#and the wink from sherlock before that????

[pelova4president]

Secreta

Salma Paralluelo x Barca!Reader

summary~ You’ve been dating your girlfriend Salma for a while now but never really told the team. Will they find out?

Hiding something from your teammates was difficult, especially when you’re part of the Barca squad. One big family. Well, a unique family but one nonetheless.

And it got even more complicated when the secret is between two teammates. Being in a relationship with a teammates was something itself, sharing it with the team meant endless teasing and god knows what else.

Salma was a flirtatious type so it wasn’t uncommon for her to hug you, pick you up and sometimes even slap your ass. Most of the team is Spanish anyway, they’re all more into pda than the English. Whenever someone would comment on it you had a good excuse, she does it to everyone. But it was hard to cover up the red that invaded the apples of your cheeks.

Mapi was the worst of them all, you may or may not have told her about your little crush on the striker before anything actually happened between the two of you, and she wouldn’t let it go. She might have her suspicions but she never really told you them out loud and luckily for you that saved you some embarrassment and unnecessary lying.

“Los tortolitos no pueden quitarse las manos de encima” (Lovebirds can’t keep their hands off eachother) Mapi yelled from across the pitch. Salma had swung you over her shoulder, having spurted water all over her earlier and now she wanted payback. Vicky, her partner in crime helped her with that. The younger girl had stolen a bucket full of ice cold water from the recovery room and was waiting for Salma to run towards her. Once she arrived with you over her wet shoulder Vicky drowned you in the freezing water.

Gasping for air you scolded the Spanish girls. “Joder! I’m gonna get you both for that, little shits!” and when you began kicking yourself free from the strong grip Salma had on you, they sprinted away.

“Jesus Christ..” you sighed, happy to be on your own two feet again. Alexia and Frido laughed at your wet state, “Kind of deserved it, don’t you think.” the Swede said. You rolled your eyes at her, receiving a disapproving look from the other woman.

After training Salma drove you home. You shared the appartement, deciding to move in together rather quickly, u-hauling. It seemed like the obvious choice, you needed to be at the same location at the same time almost every single day and you got to be the passenger princess. You would cook some actual food for the both of you, seems like a win win situation right?

That was until some teammates started to get suspicious of your whole living situation. Alexia thought she knew everything about you and when she discovered you lived with Salma she was a little surprised, you would’ve told her right, why didn’t you tell her. That was the base of her little Sherlock Holmes case.

Vicky was just noisy and like a little sister. Salma adored her and so, you did too. She was around almost every day so you couldn’t hide that you had moved in with your girlfriend. It was around the second week of living together that Vicky came around and walked into your bedroom, your shared bedroom. Obviously there were two bedrooms in the apartment but only one in use. With some garbage on the left side of the room and actual books on the right she knew that Salma had company.

“Salma, ¿tienes compañía?” (Salma, do you have company?) the noisy teenager asked. Salma walked towards the girl and kept herself cool. “La cama de y/n aún no ha llegado así que duerme en la mía.” (Y/n’s bed hasn’t arrived yet so she sleeps in mine) Salma replied. “You’d tell me if you liked someone, sí?” Vicky winked.

Apart from La Reina and the annoying teenager nobody suspected a thing.

salmaparalleulo

liked by lucybronze and 281.828 others

a pleasure to have been there last night and end 3rd. thank you ❤️

comments

vickyylopezz._ mi 🐐

keirawalsh 💫

aitanabonmati mi hermana

y/n_y/l/n 🤤

commenting that might not have been the best thing since it only raised suspicions, especially with Vicky. But honestly, how could she look that good. And Salma is your girlfriend so you had all the right to drool over her.

When she finally came back from her little ballon d’or trip you almost had no time since you were expected for training the next day. Your schedule was full, scarily so. You could be in Italy, playing against Ireland one day and the next you’d be expected at Barca to play a full 90 minutes against Atletico Madrid.

This also meant that you had little time with your girlfriend whenever one of you were off for some event or sponsorship.

But even once in a while you needed to let go and go out with your girls, even if that meant you had to Uber home since your personal driver wasn’t there to drive you.

y/n_y/l/n

liked by leahwilliamsonn and 186.725 others

🫶🏽🥂

comments

ellatoone take me with you next time xx

alexiaputellas what’s this?

vickyylopezz._ who’s that?

salmaparalluelo 🫶🏾

lucybronze barca’s doing you good

Stealing one last kiss you got out of Salma’s car. Hand in hand you walked towards the changing rooms. You were surprised there wasn’t anyone yet. Alexia would’ve already been here by this time. Tying your shoelaces up, not wanting to wear those football boots without them since they seem to be falling off players foots. Well, clumsy Alessia’s but a player nonetheless.

Salma had been done ages ago but decided to wait for you before heading into the canteen. “Ready, mi amor?” she took your hand, placing a kiss on your forehead. “Not quite yet..” you kissed her on her lips. Without meaning to really deepen the kiss it got heated.

“Hmm, need you Sal..” you hummed against her swollen lips. She kissed you even harder at that statement. “Haven’t had you in so long.” your grip getting tighter around her shoulders, almost like a koala clinging around a branch. Your girlfriends hands traveled lower and squeezed your ass before letting them rest there.

And before you could remove yourself from the striker, the changing room door swung open, revealing a complete Barca team. Vicky’s face was one with disgust, hearing your words from earlier. Alexia’s captaining face had taken over and disapproval was to be seen on some of your older teammate’s faces.

Mapi and Lucy burst out laughing. “Fucking told you so Mapi, give me my money!” ofcourse they had a fucking bet going on. Mapi and Vicky groaned at the same time but for different reasons. “My ears! I have to amputate them now! And my innocent eyes!” she screamed dramatically.

“Oh shut up Vicky, you’ve seen enough with those innocent eyes of yours!” your rolled your eyes at the teenager. “And you two had a fucking bet going on? How many of you had your suspicions?” It was your turn to be annoyed. Everyone seemed to find the walls, floor or even the ceiling more interesting than the questions you’ve just asked. “Joder..” Salma groaned, you really thought they had no clue.

“Well, dog’s out of the bagage. Everyone knows now.” Aitana says in broken English. “It’s cat’s out of the bag but yeah, good job with trying Aita” Keira praises her.

salmaparalluelo, y/n_y/l/n

liked by jillroord and 261.738 others

dog’s out of the bagage

comments

leahwilliamsonn what does that even mean?

alessia cute 💕

ellatoone love youse

janafernandez3 guapaaasss

alexiaputellas still mad.

vickyylopezz._ ew gross 🤢

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Buttons

The request from @toomanytookas: I have such fond memories of my grandmother teaching me how to sew on her old Singer. Obviously a WILDLY different context for a million different reasons, but I love the idea of of Pin showing Joel how to sew or just explaining the general mechanics of using the machine. Maybe some physical guidance/touching a la the pottery scene in Ghost?

If you'd prefer to play with other characters, it would be sweet to see her teach Ellie now that she's working at the shop and I imagine she'd be curious about it!

Seams sleepover micro drabble request | 900 words | warnings: rated M for dirty thoughts and slightly dirty talk, outrageous flirting, topless Joel Miller | can be read independently of the series but is part of the Seams universe

‘Nice tits, Miller!’

Joel chokes on his corn chowder as Tommy’s voice rings loud and obnoxious in the half-empty cafeteria, a mischievous glint in his eyes when he makes himself comfortable opposite him, tray hitting the table with a clatter.

‘Seriously though, put them away before Maria sees you. This is a family place, y’know.’

Joel rolls his eyes. ‘Shut up, jackass.’

Tommy studies the familiar green plaid shirt on his brother that is sitting open to the sternum. ‘Buttons fell off, huh?’

‘Aren’t you a regular Sherlock Holmes.’

‘Pin gettin’ a bit rough with ya?’

Joel splutters, raising his fork in what he hopes is a menacing reproach. ‘Hey!’

‘Just jokin’, big bro. And no judgement if she is.’

He scoffs. ‘This is gettin’ real weird, Tommy -’

‘Why don’t you ask her to sew ’em back for you?’

‘She ain’t my seamstress.’

‘She’s a seamstress. And your girlfriend.’

Joel snorts. ‘You ask Maria to do all your chores for you?’

Tommy shrugs and replies around a mouthful of mashed potato. ‘Ask Pin to teach you then. What's that they say about fishermen and fishin’?’

He has a point, Joel has to concede. That’s how he ends up at your studio that afternoon, leaning against the doorframe as he watches you on the sewing machine. He likes the steady, mechanical staccato of the needle, the whirring wheel and the metallic squeak of the pedal as your hands and feet all move in almost nonchalant choreography.

He knows that under that ease lies years of experience, and there’s an understatedness about your movements that makes him stop and stare every time you're at the antique sewing machine. 

He waits patiently for a lull, not wanting to disrupt your rhythm. When you pause to inspect the stitching you’ve been working on, Joel knocks on the doorframe. 

His lips twitch when you startle, eyes wide as your head whips around at him, and it brings him right back to the day you meet, just a few feet from where he stands now.

But then you break into a wide smile. ‘What are you doing sneaking up on me, Joel Miller?’

He closes the distance with three steps, bending down to drop a kiss on your lips. ‘Just wanted to say hello - and to ask for a favour.’

You stare up at him, admiring the way a stray lock curls over his eyes. ‘What is it?’

Joel tugs on the front of his shirt. ‘Was wonderin’ if you can teach me how to sew my buttons back on.’

You eye his neckline, which is suspiciously low. ‘I thought you were just trying something new,’ you quip.

Arching an eyebrow, he asks, ‘Is it workin’ for you, sweetheart?’

Hooking your finger into the open V of the shirt, you grin. ‘I’m not complaining, but it doesn’t hurt to fix it. Take it off.’

Joel huffs, joking, ‘Buy me dinner first, at least?’

You watch his fingers push the little buttons out of the holes, baring broad chest and freckles with every downward inch. You hum when he gets to the bottom of the shirt and it hangs open, nothing but bare skin under it. ‘No undervest?’

‘Feel like showin’ off today,’ he winks and disrobes with a smooth roll of his shoulders.

You can’t help it, your breath catches - at the strong shoulders, the soft belly, the way he has one hand on his hip - and by the self-satisfied curl of his lips, you know he knows.

Clearing your throat, you stand and take his shirt from his grasp, the warmth of the fabric comforting in your hands. ‘Come sit over here.’

‘We’re not using the machine?’

‘Not for sewing buttons,’ you reply, opening a little box to find matching ones for his shirt.

‘Okay, step one,’ you seat yourself next to him and hand him the supplies. ‘Thread the needle.’

The thread looks more like a blade of the most delicate hair in between his thumb and index finger, and the needle comically small. But his hands are remarkably steady, and he surprises you by nimbly pushing the thread through the eye on his second try.

‘Pull the thread through and keep going,’ you instruct, snipping it off with scissors when you’re satisfied with the length. ‘Now, we need to knot the end. Loop the thread around your finger a couple of times, pinch it with your thumb and pull the end through.’

He does so with aplomb, and you remark, more to yourself than anything. ‘Your fingers are really dexterous for their size.’

Joel wriggles his eyebrows suggestively, the corners of his eyes crinkling. ‘You should know that first hand, hmm?’

A comment like that would’ve had you ducking your head a few months ago. But now, you narrow your eyes at him in playful admonishment. ‘So full of yourself, Joel Miller.’

Dragging your chair towards him, he leans in and murmurs against your ear. ‘Ain’t you the one who was full of me last night -’

Heat rushes to your cheek as he noses the sensitive skin behind your ear. ‘Joel, I thought you wanted to fix your shirt -’

Pushing the needle into a pin cushion, he shrugs and pulls you into his lap with a smirk, his skin hot under your touch.

‘Luckily, I don’t really need a shirt for what I want to do right now, sweetheart.’

More notes: Thank you for this adorable prompt @toomanytookas! I hope you don't mind that I tweaked it a little bit. I love that you have such beautiful memories with your grandma. Mine used to sew and do cross-stitch, I miss her so much 🥹

[loveinhawkins]

Eddie is writing new song lyrics. Dustin discovers them on a random Saturday when they’re having pizza at Steve’s; Eddie asks Dustin to get one of his old campaign notes, and Dustin reaches for the wrong journal.

