you clenched down on him in an attempt to trap him inside you. His hand squeezed your ass.
“Relax, darling. I told you, I’m not going anywhere. I promised not to leave you empty again, didn’t I? The both of us are going to get a bit more rest, as we stay just like this. And when you wake, my love, I will still be here. Inside you.” He hummed in content as he closed his eyes, stroking your back to relax you.
You were able to unwind once you realized he wasn’t going to pull away. Closing your eyes, you burrowed into his chest. A soft sigh escaped you, blowing around some of the hair on his chest. Sherlock pressed a kiss on the top of your head.
“Rest now, sweetheart. I’ll keep warm. And full.” He murmured, his low and comforting voice made your eyes droop.
The warmth of your husband helped lull you to sleep. Your dreams were once again filled with him. There was no need to worry about waking up aching and empty this time. Because Sherlock was back home, and everything was whole.
A/N: Look at me, finally getting another fic done😅 Sorry it’s been a bit, I’ve had a horrible case of writer’s block. I hope you enjoyed, love you all! ❤️
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