“Oh, not that one,” Eddie says with a shrug, but his eyes go a little thoughtful at the sight of it in Dustin’s hands. For some reason he pauses, and then he says, “You can still read it if you want, man.”

And Dustin stares at him, certain it’s a trick, because Eddie is notorious for ensuring that any potential Hellfire spoilers are kept under lock and key. But then he opens the book and reads.

And he gets it.

The lyrics are clever, because they hide under metaphor, apocalyptic imagery and all that stuff, but it clicks when Dustin gets to a verse about a tune echoing through a mall, ‘and it’s a song you know, you’ve known it all your life,’ and he’s suddenly thrown back to when he explained how Steve worked out the location of the Russian code, and Eddie was taking it all in, eyes as round as pennies.

Dustin sets down the notebook and says, “It’s about us.” It’s not a question.

Eddie nods. “Yeah.”

“You make it sound a lot more poetic than it actually was,” Dustin says.

But Eddie doesn’t tease back, just gives a contemplative little smile and says, “Really? I don’t think so.”

And that’s as far as they get in talking about it, because Eddie suddenly glances away, and his smile changes ever so slightly, gets softer around the edges. He turns back to Dustin and mouths, Look.

Dustin does. Steve has fallen asleep, curled up in the corner of the couch. His head is just barely resting in his hand, nodding forwards precariously every so often.

Dustin hears Eddie give an almost silent tsk, which is funny; he must have picked it up from Steve. He quietly goes over and moves Steve with a gentle touch until Steve’s head is resting comfortably against the cushions.

Steve murmurs wordlessly, eyes closed, then settles back into sleep.

Eddie catches Dustin’s eye; he mimes, Shh with a wink.

And something in the back of Dustin’s mind falls into place. …Huh.

There are days when Eddie has the journal and days when he doesn’t—he cycles through notebooks constantly, most of them having been started with a specific purpose before devolving into chaotic scribbles for anything and everything.

But this one stays consistent.

And whenever he does have the journal, he lets Dustin open it to any random page and read for as long as he likes.

It doesn’t exactly take Sherlock Holmes to figure out that a verse waxing lyrical about a protective soldier finally laying down his armour and resting is about… someone in particular.

And that makes Dustin wonder whether ‘and it’s a song you know, you’ve known it all your life’ isn’t just about a mechanical horse playing Daisy, Daisy. In fact, maybe it’s not about that at all.

He doesn’t mention anything, just says that Eddie’s writing is good when he hands the journal back over. It’s hardly a major compliment, except every time, Eddie says, “Thanks,” in an almost uncertain tone Dustin’s never heard before, like just hearing that’s really touched him.

And then one day Eddie loses the journal. Dustin doesn’t realise what’s wrong at first, just knows that Eddie is agitated, rooting around in the back of the van when Dustin sidles in for a ride home after school.

Dustin sees movement outside, and he looks up to see one of the substitute teachers who’s always got a stick up her ass standing at the school entrance. She’s holding Eddie’s journal.

“Uh, Eddie?”

“What?” Eddie snaps. Then he follows where Dustin is looking. “Oh Jesus fucking Christ.”

But he doesn’t let any of his irritation show when he hops out of the van and heads for the teacher.

Dustin knows Eddie talks a good game when it comes to sticking it to authority, all I’ll flip him the bird and so on, but there’s none of that arrogance now. Dustin can’t hear what they’re saying, but he can read the body language, the teacher’s tight-lipped smile, the way Eddie has crossed an arm over his chest self-defensively; he looks suddenly very young and unsure of himself.

The confrontation ends with the teacher handing Eddie the journal—more shoving it at him, really. Eddie gives her a curt nod before he heads back to the van, slamming the door shut as he gets inside.

He throws the journal in the back, and Dustin, who has carelessly destroyed countless textbooks, somehow finds himself saying, “Watch it, dude! You’ll rip it.”

Eddie doesn’t reply. He reverses out the parking lot and makes a turning for Dustin’s house, grinding his teeth.

The silence goes on until it’s unbearable, and Dustin tentatively asks, “What did she want?”

Eddie laughs, a nasty, thoroughly unconvincing sound. “Oh, ya know. Just returning lost property. Good fucking Samaritan.”

When he gets home, Dustin finds a note from his mom, that she’s over at his aunt’s and there’s some leftover pasta in the fridge. Dustin checks, and there’s easily enough for two.

He runs outside thankfully before Eddie has gone.

“You can’t expect me to be left in the kitchen unsupervised,” Dustin says. “I might burn it down.”

Eddie snorts. “From sticking pasta in the microwave?” Then he seems to hear himself and adds, “Yeah, somehow wouldn’t put it past you, Henderson.”

So they end up eating lasagne straight out of the dish together, playfully battling for the last slice like their forks are swords.

“What did she really want?” Dustin asks eventually. He can’t help but notice that Eddie had brought the journal in with him, keeps tapping his finger on the cover uneasily.

Eddie sighs, rubs a hand down his face. He nods down at the journal. “I’d left it in a classroom that some middle schoolers use for Drama Club. Apparently there’s some concerns about the appropriateness of—”

“That’s bullshit!” Dustin says. “Why would she even—”

“Dustin,” Eddie says very quietly. He closes his eyes. “You know why.”

And Dustin does. That’s why he’s so damn angry.

Because some of the lyrics (not all, but some), are love songs. And a good number of those are unambiguously from the point of view of a boy, speaking to another boy.

Eddie sighs again, presses a thumb into the inner corner of one eye. It looks like he’s warding off a headache. Dustin knows that he isn’t.

He could say I don’t care that you’re gay, but that doesn’t sound quite right; it isn’t about not caring, it’s about…

“You know I like you, right?” Dustin says.

Eddie gives a choked little laugh. He drops his hand, opens his eyes and says, with a faint smile, “No shit? I guessed you wouldn’t share lasagne with your mortal enemy.”

“True,” Dustin concedes. He presses on. “But I meant, like…” He bats Eddie’s hand away from the journal so he can tap it instead. “Like this. It’s all a part of you, and you’re really cool, so that means—like, it’s all cool. It makes you, you. You know?”

For a long moment, Eddie just stares at him. “You said you so many times, I don’t think it’s a word anymore,” he says, but he’s blinking a lot, and Dustin sees his lips quiver. “Um. Thanks.”

He still sounds sad which absolutely will not stand. Dustin gives him a few seconds of reprieve, before he launches at him with a karate style chopping motion.

Eddie chuckles. “You little shit!”

And they tussle until, breathlessly laughing, they’re both stretched out on the couch on their backs, side-by-side.

“You should let Steve read some,” Dustin suggests.

Eddie’s laughter trails off. “Mm,” he says, non-committal.

“I mean it!” Dustin recalls a verse he’d read only a couple of days ago, one that wasn’t dressed up in symbolism.

And you want to tell him you’re enough just like this darling, you always have been

“I don’t know,” Eddie says. “So far that stuff’s had an audience of one, and I think he might be a bit,” Eddie gestures with his thumb and forefinger, “biased. Being family and all.”

Dustin smiles, feels a proud little glow in his chest. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’ve seen Steve hiding love poetry books. Like he underlines that shit. It’s embarrassing.”

Eddie cackles. “Well. Some of my shit’s embarrassing so…”

Dustin claps his shoulder gravely. “I mean, I wasn’t gonna be the one to say it.”

Eddie pushes him nearly right off the couch; he pulls him back before he can fall. “Oh, fuck you.”

They’re quiet for a bit, and then Dustin suggests a movie, and when he’s putting the VHS in, he catches Eddie watching him with shiny eyes.

“Hey,” Eddie says. He smiles. “I love you.”

And God, it’s so much better hearing those words like this, with Eddie in front of him, safe and whole.

And Dustin doesn’t need to rush his reply this time. He picks up the journal and passes it to Eddie, careful of the binding.

“I love you, too,” he says, and the proud glow in his chest feels even stronger. “Now get writing, Shakespeare.”

[a-victorian-girl]

"Guess we should see what we came here for?" John offered, leading the way, "think the library is back here? Ah!" He flicked on a lightswitch behind a pair of double doors ... and a . "WHOA!!!!" Slipped out of their mouths simultaneously ... jaws dropping. As the darkened warehouse before them flickered to life, row ... by illuminated row ... Revealing hundreds ... if not thousands ... NO ... HUNDREDS of thousands!!! Of stories ... . Written about ... them? . John winked at Sherlock. Before dashing ahead in a mad chase. Each grabbing up several volumes apiece and meeting to read a few pages ... . "Look at this one!" . "John - you won't believe-!" "Sherlock!" "John!" . "This is-" "-I'm taking this one!" "This is brilliant!" . "We're in a sci-fi!" "oooh an epic!" "OHmyGOD!" John's giggling could be heard a few rows down, and Sherlock tucked another in his pocket and swung around the shelving to peruse over John's shoulder. His jaw dropped.

This is an excerpt from this brilliant fic written by @helloliriels, you can read it completely here (( my gift to you, sweetie, I LOVED TO READ IT!! ))

And... this is also my tribute and gratitude to all the wonderful writers, illustrators, digital retouchers, and GIF makers in this glorious fandom, to which I've been very attached for almost a year :)

❤️

[theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction]

Imagine trying to warn Sherlock that Moriarty is free…

The verdict was in - not guilty. You honestly wanted to shake the jury by their shoulders and ask why they had left their rational thoughts at home. The judge slammed the gavel, signalling for Moriarty to be free of his bonds and when you looked at the man, you could have sworn that he winked.

John nudged your arm, reminding you that it was time to follow the rest of the courtroom out. Once the pair of you were out on the street in much cleaner air, John pulled out his phone and began punching in a number.

“I’m calling Sherlock. He needs to know that this maniac is going to be walking about like a free man.”

Giving him a nod, you pulled out your own device. “I’m going to head back to Scotland Yard.”

John instantly pulled his phone away from his ear as it started to ring.

“What? Y/n we need to stay together.”

“I know but I need to set up a protective detail on Sherlock and Baker Street. Moriarty doesn’t care about collateral damage.” You reminded the good doctor.

Pointing at you, John’s expression was stern and serious. “Okay but be careful. I’ll see you back at the apartment.”

You gave the man a brief hug before turning and bolting down the street to hail a cab. Thankfully, the area was crawling with the vehicle you required. Once you had hopped in, you dialled Lestrade’s personal number and hoped with each ring that he wasn’t otherwise engaged. Your heart was pounding in your ears, the traffic felt slower than normal and the phone wasn’t being picked up as if the matter wasn’t of import.

“Come on.” You edged nervously, staring outside at the pedestrians huddled on the sidewalk.

When the signal turned green, the call was answered by the man you had been trying to reach. “Greg? Oh, thank god.”

“Y/n, I just heard the news. How are you holding up?” The detective inspector asked.

“Honestly I’m pissed but we can get into that later. Listen, I need a favour. I need a-“

“You need a protection detail on Sherlock, I know.” Lestrade guessed correctly. “I filed in the paperwork as soon as Moriarty’s trial started and got it fast tracked. It felt appropriate since you, Sherlock and John have thwart his schemes the most.”

You frowned. Something didn’t feel right about the way he was talking about the detail. “And?” You prompted.

“And it got rejected as soon as Moriarty was acquitted.”

You were mad and disappointed - in all honesty, you wanted to scream. But you pushed it all down and did what you could to tackle the problem. Leaning forward, you tapped the driver on the glass to get his attention.

“Yes, dear?” The elderly man smiled.

“Change of plans - take me to 221B Baker Street please.”

“Y/n, what are you doing?” Shit, you almost forgot Lestrade was on the phone.

As the car turned left onto Baker Street, you kept a tight grip on the device. “If Scotland Yard won’t help, I’ll do it myself.” You told your friend before hanging up just as the taxi pulled up to the curb.

Paying for the ride, you made a mad dash to the front door, pushing it open to get inside. It was mostly quiet. Mrs Hudson was running the cafe and it was clear that John wasn’t home from the lack of his coat from the hallway rack.

There was an absence of people and yet you heard teacups being set upon saucers and very low voices speaking. Heart leaping into your throat, you raced up the stairs and burst into the open flat of 221B.

“Sherlock-”

The rest of your sentence died on your tongue, ice running through your veins when you saw the man who had almost killed you and your friends without any remorse standing in the living room.

“Hi Y/n.” Moriarty greet when his eyes laid on you. “I take it that your little bid for a protection detail fell flat?”

He knew and he was mocking you for it. Stepping into the flat, you scowled at the enemy. “I’ve kept my friends safe from you before. I can do it again.”

Moriarty smirked. He moved away from Sherlock and across to you on his way to the door. His eyes skimmed over your features before he inhaled.

“You’re just delectable. Ready to give your life for a man who isn’t ready to return the favour. A pity really.” He commented and walked off.

~ More imagines here ~

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom.

Heartbreaking Lure

“Are you ready, John?” Sherlock shouts from the bedroom.

“Probably not,” John mutters under his breath.

“Sure,” he says out loud.

John must blink several times when his so-called boyfriend appears in the doorway. If he hadn’t been so familiar with Sherlock’s body and demeanour, John wouldn’t have recognised him. Sherlock looks like someone taken out of the hippie era. A golden-haired wig, long and wavy. He has a cerise coloured hairband across his forehead. The shirt is a loose-fitting thing in denim blue embroidered with yellow and red flowers. Low on his hips, a pair of tight white trousers cling to his muscular thighs and widen considerably just below his knees. Worn trainers complete the outfit.

“You don’t do things halfway, do you, love?” John says rhetorically and approaches the figure he almost can’t fathom is Sherlock Holmes.

Before John reaches him, Sherlock puts on a pair of round spectacles with red glasses, which hide those peculiar eyes of his. 

“You know my ways, John,” Sherlock purrs and pulls John in for a languid kiss.

“I do,” John confirms a bit out of breath after the lovely snog. “Now get your gorgeous arse moving, and I’ll see you later.”

John gives Sherlock’s arse cheeks a good squeeze to emphasise his words and Sherlock gives him a wink before bouncing down the stairs.

***

John feels utterly ridiculous when he’s dressed himself. It’s Sherlock who has bought the costume, and of course it reflects one of the many kinks of the detective. However foolish John feels dressed up as a sailor, he knows it’ll be worth it in the end.

The only way John can get Sherlock to attend a carnival, is for a case, like now. They are both undercover trying to catch the jewellery thief red-handed. 

When John arrives at the posh apartment in Mayfair, Sherlock’s nowhere to be seen.

Clueing for looks somewhere, John thinks to himself and chuckles. 

John’s disguise doesn’t stand out at all. There are all sorts of costumes, from the pompous Marie Antoinette figure to something reminiscent of Jean Valjean when he was imprisoned. A few hippies emerge from another room, but none of them is Sherlock.

John wanders around, his hands clasped on his back as if inspecting a regiment. 

Old habits die hard.

A murmur in his ear, startles him.

“As you were, sailor.”

“Git,” John hisses. “We don’t know each other, remember.”

Sherlock’s rumble is low and makes John’s knees weak with desire. The power Sherlock’s voice has over him should be alarming, but the feeling is far too delicious to fight. 

“The library in five minutes. Second door to the right,” Sherlock whispers and gives John’ earlobe a lick before he’s gone.

John takes a deep breath and steels himself for the confrontation that will happen in a few minutes.

***

“Stop laughing,” John complains when they’re back at Baker Street.

“But, darling, you look so sweet when you’re like this,” Sherlock explains, his voice filled to the brim with glee.

The confrontation had gone well, until the thief had tried to flee. John had tackled the woman, dressed as Zorro, in some sort of boudoir. She had been like an eel in John’s hands and had gotten a hold of a jar of glitter that she had thrusted at John. Sherlock and Lestrade came to his rescue, but the glitter stuck to John’s face, neck, hair and hands.

“I’m taking a shower!” John exclaims while Sherlock still shakes with laughter.

“Jo…John, don…don’t be upset. You look ador…”

“Shut it, Sherlock! Not funny anymore,” John spits and marches to the bathroom.

It takes forever to get rid of all the twinkly bits, and John’s mood has not improved. When he finally turns off the shower, he hears familiar music being played in the sitting room. It’s something John always describes as a heartbreaking lure. “In the Cluster Blues”. One of his favourites, and Sherlock’s way of apologising.

John smiles, his mood suddenly lightening, something only one person in the world is able to make happen so quickly. His beloved Sherlock Holmes.

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @a-victorian-girl @phoenix27884 @helloliriels @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitchworld @peanitbear @topsyturvy-turtely @raina-at @7-percent @ninasnakie

[raina-at]

I owe you another ficlet, so here it is. It was written for the brekfast challenge, and I think there's a longer story in this, so maybe I'll return to this one day. Meanwhile, have a ficlet.

It’s been eleven days since Sherlock Holmes jumped off a building. Three days since the funeral. One since John stood by Sherlock’s grave and begged him not to be dead.

There’s a constant fog of unreality in John’s head. The world seems muffled, far away, slowed down. He has a difficult time telling day from night, dream from waking, truth from fiction. 

The worst thing is the numbness. There’s a well of pain right inside John somewhere, but he can’t feel it. He can’t feel much of anything. 

Mrs Hudson sobbed into his shoulder at Sherlock’s funeral, but John has yet to shed a single tear. He knows it’s self-protection, that something inside of himself has shut down to prevent him from breaking. 

It’s not pleasant, but it keeps him alive. Barely. 

He forces himself to eat when people are around, and he gets a few hours of fitful sleep, but he’s losing weight rapidly and the dark circles around his eyes are getting more pronounced. Nobody’s said anything to him yet, but he knows it’s a matter of time before he’ll get a kindly-meant intervention from Greg, Molly and Mrs Hudson.

He thinks of leaving. Just getting on a train or plane or boat and disappearing somewhere he can waste away in peace. The thought is comforting.

But he knows today will not be this day when he gets a text from Mycroft Holmes summoning him to a breakfast meeting at a coffee shop around the corner of the Diogenes club.

John knows it’s pointless to refuse.

So he goes. It’s a nice day, and he walks. 

He gets there ten minutes late, but Mycroft isn’t here. He gets in line to order a coffee and a scone. If he’s here already he might as well eat. 

He orders, then waits for the barista to make his coffee.

She seems vaguely familiar. Red hair, freckles, tattoos. 

“John?”

He looks up. She smiles at him. Hands over his drink. Holds his eyes. “Here,” she says, winking at him. “I think this is what you asked for.”

He looks down at the cup and sees she’s put her phone number down. He smiles politely. He couldn’t be less interested if he tried.

“Don’t call right away,” she says, winking again, then turns to the next customer.

Mycroft isn’t here yet, so John decides he doesn’t want to wait and leaves.

He sips at the coffee as he wanders back to Baker Street.

The coffee has grown cold by the time he’s back in the flat. He wanders into the kitchen to throw the cup out.

That’s when he notices there’s writing under the phone number.

John

07975777666

And below that, in a handwriting he’d recognise blind, backwards and under water, two words:

Vatican Cameos

The cup hits the floor as John’s knees buckle.

The coffee seeps into the kitchen rug as John stares at the cup, at the two words. He thinks of the barista. He recognises her now. She was one of the people who held him back from Sherlock’s body when he fell.

It takes him ten minutes to realise that he’s crying, that the tears are falling freely now, that the knot of numbness and pain in his chest is finally dissolving. He’s shaking with it, with big, heaving sobs that shiver through his entire body. 

Alive, alive, alive.

Mrs Hudson finds him there, sobbing and shaking on his knees, and she holds him while he cries.

She thinks it’s grief.

He knows it’s relief.

*-*

It’s midnight and he can’t stand it any longer.

He tore the flat apart looking for the Adler woman’s phone because he knows he can’t use his own. His charger wouldn’t fit, so he had to go out and buy a new one, and then let the bloody thing charge.

It’s better this way, anyway.

It’s dark and he’s sitting in Sherlock’s bedroom, on the floor next to Sherlock’s bed.

His hands shake as he dials the number. 

Maybe he’s delusional. 

Maybe the barista just wanted to mess with him.

Maybe nobody will answer.

It rings. He’s nauseous with nerves, shaking with anticipation.

If this isn’t real…. He can’t even think about it.

The line picks up.

A voice he’d recognise anywhere. Uncharacteristically hesitant. “John?”

John’s breath hitches and he lets out a laugh that’s mostly a sob. “Oh, you unbelievable bastard.”

There’s a small smile in the voice as it answers. “You asked me for another miracle. How am I doing so far?”

John smiles through the tears that are running down his face unchecked and unheeded. “Pretty well.”

“I just wanted to let you know…. I heard you,” Sherlock says, quiet and gentle, in a tone of voice that makes John's heart hurt. “I heard you.”

“Sherlock-”

“I have to go. But I’ll come for you soon. Wait for me.”

The line goes dead.

John stares at the phone for a long time. Wondering if any of this is real.

Finally, he nods at himself. I believe in Sherlock Holmes, he thinks. He always has, and he always will. 

In the meantime, he will wait. 

That makes 31 ficlets, making my collection complete. This was so much fun, thank you all for reading and liking my ficlets, I've had such lovely responses.

Tagging a few people.

@calaisreno @discordantwords @keirgreeneyes @jrow @peanitbear @lisbeth-kk @shiplocks-of-love @iamjustreading @the-reading-lemon @thetimemoves @fluffbyday-smutbynight @helloliriels @topsyturvy-turtely @catlock-holmes @7-percent @khorazir

[ctrdrkiss]

I don’t know if anyone else noticed this but

William WINKED at Sherlock

(before leaving the train scene with Sherlock in the background saying “Let’s grab a bite sometime”)

Time stamp: Episode 11, 18:27

I also took the liberty of screen recording the scene in case anyone doubts the screen shot from my laptop.

[milknhonies]

Wails of Wedded Bliss

Chapter 4 || Masterlist || Chapter 6

Chapter Summary: After defending your housekeeper, Sherlock takes a rough hand to your backside....

Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Spanking, Domestic Abuse, rough kissing.

Word Count: 9k

Author Notes: I am sorry this took forever to post but I'm lucky and glad to say I should be moving to a new rental home in a month. Yayyy!!!

Inspiring Song: Partita for violin n°2 by Bach.

•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•

6:30am Wednesday 7th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England

With baited breath you hurriedly rushed to push your husband out of the line of the door way. You shoved Sherlock and with some surprise, he moved. He rolled his eyes and pressed his back to the wall beside the door.

You feared an inevitable future. Mrs Hudson would enter your dwellings. And see your husband...how ironic for you to be scared of something meant to be.

Mrs Hudson knocked again and you heard the handle of your door twist.

A strike of horror whipped you into action. You fluttered to the cracking door as the old woman announced in a hushed whisper.

“Y/N dear, are you awake? Your mongrel of a groom is gone if you would like to come out now!”

Your fingers clenched into fists behind you and the offended snicker from Sherlock from next to you beside the opening door didn’t help your embarrassment. He knew you didn’t approve of his past behaviours but to be made apparent how much you deplored him was humiliating.

You forced a tight smile for your landlady as she took a step closer into the doorway. How you wished you could’ve asked her to leave, but how could you, it would seem rude after all her kind hospitality and assistance.

She greeted you with a happy wink while still under the belief her original tenant was no longer in the house. But her eyes did flutter after she glanced you up and down, surprised by your prepared dressed state.

It was a unspoken question, ‘Who helped dress you?’

You gently interpreted aloud, “Oh...he is still here...and...” your lips became dry. Why did Mrs Hudson have to be so invasive as landlady even if under pure intentions?

The old woman grew pale with her wide grey gaze. Her lips smacked open. You looked over your shoulder and gasped with a jump at the ridiculous state of your husband standing directly behind you, with a naked torso.

“Mrs Hudson,” he smirked, “Good Morning,” he said rather proudly with his hands settle on his finely shaped hips. His tongue lazily licked his bottom tongue with his eyebrows raised.

He found the lewdness incredibly hilarious. ‘Great, my husband is not only arrogant, rude and mean- he is also childish one would gather.’

“Quite...” she said as colour grew quick to her face in the shade of a wet red rose. Her wrinkled throat tightened. Her fingers gripped at her apron while her lips pursed disapprovingly.

Your husband briskly moved you aside by holding your hips and directing you out of his path before he strutted out from your door frame entrance.

You and the elder woman did perhaps inspect the curve of his bottom in his trousers for too long as he swaggered back to his bedroom. A plump arse in a husband has never been known as a requirement, but for the advice of a future generation you were sure to note it.

Mrs Hudson somewhat breathless and at a disadvantage twisted her head back and leant to your ear inquisitively, “What happened?” her eyes darted back and forth.

It was then as you saw her forehead shrink, you realised, she was concerned for your safety, for your health and wellbeing.

You could only imagine the distress the dear Mrs Hudson experienced when she found you in a puddle of blood on your bed only two days prior.

Your own lips parted and you raced to find the words. You struggled and stuttered to explain how on earth you came to lay in your bed with your own husband. It felt challenging and at half your conscience considered lying for the sake of modesty and privacy. It shouldn’t have been so difficult to say; you and Sherlock were bloody husband and wife. A small laugh in the back of your head jingled.

“Well...ugh...as husband and wife we...came to an agreement.”

Your fingers came up to touch your lips. A small smile was upon them. How else could you say your husband showed you terror and bliss all in one night. You knew it was not custom for a groom to tie up his bride and ravage her to a mindless state of ecstasy.

It had been so terrifying and exciting. The debate crossed your mind, ‘should I fear him, or submit with praise?’

He had treated you so awfully until this morning. You raced to wonder what had changed his mood so speedily in your favour...’Was it the deal? The debasing?’ In which you relinquished your pride and dignity to him that you already had so little of.

Her eyes narrowed at your wording, “An agreement?”

Those shrivelled pink lips settled in the shape of a pondering ‘o’ for sometime until Sherlock stuck his head back out from his rooms while buttoning a white shirt.

“We fucked Mrs Hudson,” he bluntly muttered startling you both in the midst of shock. It was uncouth to swear as he did, especially as a gentleman, especially in front of women. He was so unlike his high browed brother.

The older woman clicked her heels together and sputtered, “Sherlock!”

“-now if you aren’t too busy gossiping with my wife,” he sneered, cutting Mrs Hudson off, “I would very much like a cup of tea!”

“Well I never-!” the elder woman crossly huffed with her blushed face still blooming.

Your girlish grin disappeared. There he was. The rude and demeaning man.

Your fingers clenched to fists. The disrespect to Mrs Hudson was an insult to you. After all these hours in this new home, this woman sacrificed her time to help you. She did not deserve foul treatment from your husband even if he had always behaved that way to her in the past. You were now living here and wouldn’t stand for it.

You couldn’t allow this treatment to continue, “Sherlock!” both of their heads snapped at your raised tone, “Do not address Mrs Hudson in such a manner again!”

The man deemed London’s greatest detective looked bewildered, as if you slapped the man himself in the face. That masculine confidence fleeted from his face. Your landlady fluttered her eyes at your outburst. Perhaps you appeared aggressive, your knuckle pressed to your lips.

Your chest felt tight. You were panting. Yes, you had yelled so loudly it would be no question if those on the sidewalk below in Baker Street heard your bellowing.

You were angry. Resentful. The spell of his magical touch and charm had worn quickly off. Back you were to being a forthright wife.

His tongue stabbed the inside of his cheek. His eyes narrowed. Whatever was he thinking?

“Very well,” he said and he nodded once, “Mrs Holmes.”

He began fiddling with the buttons of his trousers, tucking his shirt in.

You lowered your hand and placed them on your exaggerated hips.

You gave a little huff to add on, “And say please to Mrs Hudson when asking for tea.”

Mrs Hudson glanced between you both before scurrying back to the dining table where breakfast had been so generously laid out. She clearly was smart enough to know not to intervene in this rising argument.

The smell of cinnamon and porridge filled your nose. Mrs Hudson quietly poured you a cup of tea. From the corner of your eye you watched the steam rise.

“For god sake woman,” Sherlock grumbled with exasperation and waved his hand in front of himself, “She is merely the housekeeper.” 

You stood between them and wagged a finger at him, “And landlady.”

He sighed with annoyance and rolled his eyes. His lips pinched. Accepting his defeat in his stubbornness he spun on his heels and re-entered your room. He left his door open.

You took a step forward and remembered yesterday how cross he had been when you entered his space without permission...’permission be damned.’

You swallowed down that cold prickling fear and followed him in and took note on how he sat on the trunk with deviant tools within. He hiked up his trouser legs up. He sighed at your presence- not fully annoyed but not fully relieved either. 

You knew where he kept his shoes and what type after your savage pilfering clean the day before. You selected for him a dark navy cravat to match his chosen blazer he pointed out to you. You selected a golden pin and black dress boots for him.

He cleared his throat and muttered a soft “Thankyou,” as you handed him the cravat and pin while you silently knelt to the floor and began slipping on his garters, socks and shoes onto his feet.

He looked like stone. His face unreadable. You could not tell if he was annoyed, amused or just plain bored by his lack of emotion.

Maybe you had shut him up and taken him down a peg. Indeed, perhaps you had really humiliated him in front of Mrs Hudson to the point of expressionless silence.

6:40am Wednesday 7th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England

He wasn’t sure how to feel about this. He wasn’t sure if he liked it or if he was to be frightened by it.  Your quick submission, your gentleness after such a loud scolding. You had such a voice. You had a fearsome outburst that you used said voice with.

So seeing you play demure wife with the snap of second put him on a strange edge...what game were you playing at?

He sat back on his hands and stared at you struggling to button up his buttons he did the only thing he knew how in regards to people. He analysed you.

Your hands were clammy...sweaty and warm indicating either your heighten blood from your outburst or the after affects of your embarrassment when Mrs Hudson discovered his existence in your bedroom.

Your breath was slightly ragged. You were nervous he decided.

He glanced at how every few moments you wriggled your hips. Very faintly. Disguised as an attempt to readjust your sitting position, whereas in fact...you appeared to make soft rocking motions...

Oh, he smiled internally...you were aroused and embarrassed. You were helpless and desperate. Poor little lamb.

He looked around his room and back to you on the floor. You both were in rather a similar pose last night before he blackmailed you into sucking his cock. He twitched his head to the side and wondered how scandalous and quick he could pull out his cock and shove it past your teeth; all the while Mrs Hudson stood only a few feet away past the door with her back turned to you both.

How naughty...

And your sweet eyes looked up from his shoes...if only you weren’t sitting on your skirts. He mourned for all he waited more than ever was sneak it  beneath your shift and between your thighs.

‘How charming,’ he larked in his mind, ‘Polishing my shoe with her pussy.’ Your hairless pussy in fact.

Sherlock didn’t not hate body hair. But rather he liked the satisfaction of making pain in doing something as torturous as ripping hair from a sobbing woman. And the softness was something that never ceased amazement.

He did once mention to John before his comrade met Mary how on occasion, cunnilingus on a hairy woman was comparable to kissing a man on the face. John, he recalled, laughed at Sherlock and announced he had never eaten a cunt, so why bother eating one covered in hair... now it was all the man could ever speak of when it came to his wife that he worshipped.

When you finished folding his trouser paints so that mud would not soak the hem, he leant forward and place a finger under your chin.

Your pupils flickered. Oh yes. You were definitely aroused, he concluded.

And he felt somewhat generous. He cupped your cheek and lifted you higher to your feet.

“Come here,” he whispered.

He almost burst out laughing watching how your eyes fluttered. His thumb scraped over your lip. He pinched your cheeks and pulled you into his face before he slowly stood off his bed.

He pushed his tongue inside and moaned. With how you tried to return the movement he smirked. You were desperate and he knew you wanted to please him. He flicked around and sucked your bottom lip.

Pulling back you were panting loud and your eyes wide.

He gave you passion, so what were you to do with that?

“Now Mrs Holmes, go sit down for breakfast,” he purred, “I will be out shortly.”

His cock was getting hard and he needed to give himself a moment or else he felt compelled to fuck you right there, Mrs Hudson could rightfully fuck off down stairs if she didn’t want to see the show....

•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•

6:46am Wednesday 7th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England

On weak, shaky legs you turned away from him. Your hand stumbled along his door frame. You could feel the hot buzz still on your lips. You felt hot all over. Behind you, he softly shut his door. You needed to sit down and so you reached out to your side of the dining room. You hobbled into your chair and reached for your warm tea.

“Well you must’ve done something right,” the landlady chuckled under her breath, wiping her hands lazily on her apron, “I haven’t seen him so caught off guard since his mother last visited. Put him in his please, she did.”

You nodded slowly. Sherlock Holmes would always be a true enigma. You sipped carefully. He kissed you with great heat, after you had scolded him? It made no sense.

“Is it within the best interest that I remain rather than leave you alone with him?” Mrs Hudson whispered as she saw your gaze staring off at the nothingness of the room.

Your eyes fluttered to focus and you smiled up at the kind woman. You squeezed her hand and shook your head.

“No, I am sure I can manage my husband Mrs Hudson,” you rose and carefully took the tea pot from her hands, “I think I shall pour his tea.”

Your land lady peered at you suspiciously as she relinquished the china. She smiled grimly and nodded before walking off and departing the apartment.

Sherlock wasn’t so scary now that you knew he wasn’t cross. And surely...if anything occurred, Mrs Hudson might intervene? Yes?

So where the hell was she last night? The thought wasn’t really your own, it just came up in the back of your mind watching as she left the apartment.

Your husband didn’t take long to come out, fully dressed. He sat down and searched over the table.

Mrs Hudson had brought up warm croissants, fresh butter and a scrumptious jam to lay on top.

You stood over him and poured tea into his cup. You felt his eyes rolling up and down your body. When you stood away, he poured in his own cream.

You placed the pot down gently and returned to your seat.

In those few seconds there was peace and power, submission and dominance. And you didnt even know it...

You folded the napkin over your lap and spread a fine line of jam over the bread like treat.

Sherlock? He sipped his tea and wouldn’t stop staring, to the point where it made you feel intimidated. What was he looking at? Was there jam on your face?

He clear his throat again and shook his head. He tore a piece of a croissants with his fingers and stuffed it into his mouth. It was something you disapproved of. But you didn’t have the patience to teach a man almost twice your age on the art of table manner etiquette.

And after an eternity of silent air filled with chewing and sipping...

“Finished your breakfast?” Sherlock smiled, rising from his chair, you nodded and patted your lips. You needed to return to your room and find some hair pins along with a hat if he expected you to join him.

“Good...” Sherlock said coming around to your side and helping you out of your chair with a single lending hand...and he led you to the main sitting room.

You tried to turn around go back to your room, maybe he forget the negative propriety of a woman wearing her hair unfixed in public.

He caught your wrist and tugged you to the side of the chaise.

“Bend over,” he purred into your ear.  You blinked.

“What ever for?” you audibly pondered before hearing him sigh frustrated.

You looked between him and the lounge.

His voice was coated in a acidic hiss, “Bend over or I’ll make you.”

You didn’t understand. Naively you bent over the arm. Had he lost something between the soft mattressing? Your fingers reached for the small cushion to look under when you felt him start to lift your skirts. Your eyes widened. What the hell was he doing!?

You went to stand up straight before he pushed his hand on your upper back and pushed you down again. You grunted and grizzled.

He tossed your skirts up over your backside to your waist. His hand softly rubbed across your drawers. The weight of his palm made you jump in surprise. His finger traced the splitting fabric. He pushed the pieces aside.

You held your breath. Your fingers clenched the chaise as you tried looking over your shoulder.

He couldn’t have been suggesting that he would mount you like this...here.. out in the open of your home...surely not...

He smirked at the alarm written all over your face. He bent his head down to you...he kissed your cheek and peppered small pecks to your ear.

“I’m going to strike you ten times,” his hot breath came.

Your eyes widened and your nose curdled.

“What ever for!?” you repeated with a sneer while you tried rising up again. This time, he shoved you down harder.

Sherlock smiled mockingly, his voice was sweet and high but beneath it was hate and sadism, “For speaking against my authority in front of Mrs Hudson.”

He cupped your backside and you swallowed hard.

It wasn’t right! He didn’t need to be so rude to the house keeper. You felt the coming punishment to be unwarranted.

“Such a pretty bum...” he sighed pawing at each unmarred cheek, “Such a disobedient wife...” He awed slightly...you were trembling. You shut your eyes and prayed to turn back time.

The first slap took you entirely by surprise, a sob tore itself from your lips instantly as his hand made contact with your backside.

You stomped your foot and tried twisting around to stop him but he flung you back over the chaise. And then the woosh of a flying hand swatted you. The burning crack of his palm left you feeling choked and brought to tears faster than ever before.

You cried immediately. And do you know what your torturous husband did? He let you cry...he let you catch your breath. He waited until you quieted...and then he hit you again. The third time hurt as well yet, felt stronger. It was the force of the hit that was more like a punch then a slap to your rear end bringing you into a shocked gasp.

You stomped your foot and whimpered, “Unhand me! You brute!”

He chuckled and smacked his palm fast against your bottom, the rising flame of nerves made you whine pitifully.

“Stop!” you pleaded, “Sherlock please!”

The soft touch on your abused arse cheek did little to soothe the stinging pain and the third slap made it far worse. Your skin was turning a shade and felt indescribably hot.

“We are almost finished Mrs Holmes, take a deep breath for me,” he asked.

You sniffled terribly trying to clean your sobs. Your eyes were watering while Sherlock’s pale hand rubbed up and down your sensitive thighs. Your belly jumped and butterflies fluttered. You felt tingly and in need of a cold cloth. You attempted to wriggle away once more but that only made Sherlock grasp on you tighter.

By the sixth slap your whimpers evolved into breathy pants. You felt his run his fingers soft and slow on your hot skin. They were cold and like a balm to the suffering he inflicted. You felt the swirls and managed to feel him draw an S and a H.

It became a vile pattern where he allowed you to compose your crying and fall quiet before delivering hell by his palm.

You could only recall the last spanking you received was from a school teacher when you were nine years old because you spilled ink down the dress of a girl bullying you.

The next whip made you gasp and continued to lessen the soreness you tried breathing through your lips shaped in a ‘o’ which made a most heinous noise...a moan.

“You are taking this very well my pretty Baker Street whore.”

You knew it had to be Sherlock’s voice but it felt so far away now. Your lower body felt incredibly warm and light.

“Never again will you humiliate me In the presence of our housekeeper, do I make myself clear?” his voice became a lifeline.

You were trembling beneath him. You felt him step closer and the side of your neck.

You didn’t agree with him, you didn’t humiliate him, he humiliated himself with his lack of manners. You were tired, relaxed, starting to accept the burning heat of his hand. You heard him chuckling in your ear. Your mind was falling to pieces.

“Yes s-sir,” Your voice shook which fell into a voice a new moan as the next strike connected to your bottom.

“Very good little lamb,” he said pleasingly. He slowly released his grip on your back and ran his hand lightly over your displayed flesh.

He rubbed his thumb into your muscle and took glee in your snarling hiss. He tapped your exposed hip softly.

“There,” he said slowly lifting you from the lounge and letting your skirts fall back to your ankles. He wiped away the tears with his thumbs, kissing each cheek as he went.

When reality crashes hard like a stormy wave, you flinched and moved away from him. You cupped your mouth and tried not to cry but the tears fluttered fast.

You felt him stand behind you and you wished you could’ve run away. You felt so embarrassed and ashamed you made such lusty tones. He wrapped his hands around your waist and towered above you.

He asked quietly, “Are you sure you want my fidelity now?”

It felt like a open wound that he was digging inside further. It was cruel, his smugness.

And this was a really trap. You could swear it. He wanted a reason to be allowed to return to Mayfair Row.

He wanted you to waver, to give in, to let him betray the wedding bed. It was like a candle filling the room with light. He didn’t spank you because he was embarrassed that you scolded him in front of the housekeeper, oh no, no, ‘twas a beneath the layers. Sherlock was trying to break you into letting him do as he desired, to continue his habits before your marriage.

You gulped and squeezed his hands; the tools he just beat you with. You felt sick. You felt angry. You felt like you had successfully figured out the solution to an ancient problem...

You could’ve caved in...you could’ve let him ruin the marriage entirely...the shame...you were fragile and almost let him.

You almost, but you didn’t.

You swallowed hard and fluttered your eyes and stated tightly, “It will take more than a whipping by your hands to make me let you go back to whoring, Mr Holmes.”

You turned your neck to glare at him. And instead of a snarl or a frown or disapproving look, he was smirking. His brows were raised in pleasant surprise.

“Marvellous,” he whispered, “an utter spectacle, you are.”

You scoffed and wiped your eyes again of a burning tear and shoved to move past him to go retrieve your hair pins and hat.

He followed on your tail and cackled, “Oh don’t be so prudish...I too heard that little moan.”

Your throat tightened as you tried ignoring his relaying fact.

You came to your room and saw him through your mirror leaning on the door frame, watching you. You perfected your usual modest style while you snapped, “If you honestly believe I under any circumstances enjoyed that, you are truly-  terribly mistaken.”

He was chewing his bottom lip and racing his eyes over your entire body. He was comically a wolf starved for his lamb.

You couldn’t even sit down at your vanity with the heat radiating on your backside under all your skirts. You didn’t even want to come out with him today, you almost dared state you would stay home after his assault.

However, lord only knows where Sherlock would really gallivant off to if you didn’t chaperone him today. Any man can break a promise.

He came into your room slowly and went to your hat box. He handed you the straw brim and cleared his throat, “Get your gloves, we must make haste.”

You rolled your eyes at him and snatched your hat from his hands, “If we were in such a hurry it might’ve deterred you from your unnecessary beating.”

He was fast as lightning and holding your jaw tearing out a gasp from you as he huffed, “Indeed, If we weren’t in such a hurry, I would have my cock down your throat for that comment Mrs Holmes.” His eyes turned a shade darker that dragged a bolt of fear back down your spine.

His smile was not as cheery, it had transformed into a sneer in lilt, “Gloves. Now.”

Helplines:

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

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline Services

India Helpline Services.

[jobean12-blog]

Driven By Desire

Pairing: Joel Miller x reader (Mechanic AU)

Word Count: 3,300

Summary: Your car breaks down but you’re lucky enough to be close to a mechanic who’s going to help you out...in more ways than one. 

Author’s Note: This is a completely self indulgent fic that I didn’t even have planned but then my sweet friend Cia @holacia3 shared a pic and it all snowballed from there haha YAY thank you so much! I love it! This is only my second time doing his AU but it’s so fun and I feel like Joel fits well with it! Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you sweet Daisy! 

Warnings: it’s super fun and flirty and there’s lots of tension, reader is fiery and c-u-rs-es a lot but Joel loves it and he doesn’t hold back either so there’s a lot of back and forth fun. Light d-ir-t-y ta-l-k and o-r-al and f-i-n-ge-r-in-g. 

Joel Miller Masterlist

You slam the car door so hard you’re surprised you don’t break something else before you stomp toward the garage, thankful the doors are still open.

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the lighting and your ears to the blaring music. You look around, trying to focus on finding someone who works here. Finally you spot a pair of long jean clad legs sticking out from under one of the cars.

One booted foot is tapping in beat to the music and you slowly walk over.

“Excuse me,” you say.

No response. Nothing.

“EXCUSE ME!” you yell, trying to be heard over the music.

Still nothing so you kick gently at the boot.

He flies out from under the car so fast you startle with a shriek, careening backward in your heeled feet. Large hands shoot out automatically, catching you by the waist to stop your fall.

“What the fuck?” you screech.

“Alexa, turn down the music,” he says in a deep, gravelly voice, his hands still on your waist.

Your ears are still ringing when he asks, “what was that darlin’?”

“I said,” and you proceed to press your palms against his hard chest and step out of his grasp, “what the fuck?”

“Sorry darlin’” he murmurs but his eyes are sparkling. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

“Yeah, no shit Sherlock!” you retort.

“Wow, what a mouth on you,” he throws back but from the smirk pulling at his lips you can tell he’s anything but annoyed.

He tugs an old rag from the back of his jeans and wipes his hands. Your eyes fall to the action and you can’t help but remember what those hands felt like warm and strong on your waist just a moment ago.  

You let out a long exhale. “My car started stalling. I barely made it in here. Can you take a look at it?”

“We’re closed but just for you, I’ll take a look,” he winks.

He holds out a still greasy hand and motions for you to walk. You start toward your car, peeking over your shoulder to see if he’s following. He is and he’s doing nothing to hide the way his eyes slowly slide down your body.

“Here it is,” you say as you lean against the door, glaring at him.

He gives you a lopsided smile and steps in front of the car to open the hood. You take the chance to get a good look at him and you like what you see. A lot.

His jeans are tight enough to show off long legs and thick thighs and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his elbows, leaving his forearms exposed so that every time he twists or pulls something you see the cords of muscle flex. And when he bends over the hood you get a good glimpse of his round ass.

“Looks like it’s the transmission,” he says, standing and looking your way.

“Hmm?” you ask, still recovering from your perusal of his body and now studying the handsome features of his face.

His dark hair is mussed in way that tells you he keeps running his fingers through it and his sharp jaw is lined with a dark shadow of scruff peppered with patches of gray. Dark chocolate eyes stare right back as his full lips twitch with a smile.

“The transmission sweetheart. You’re not drivin’ this home.”

You have to stop yourself from letting out a whine and stomping your foot.

“For fucks sake!” you mutter.

“There’s that mouth again,” he teases, but there’s an underlying heat to his words.  

You smile wryly, ignoring the unexpected charge in the air and the way it zips down your spine.

“Excuse me, I just need to make a call,” you explain before pulling out your phone and stepping away.

After you call your best friend you walk back to your car, taking another chance to check him out before he stops tinkering with something under the hood.

“My friend is on her way…thanks for taking a look at it.”

He nods and closes the hood before leaning against the front and crossing his arms over his chest.

“You can leave it with me. I’ll get it fixed for ya.”

“How long do you think it will take?” you ask, mentally going over your schedule.

“Depends on parts. If I need any could be up to a week, if not should only be a couple of days.”

He whips his cell out from the other back pocket of his jeans.

“What’s your name darlin’? he asks.

You give him your name and number.

“Joel,” he says when you look at him expectantly.

“Well, thanks Joel and sorry for cursing at you.”

“Don’t be,” he grins. “I like it.”

Rachel pulls up before you can give him a sassy reply and you tear your gaze away.

“Hey,” she says once the window is down. “You good?”

She looks at Joel then back to you.

“Fine, just fucking pissed!” you say, throwing up your arms.

You can hear Joel’s chuckle.

“I’ll call you,” he says when you turn around. “Get home safe.”

“Thanks,” you say as you plop down in Rachel’s car.

When the window is up and she’s out of the parking lot you continue your rant. “Fucking car! It’s probably the transmission and who knows how long that will take!”

“I’m sure hot mechanic guy can fix it right up for you,” she giggles.

“Was he hot?” you ask with a roll of your eyes. “I didn’t notice.”

“Yes you did!” she scoffs. “You were practically eye fucking him when I pulled up.”

“I WAS NOT!” you screech.

“Keep telling yourself that,” she laughs. “And don’t worry he was doing the same thing.”

“Son of a bitch,” you mutter before closing your eyes and leaning your head back along the headrest.

“Hey darlin’” he drawls when you get out of Rachel’s car. He’s smiling and it makes the little sun kissed crinkles around his eyes pop out.

You realize he’s waiting for you to say something so you clear your throat with a greeting.

“Your car’s ready and good as new. Come on.”

You follow him to your car and try to pay attention as he explains what he did. He’s half under the hood when he crooks a thick finger at you, asking you to bend down and take a look. Despite your surprise you do as he asks and can’t help but admire the new shiny whatever it is he put inside.

“That looks like it will work better than whatever piece of shit was in there before,” you grumble.

He turns his face to look at you, smirking again. “You bet it will.”

“What’s that?” you ask, touching the object next to it.

Before he can answer you pull your hand back and see your fingertips are covered with grease.

“Shit,” you mutter.

“That’s the oil pan,” he says, trying to hide his smile. “Pretty filthy.”

“Yeah, I can see that” you answer sarcastically as you try to wipe your fingers clean. “Fucking grease…”

He hands you his rag, folding it to the cleanest side and trying to hold back his smile. With a quiet thanks you take it and try again. It’s really no use so you sigh and give it back.

“It’ll come off with some soap,” he grins.

With one last check he shuts the hood and ushers you into the small office in front of the shop.

“Thanks for fixing it for me so fast and at such a good price,” you say.

“My pleasure darlin’.”

You fidget under his intense gaze, mindlessly rubbing at your cheek.

He chuckles and steps closer, lifting his hand slowly, the question of whether you’re going to stop him filling his steady gaze.

“You just wiped some grease on your cheek. A smudge. Right here.”

“For fucks sake,” you mutter.

He cups your jaw, swiping at your cheek with a delicacy you don’t expect from his rough hands. You feel singed in the wake of his calloused thumb.

“Did you just wipe more grease on me,” you say, trying to sound pissed but it comes out breathy instead.

“Maybe,” he answers, looking smug.

He dips his head, still cradling your jaw as he moves closer.

You lean forward slightly and lick your lips, your body acting on its own accord.

His eyes track the movement and he inches closer still, the electricity buzzing between you.

Rachel’s shrill voice breaks the moment and you rock back on your heels, looking over Joel’s shoulder to see her standing in the doorway.

Her smile widens as she looks between the two of you.

“So,” she says. “You all set?”

“All set,” you mirror, your eyes still on Joel.

Rachel slides up next to you, resting her elbow on your shoulder.

“You know Joel,” she starts. “We’re going for drinks tomorrow night at the dive bar in town. You should totally join us.”

Your eyes go wide and you open your mouth to protest but Rachel cuts you off with, “I mean she really owes you one anyway,” and she points her finger in your direction. “You fixed her car so quickly and all.”

You turn and glare at your friend, narrowing your eyes until you can barely see.

“I’m sure Joel has other plans,” you grit out.

“Actually I don’t,” he answers, keeping his eyes on you. “Text me when and where.”

You let out a little huff and he laughs, leaning toward you and placing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. “See you tomorrow night darlin’.”

He walks back into the garage and you stand there, pressing your greasy fingers to the spot on your skin where the feel of his lips lingers.

“Eeeeeeeeeeeee,” Rachel squeaks as she pulls you out by the arm.

When you pull up to the bar you don’t see Joel yet so you sit back and text Rachel one more time to ask where she is.

Your phone rings.

“I’m not coming,” Rachel says before you can say hello.

“WHAT?”

“I’m sick,” she explains with a cough.

“I swear I’m going to fucking kick your ass girl,” you hiss.

“No you’re not. You’re going to thank me tomorrow morning. I promise. Now have fun and be safe. Call me if you need anything. Love ya!”

With her last sing song words she hangs up and you’re left staring at your phone dumbfounded, several expletives flying out of your mouth. The screen lights up with a text from Joel telling you he’s arrived and as you’re typing a reply that you’ll meet him by the door you catch movement out of the corner of your eye.

You see him striding toward your car, his dark eyes full of promises.

He runs his hand across the hood the way you want him to run it over your skin as he comes to the window. With a smile he opens your door and holds out his hand. You look down at it, clean and free of grease.

“Told ya soap does the trick,” he says with a waggle of his brows.

You can’t stop your laughter as you take his hand, letting him pull you from the car. His eyes are locked on you, tracing down your body and when they lift to yours again, he’s daring you to call him out on how he’s blatantly checking you out.

Your smile falters as he pulls you closer, letting every inch of you line up with the hard planes of his body.

“You look gorgeous,” he says. “You ready?”  

Once you’re seated at the the bar he finally asks, “where’s Rachel?”

“Do you always sit like that? Manspread like…”

Your eyes fall between his legs before you can stop them.

“Like?” he asks, spreading his thighs wider.

“She’s not coming,” you deadpan, answering his original question as your eyes move up to his. “She’s sick.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he replies with a smile as he grabs your stool to drag it closer.

“Fucking bullshit!” you scoff. “You���re not sorry at all.”

You reach out and whack his thigh.

His large hand settles on the spot you just hit before his fingers spread wide and he rubs them over his jeans.

“Sorry,” you mumble.

“Now that’s fucking bullshit,” he counters with a wink. “And you can hit me all you want. I’d say or do just about anything to have your hands on me darlin’.”

Your lips part with a small gasp and his eyes drop to your mouth.

“What? Got nothing to say to that?” he teases.

The bartender interrupts the moment by setting your drinks down. Joel grabs his without taking his eyes off you and takes a long and slow sip. You’re staring contest is broken when a man you don’t know walks up next to Joel.

“Well, well if it isn’t Joel Miller.”

Joel’s eyes squeeze shut at the sound of the man’s voice and he slowly turns on his stool to face him.

“Dave,” Joel says, tone flat.

‘Dave’ smiles widely and then his eyes fall to you.

“And who do we have here?” Dave asks, trying to sound smooth.

You’re trying so hard not to roll your eyes as you hold out your hand and give him your name.

Joel and Dave exchange some small talk that you can see Joel is struggling through, his attention constantly pulled to you and just when you think Dave is going to leave he asks, “mind if I join you two for a drink?”

“Actually,” Joel says. “I do.”

Joel gives no further explanation but you can see his jaw twitch with barely controlled restraint.

Dave’s face falls as he mutters something you don’t quite catch. He recovers quickly enough continuing to mumble as he walks off looking like a scolded child.

“You’re so friendly,” you poke. “Joel Miller.”

You laugh at your own dig, drawing out his first and last name as you watch his lips lift into a grin. “Does everyone address you by your full name?”

He waits a beat before answering, taking another sip of his beer then licking his lips clean.

“First of all darlin’” he croons, “I don’t’ share.”  

He let’s his words settle in the small space between you, ignited and ready to explode.

“And second, you only have to scream out Joel. If you can get my whole name out, I’m not doing my job.”

Your thighs press together and you look down at your drink, chugging the rest of it before you answer.

“Fuck me,” you breathe out.

“That’s the plan. “If you’ll let me,” he shoots back. “And that mouth of yours too. Been wanting to shut you up with my cock since the moment you walked into my shop.”

Your teeth dig into your bottom lip and your lashes lower, the thoughts running through your brain only making your skin burn hotter. Your mouth is full of choice words for his bold admission but you want him to do it. All of it. And as if sensing your inner thoughts, he stands slowly and drains what little is left of his beer, stepping into your space as he waits.

You move with him, tucking yourself into his side as he pulls you out of the bar.  

He leads you toward his truck, backing you up, two small steps of give, before your spine meets the cold metal and his mouth covers yours.

There’s nothing soft about his kiss. It’s demanding and devouring and when he nibbles your lip, you gasp and leave his mouth to bite the skin of his neck, pulling at the collar of his shirt to expose more of it.

He hisses out your name, holding you in place while you suck gently to soothe the sharp nip. His hands mold over your body, learning every curve as he captures your mouth again.

Your hands slide around his neck, your fingers curling into his hair at the nape before you drag them through his soft locks.

“Fuck,” he groans. “I’m gonna come in my damn jeans right here if you don’t stop.”  

You don’t stop, your hips grinding into his and your fingers scorching over his skin. He growls low and pulls away just enough to open the driver’s side door.

“Get in.”

He helps you up and you scoot into the passenger side, barely clicking your seatbelt before the engine roars to life.

When he pulls up to the garage you’ve barely unbuckled your seatbelt before he’s at your door pulling you out.

“I live upstairs,” he says as he tugs you to the side door. He opens it and you start up the flight of steps.

You don’t get very far before his hands are on you, his fingers digging into the back of your bare thighs and teasing along the soft skin at the edge of your dress, dipping underneath when you push your ass toward him.  

He presses a soft kiss to the skin just above the back of your knee, teasing you with every whisper of his lips.

“More,” you demand. “I want your fingers.”

You can hear his chuckle as he keeps tracing along the hem, getting closer and closer to your panties. He shoves the dress over your hips and you spread your legs wider, an invitation, one he accepts by grazing his thumb along the soft skin peeking out.

The material is wet and sticking to you. “Fuck, that’s the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

Before you can comment on his curses and how he’s going to outdo your dirty mouth, he moves your panties to the side and buries his face between your legs.

You whine his name as he wraps his arm around your thighs, holding you against his mouth, the beard lining his jaw scraping your skin in the most delicious way. Your moans get louder the closer you get to coming but he takes his mouth away before you can scream his name and turns you in his arms, sitting you on the step and spreading your legs.

“I need to see you,” he murmurs, easing one thick finger inside you.

You sigh like it’s the best thing you’ve ever felt and you can see his jaw clench hard. He adds another finger, pumping them in and out while you meet him with every thrust of your hips. And when he brushes his thumb over your clit, you come, crying out his name just like he said you would.

He continues to slowly fuck you with his fingers, dragging out your pleasure until your breathing steadies. He leans forward and licks lazily over your clit to taste your sweetness, his fingers still buried inside you.

You make happy noises of praise and melt against the stairs.

When he pulls his fingers free he pushes them into his mouth and licks them clean, humming at the taste.

“You’re fucking delicious darlin’.”

He helps you to stand and then up the rest of the stairs, his mouth on as soon as he has the door open. You barely get a look at his place as you kiss your way down the hall to his bedroom, your knees hitting the back of the bed as you fall onto it.

You watch as he drops his hand to his jeans and makes quick work of the button, shoving the material down along with his underwear to free his cock. He pumps his hand up and down his thick length and your mouth waters.

“I want that,” you purr as your legs fall open.

“Goddamn, I’m going to fuck you so good,” he growls out in answer.

@sstan-hoe @hallecarey1​ @littleseasiren​ @blackwidownat2814​ @pedritosdarling​ @hiddles-rose​ @justkinsey​ @beccablogsthings @laineyreads​ @kmc1989​ @lorilane33​

[fool-who-dreams]

unintentional mystery

Summary - The mysterious Sherlock Holmes has unintentionally been keeping his biggest secret from everyone: you.

"John!" Sherlock called urgently from the dining room. "John!" He continued insistently as he fixed his scarf around his neck. "John!" He yelled once more, this time knocking on the bathroom door.

"For Pete's sake, what are you doing at my house, how did you get in!" The bathroom door swung open, revealing an angry John wrapped in shower towels.

"Key's anger the doormat. Oldest trick in the playbook. You told me about it."

"I never told you where my key was!"

"Not with your words." Sherlock rolled his eyes knowingly. "Can we go now? The truth awaits."

"A new case? Alright, give me five minutes and-" John sighed, hurrying to his bedroom.

"I'll meet you there." Sherlock shouted, leaving the house.

"Fascinating. Isn't it?" Sherlock asked John, leaning closer to the crime scene.

"A gutted corpse? Not really." John replied. And to think he was so close to becoming Sherlock Holmes' roommate. At the very last minute, though, John had found a cheap comfortable place just around the corner. Nothing stopped Sherlock from involving John in his every move.

Seeing him in the distance, you and your colleague Greg approached the familiar faces. "Mr Holmes, you have arrived." Lestrade pointed out.

"Clever deduction Inspector, what gave it away?" He replied wittily.

"Pleasant, as always." You remarked sarcastically.

"Shut up y/n, you couldn't bear this job without me."

"Mr. Watson," You chimed in, ignoring the curly-haired detective. "pleased to finally meet you. Sherlock has said loads of wonderful things about you." You revealed, stretching your hand towards John.

He shook your hand, quite puzzled. "He is capable of that?"

"Well, not really...it's more that he hasn't affronted you as much as he usually does to people. It's as far as it goes, I'd be proud if I were you." You smiled, amused. "I am y/n, I'm the coroner affiliated with this case." You explained to the former doctor. "Oh, and try to solve it within a couple hours dear, would you?" You asked Sherlock, slowly stroking his covered arm.

"Nonsense! Take your time Sherlock, we all are having such a great time. Aren't we?" Lestrade winked at you, to which you had to keep yourself from making a disgusted face. He wasn't a bad man, he just wasn't your man. You nodded, fake smiling to your colleague before turning to Sherlock.

"Hurry." You almost threatened.

"Why? Got plans?" He asked, almost annoyed. 'Maybe even jealous' John thought.

"Not really. But-"

"Then you won't mind joining me for dinner." He cut you off wittily. "We'll raise a toast to my ability to solve a case of this complexity in just 'a couple of hours'." He proposed, still not taking his eyes off the scene.

'Okay, wait. Is Sherlock actually- flirting?' John thought again.

"Ask me again when you've cracked this." You replied with a smirk. You turned around, starting to walk away, when the genius' voice had you stopped in your tracks.

"It was his wife. After stealing his wedding ring, she must've sold it. Probably online. The one he's wearing is not authentic, and the tie is undone, which means he wasn't actually coming back from work but rather, given the lipstick stain, from an encounter with his mistress. The woman must've found out. It's a jealousy crime." Sherlock said in one breath. "Care to join me now?" He asked with a satisfied smirk, actually looking straight into your eyes for the first time since he had arrived.

"How could I refuse?" You chuckled.

"Well, well...it appears this is my lucky day." Sherlock commented, pulling you in by the waist to stamp a kiss on your lips. You felt your cheeks getting warmer, and a smile creeping onto your face.

"I'll see you at home." You pecked him again before catching up to Lestrade and the rest of the team.

"Okay." John tried to keep his composure, but miserably failed. "What is going on here?" "I thought I had been clear enough. A jealousy crime. Although money was evidently involved in-" "Not that! Why did you kiss Y/N? And why was she kay with it?"

"Well John, don't you kiss your wife?" He asked, starting to walk away.

"A wife?!" John asked in disbelief. "What's next? I'll find out you have kids? A mistress?"

"Oh no" Sherlock chuckled. "If I had a mistress, I probably would have ended up like him by now." Sherlock replied, pointing back at the victim of the case he had just solved.

"Will you advice me a nice place for today's dinner?" Sherlock added. "I need something special for our second anniversary."

"YOU'VE BEEN MARRIED TWO YEARS?!"

[asherloki]

Innocence!

Bbc Sherlock x virgin reader!

Warning:- fingering, age gap, sexual context!

Request:- Can I request 14 and 29 from the smut prompts with sherlock please? I can’t wait to see what you come up with! ~ anon!

Prompt list!

"Ugh, I said no" y/n said on phone annoyingly before hanging up. Sherlock was stunned to see her in such a mood. His roommate, or rather little roomate is always childish (like him) but what caused her to be annoyed. He calls her little roommate because she always acts like a baby and was also quite younger than him.

"What's wrong little...." Sherlock was about to say his favourite nickname for her but y/n stopped him.

"Don't you dare say that, I'm very mad."

"I just wanted to know what's wrong" said Sherlock.

"Ugh, this fucking guy friend of mine want's to hookup with me"

"Oh" said Sherlock as this topic he tends to avoid cause he's way too ahead of this, "so what's stopping you."

"I don't want to" snaps y/n

"Wait wait wait, don't tell me it's Chris" Sherlock asks now, he's now perfectly invested in solving y/n's case.

"What... How do you know that?" Asked she.

"Oh because when you received the call you were happy and when he talked of hooking up you were annoyed, you totally have a crush on him but you may not be ready for sex and it's totally fine." Said Sherlock.

"No I can't hide a thing from you" y/n snapped again.

"Mmmm no you can't" said he and gave a mischievous smile, which said 'i'll always win'.

"But it's not that I'm not ready." She started to explain.

"So?" Sherlock enquired putting his laptop down.

"I don't want a casual hookup, I can only sleep with someone I love, and also..."

"And also?" He asked.

"Nothing but yeah just casual hookup ain't my thing."

"Hmmm... What kinda men do you like though." Asked Sherlock and this did the trick. She blushed and looked away, Sherlock always noticed how she'd stare at him when he's inside in his house robes, how domestic, he noticed she'd stare at his long fingers and there's something about her blush when Sherlock is to close to her. He knew she might like him. But he was too older. Over ten years, so he preferred to keep it platonic, but he knows the truth, when she comes out of the bathroom wearing a bathrobe, water still dripping from hair, it does makes Sherlock stare too. When she watches herself in the mirror and wears lipstick, winks at her own reflection Sherlock does stares then as well. Y/n thought before answering him, "i don't think I have a specific type but if I have sex, I'd want someone who'd care for me because...."

"Because?"

"I don't know anything about it honestly." She admitted. Sherlock got up and said, "sit here little...."

"No, not that name". She warned.

"Okay, come sit we'll discuss about this Chris guy."

She sits on his couch and takes her phone in hand. When He suddenly came close to y/n. His face very close to her, she liked it. She even blushed furiously,

"Wh-what?" She asked softly.

"Nothing just... wanna taste my cupcake." He replied seductively.

Slowly he pressed his lips on hers. She returned the the kiss. She knew how to kiss thankfully but the next thing was new, Sherlock slipped a tongue inside her mouth and so did she. She cupped his face and enjoyed their tongues dancing. Then His lips went from her lips to her soft cheeks and then neck and collarbone, no one ever visited those places. Her whimpers and gasps reflected her inexperience. She caught his back and the upper arm tightly as his hand went to touch her delicate soft thighs, then to upwards.

"Sherlock" his name came out as whimper as he touched exactly where even she herself never did. Sherlock lifted his face from her neck and enquired with baffled eyes, "you never touched yourself?"

In reply y/n could only shake her head. To this, Sherlock gave a mischievous smirk. And his hand slide inside her panties to touch where she needed to be. Her eyes closed in pleasure and in embarrassment. Sherlock exploring her. The places of her body which no body ever has. His fingers touched her slit and the clit. She couldn't help but whimper softly.

"You're wet, so wet." Sherlock said, rather whispered.

"I've never been... Ah touched like this before". Y/n replied.

"Good" he whispered to her ear, intentionally so his voice send shivers down her spine. He rubbed his finger against her clit. This was enough for her to moan. She gripped him tightly almost her small nails as if it would dig in his flesh making holes in his coat. "Oh fuck" she moaned followed by a hum. Her innocent child like face making such sounds? Sherlock may have been more turned on by her helpless state, her innocent face. She was absolutely inexperienced when it came to sex.

"I never knew you make such sweet noises" teased Sherlock.

"Neither do I." She replied rather whispered between her pleasure.

As she grew more wet he took this opportunity to slide his finger in her. This was new to her too. A sudden low scream came out of her mouth.

"Shhhh don't let Mrs Hudson know". Said he. And started to finger her. She rolled her eyes once he got the rhythm, in pleasure.

"You like it little cupcake?" Asked he . She could hardly talk back, yet tried and said, "don't stop please". Looking at him with her puppy eyes, Sherlock wouldn't admit but he was a sucker for that baby face and her puppy eyes.

"I don't intend to." He replied and fastened his speed.

"Keep doing what you're doing, please Sherlock." She pleaded.

"I got you". He fingered her harder until he felt she was close and came all over his finger. He held her and she panted for her first time experiencing something like that.

"This is how you do it." Sherlock said with a smile. A smile which had care and mischief both. To this she needed to reply to her detective. She turned and smirked. Her confidence grew alot after this so she said,

"Maybe you can teach me something more."

[helloliriels]

It Belongs In A Museum

"John ... I thought you said this was a library?" Sherlock turned a corner and found himself in the middle of what instead appeared to be ... a museum?

John meanwhile, rounded the corner and came crashing into a halted Sherlock.

He looked the taller man up and down before peering about the room before them. Trying to see what might have arrested his flatmate's attention?

John's breath caught.

.

Hanging on every available inch of the walls ...

. Were brilliant works of art, in every style and fashion ...

Full sized paintings ... hand drawn sketches ... and mostly digital works ... some full color, some in a manga or comic book art style ... but all featuring ...

. "It's ... it's us?"

.

John asked, stunned.

The question had also paralyzed the detective. Try as he might ... he simply could not compute the sheer amount of time and effort that had been put into this lovingly curated hall of art works ... ?

"John ... are you seeing-?"

. "What you're seeing ... ?" John finished for him, "yeah mate." He nodded imperceptibly. Unable to tear his eyes away from the mesmerizing pictures that graced the gallery walls.

His tongue darted out to wet his lips, as he caught a glimpse of something he definitely wanted a closer look at! And he was off ... Sherlock hard on his heels.

They spun about, smiling ... laughing ... tugging each other to see and comment on various pieces ... catching themselves eyeing each other with newfound wonder as they explored ... and often a hand over their mouths as they suppressed the joy that threatened to spill over like an uncorked bottle of champagne!

John had never seen Sherlock so animated, as when he was choosing his favourite image of John and having John imitate - or try as he might - NOT imitate - the position or stance that the artist had put them in ...

They landed on the floor laughing and rolling in each others arms after chasing each other around the silent gallery ...

Until John remembered - they were in a gallery! or what was supposed to be a LIBRARY! - and he hushed Sherlock with a finger to his lips ... Following it with a hesitant ... and careful kiss.

Their first.

Sherlock blinked.

"How long has this been going on, John?" he asked, needing to know more. John shrugged, his smile deepening even as he flattened himself against the ground and simply enjoyed the feel of Sherlock in his arms ... The man was gorgeous with his hair all aglow in the gallery lighting ...

. "I honestly don't know, Sherlock," he replied ... tugging the detective down by his shirt front for another good snog ... "but I'm guessing they all noticed it before we did?"

. Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement. Accepting John's lips and the warmth of his nearness like a glove that fit only too well ...

.

John felt a twinge in his back at being on the cold, hard floor too long though - and pushed Sherlock off of him, playfully - rising and helping the man to his feet.

"Guess we should see what we came here for?" John offered, leading the way, "think the library is back here? Ah!" He flicked on a lightswitch behind a pair of double doors ... and a

. "WHOA!!!!"

Slipped out of their mouths simultaneously ... jaws dropping.

As the darkened warehouse before them flickered to life, row ... by illuminated row ...

Revealing hundreds ... if not thousands ... NO ... HUNDREDS of thousands!!! Of stories ...

. Written about ... them?

.

John winked at Sherlock.

Before dashing ahead in a mad chase. Each grabbing up several volumes apiece and meeting to read a few pages ...

. "Look at this one!"

. "John - you won't believe-!" "Sherlock!" "John!"

. "This is-" "-I'm taking this one!" "This is brilliant!"

. "We're in a sci-fi!" "oooh an epic!" "OHmyGOD!"

John's giggling could be heard a few rows down, and Sherlock tucked another in his pocket and swung around the shelving to peruse over John's shoulder.

His jaw dropped.

"I think ..." John grinned wickedly "... I've found the E rated section ...!"

Sherlock's eyes grew wide as saucers and he tore the book from John's hands ... devouring pages at a time! Then he looked up at the rows and rows of shelves, his gaze glossing towards empty - but John could see he was critically engaged in making a heavy calculation.

"Verdict?" John asked, smirking. Having allowed the great genius to do his mental gymnastics.

"I think we're going to need more bookshelves at Baker Street," Sherlock stated, "... and we may need to try everything suggested."

"For science?" John asked, solemnly.

"For science," Sherlock agreed. Hiding his own burgeoning grin.

Then they both stood. Sheepishly looking down at their own feet ... and then at the rows and rows of unexplored fiction they could wander through ... endlessly ... nightly ... for the rest of their lives ...

.

"John ... ?" Sherlock asked, then, quietly. As if whispering in a holy room, "... what did you say this place was called again?'

He was a boy again. Full of wonder.

.

John smiled. Recognizing the dawn of a new era of their lives. He answered, just as solemnly,

"I'd say it was ... an archive of our own?"

.

Then he met Sherlock's adoring eyes,

. ... as the lights above ... winked.

For @sherlockchallenge February Prompt: Museum. and for all you lovely @fluffbruary writers and artists making the month delish.

@johnlocky @fluffbyday-smutbynight @ohlooktheresabee @john-smiths-jawline @whatnext2020 @chinike @rhasima @totallysilvergirl @blogstandbygo @egregiously-chuffed @raina-at @thelazyecrivain @topsyturvy-turtely @the-reading-lemon @aquilea-of-the-lonely-mountain @safedistancefrombeingsmart @keirgreeneyes @elwinglyre @belles-magnetic-violin @thesunandherflannelcurtains @iwlyanmw @meetinginsamarra @hellolovelyscientist @ecsapingthereality @wizama @anyway-kindness @inevitably-johnlocked @iamjustreading @demonicangeling @summerfly-blues @eplapourdissant @lovelenivy @kittenmadnessandtea @leny-nguyen @calaisreno @discordantwords @thetimemoves @7-percent @shelleysprometheus @anyawen @gregorovitchworld @janetm74 @mrb488 @hasenkind687 @khorazir @kettykika78

[ohtobeleah]

Could you do something with Bob and the reader squirting for the first time?

Brain go Brrrr. I can indeed anon I can indeed.

It has Bob in a frenzy. He can feel your legs shaking on either side of his face as he’s delving as deep as he can humanly go. Eating you out had become his new favourite venture, his new favourite snack. His favourite dessert. The pair of you had been hooking up on the down low. It was a recent thing though– You and Bob had been paired up for a game of pool against Bradshaw and Trance one night and you two seemed to hit things off very well. 

To the point where between a few too many cocktails on your end and a few not-so-light beers on his own behalf, you and Bob were back at his quicker than Hangman could make a quick-witted comment. And from that first hook up it hadn't stopped, whenever you and Robert Floyd had a free night? He could be found between your legs at either his place or your own. 

“Oh fuck!” Your fingers are carding through his hair, pulling against the slightly sweaty strands. “I'm gonna cum!”  Bobs not stopping, if anything your clear statement gives him all the more reason to keep doing exactly what it was he was doing. Tongue kicking into overdrive–the strongest muscle in the body. Flicking against your swollen bundle of nerves as he sucked an amazing pressure against you. The coil was about ready to snap as your thighs shook and your mouth slacked open. Beautiful moans escaped uncontrollably as your back arched and everything went black for a few seconds or so. “Ohhhh ahh fuck, Bob! shit–don’t stop!” 

As you pulsed and clenched around nothing, Bob felt like he'd suddenly begun to drown. It took him a moment to realise what had happened but when it clicked you’d squirted he never wanted to leave the position he was in. He’d happily die between your legs. Gasping softly with wide eyes as he pushed himself up to hover over you. 

“Holy shit–” Fuck he looked delectable, his slightly scruffed chin was shining with your nectar. “What just happened?” He knew, but he wanted to know why–what was different this time around? “That was incredible.” 

“You never heard of female ejaculation before?” As Bob fell to the mattress beside you, you took it as your opportunity to flip over and straddle his waist, leaning down to suck against the pulse point of his neck. Coaxing soft moans from him as his hands trailed the length of your exposed back.

“Oh, no I have, I just thought it was a myth like Unicorns or Moderate Republicans.” 

“You're really hard?” Yeah no shit sherlock, Bob had just witnessed a miracle play out before his very eyes. He’d never had a woman ejaculate on his face before. “Need to do something about that don't I?” You teased as you clasped your thighs around his length, Bob caught on quickly to what you were trying to do–reaching behind to help guide himself into your slick folds. Sucking him in ever so perfectly to the very hilt. “Fuck, feel so good every time.” 

“That was really hot, you should have been doing that from the beginning?” Bob knew he’d suddenly become an addict. He was going to make it his mission to get you to the point where you could cum like that every time he went down on you. 

“I cant.” The way you looked at him had Bob’s heart beating so fast in his chest as his hands gently guided your hips. “Not until I get comfortable enough around a guy.” Fuck, you’d caught feelings…. But that was more than okay because so had Robert Floyd. “Guess I'm pretty comfortable.” You winked as your hands fell to his chest for stability. Bob groaned as you rode him slowly, expertly and oh so perfectly. The sounds you were making were music to his ears. 

“Hope so.” Bob managed to say before he was falling into a mess of fucks, shits and ohs. “Oh I really hope so.”

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***

#Strictlyscandalous Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom. Parentlock.

Not my colour

They’re both excited when Rosie announces that she’ll visit them in Sussex for the first time. She’s travelled the world with Doctors Without Borders for five years now, and it’s been easier to meet up in London, whenever she’s come back for a short period of time.

Rosie’s got two weeks off and will stay with them for at least three or four days she’d said. John’s fussing nervously, muttering under his breath, twitching his hands, making Sherlock tense up as well. 

“Why are you so nervous?” Sherlock growls in frustration, making a mess of his salt and peppery coloured curls.

“I’m not nervous!” John insists petulantly.

“Are too,” Sherlock murmurs.

“What was that?” John inquires, but Sherlock’s already headed for his beehives at the far end of the garden. 

“I heard you,” John states to the now empty kitchen. 

***

John’s heart flutters with excitement when he’s waiting for Rosie’s train to arrive. His left hand holds on to Sherlock’s for dear life. When Sherlock ghosts his lips over John’s temple, his heart skips a beat. Sherlock’s proximity still fills John with expectation, love and desire. He turns his face upwards and pecks Sherlock’s lips softly. The smile he receives is genuine and radiant, and John’s pulse slows a bit.

“I love you,” John whispers and lets his thumb stroke Sherlock’s knuckles. 

“I love you too, John,” Sherlock says and pulls John to his chest.

They both sigh contentedly lost in their own bubble of bliss. 

A familiar voice startles them.

“Daddy. Papa!”  

How they’re able to lock everything out like this, still baffles John.

***

After dinner, they seat themselves in the garden. Rosie wanders around admiring the flower beds, Sherlock’s beehives and the vegetable section. She joins them after a while and takes the bottle of beer John offers her. 

“So, how was Morocco?” Sherlock asks her. 

She narrows her eyes at him, and when he winks, she chuckles.

“Uncle Myc still looks out for me, then?” she inquires.

“Please, Rosebud, he’s more concerned about you than all the rest of us combined,” Sherlock says with his normal dramatic flair. 

“Don’t you dare tell him, or you’ll have no fathers to visit the next time you’re home,” John says mirthfully. 

“Oh, I’m sure uncle Greg can prevent that,” Rosie retorts. 

“Hardly,” Sherlock huffs. “Now, Morocco?”

“Before I tell you anything about my trip, do you remember the little pink houses Molly bought for my sixth birthday?”

Both men nod and smile at the memory. 

“You wanted to paint them,” John says. 

“I did! Pink never was my colour. Not then, not now. Blue and purple however…”

Rosie gets a dreamy look on her face and a smile form on her lips. 

“You visited Chefchaouen!” Sherlock exclaims and sits up straight, leaning forward, lest he miss a word. 

Rosie leans toward him and squeezes his hand before she continues her story from the blue city of Morocco.

“I fell in love with that place. Its beauty is beyond belief. All those shades of blue enthralled me, and quite a few of the houses had the same shape as my toy houses. I wandered the streets for hours. It was like walking inside a fairytale book. And that’s when I decided to come home. For good. All this travelling, being stuck in dangerous places…well, it’s taken its toll, and besides…”

“You’re in love, aren’t you?” John says softly. 

Sherlock looks at him with awe. How had he missed observing the changes in Rosie? He’s always had a blind spot when it came to the Watsons in his life. 

“Yes,” Rosie confirms with a broad grin. “Becca. She’s not particularly fond of pink either. Good match!”

“Ah,” Sherlock says thoughtfully. “I guess it’s not your childhood friend Rebecca Stuart, then.”

“Barbie-Becca, you mean? Definitely not!” Rosie says with emphasis. 

“She’s the biggest homophobe I’ve ever come across. Met her last year at Heathrow. Wanted to know if you two still were together.”

Rosie rolls her eyes dramatically.

“Do you know what she said when I told her you’ve moved here?”

Rosie clearly doesn’t expect an answer but stands up abruptly to get into character. John grabs Sherlock’s hand and looks expectantly at their daughter who’s determined to bestow them with a little performance. She clears her throat and when she speaks, her voice is higher pitched than normal, with a cockney accent. 

“I bet their cottage is painted pink! Who’s the man in the relationship? I bet it’s Sherlock. He’s the tall one, yeah? No wonder you chose to live abroad. I’d die if my father where to play for the other team.”

“I wish I could’ve shown you a photo of her expression when I told her I was gay,” Rosie says in her normal voice. “She’ll need therapy for the foreseeable future after this, I think. You never know if sexual orientation is contagious…”

“Just say the word, and I’ll have a talk with Mycr…”

“Out of the question!” both Watsons say in unison, happily unaware that Sherlock’s phone has been switched to recording mode…

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @a-victorian-girl @phoenix27884 @peanitbear @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitchworld @raina-at @helloliriels @topsyturvy-turtely @sabsi221b

[joanquill]

"Wanna go dance?"

How about William's little sister being asked to dance by Sherlock in Noahtic ship? Bonus will be of her noticing that Sherlock can't dance and Louis becoming overprotective.

Sherlock Holmes

A/N: The reader is the Moriarty's youngest sister. Tag/s: Moriarty!Fem!Reader

"(Y/N)-"

"I know, I know... Don't wander off," you smiled at Louis as you linked your arm with Albert's.

"It's not like I'll fall overboard," you joked, but Louis frowned at your comment.

"We have criminals onboard, (Y/N). The one we brought has a history of being a-"

"-I'll be fine, Louis..." you reassured, putting a hand over his, "I have Albert-nii-san with me," you added, making Louis exhale.

"All right... But still, be careful," Louis reminded you as you and Albert headed to the dining hall to meet the target.

"That was easy," you smiled, swirling the wine in your glass as you looked out the window, enjoying the sunset scenery.

"And quick," Albert added, checking his pocket watch.

"Do you want to stretch your legs?" he offered, making you perk up.

"We still have some time before we meet up again, and I can wait for you here," he winked, making you smile.

"Thank you," you pecked him on the cheek as you stood up, ready to see what the Noahtic had to offer.

You found yourself in the dance hall, seeing couples dancing together or groups crowding the buffet, chatting and gossiping away.

You smiled as you wandered around, enjoying the peaceful atmosphere before the main show.

'Now, I wonder if I can find something interesting...' you thought, ecstatic with your newfound freedom as you looked around for something.

As you looked around, a man rushed by, making you both stumble as wine landed on your dress.

"Hey, watch it-!" the man shouted but stopped as soon as he saw your face.

You bit your lip as you kept a polite smile, not wanting to attract more attention than you already had.

"Sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going," you curtly apologized, hoping to de-escalate the situation.

"Right..." he muttered, dusting off his suit as you walked away, but you could feel his gaze following you.

'...How troublesome...'

You sighed as you continued to move around, trying to avoid the gentleman from before.

You had half a mind to lead him somewhere secluded and end the problem there and there... But it will be bothersome to explain to your brothers why there's an extra corpse.

'What to do...' you internally sighed, growing bored with every second.

"There you are!" a man abruptly stopped in front of you, almost colliding with you.

He had dark hair in a ponytail, wearing a courteous smile as everyone's eyes landed on you both, making the stalking man stop in his tracks.

"Come on! Didn't you want to go dancing?" he offered his hand, his eyes looking over to the man following you.

You smiled as you took his hand, playing along.

"Why do you think I was looking for you?"

"Thank you for the rescue," you smiled, following the man's clunky lead on the dance floor.

"Despite your clumsy demeanor," you giggled, making the man's lips tighten into an irritated smile.

"Don't mention it..." he muttered, showing his true colors as you kept smiling.

"And to think, just because of a glass of wine," he smiled, twirling you around and looking at the stain of your dress.

"Well..." you trailed off, your eyes spotting a familiar blonde in glasses.

"...It's about time I get going, anyway," you quickly turned the man, making his face back Louis as you looked around for an exit.

"Thank you for the dance, mister," you winked as you made a break for it, leaving him on the dance floor.

"Huh-? Hey, wait!" he exclaimed, following after you.

"Oh my! What's that? Several estates and a bachelor?" you exclaimed, capturing the ears of noble women as they flocked around him.

As you reached the door, you worded an apology as you snuck out, satisfied with your short time of liberty as you ran back to Albert before Louis could see you.