#bbc quacks fanfic

[reluctantjoe]

Just a Taste (William Agar & Caroline Lessing)

Summary: "There was always something whenever these meetings occurred - a tension too sharp. Inappropriate thoughts ran wildly and freely in Caroline’s mind at even hearing William’s determined voice. She wondered if it was ever the same for him." Warnings: 18+ ONLY. Plot with references to mature subjects. Allusions to Dom!William, Sub!Caroline. Mild injuries. Implied masturbation. Allusions to jealousy. Allusions to (somewhat) jealous sex. Allusions to extramarital affair. Teasing. Implied Sub!William, Dom!Caroline. Blood kink. Word Count: 1,347 Where To Read: Ao3 | Tumblr (you're here!) A/N: My first ever pairing fic! This is an alternative ending to 'The Madman's Trial' scene in 'Quacks' where Caroline is cleaning up William's injuries. And although I feel bad for doing so, I just can't help but ship them (Sorry, Robert.) - Caroline is too good for Robert and William is too good for Mina! In an alternate universe (or hypothetical second series), William and Caroline are a couple and living their best lives! Anyway, I hope those who read this enjoy it. As always, if I have missed any Warnings, then please let me know. Any reblogs and/or comments are greatly appreciated! Tag List: @jamiewintons | @pink-booty-butts

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Caroline sighed as the excess water from her cloth drained into the bowl. This had become part of her weekly routine at this point. Another blood-stained cloth from another incident was beginning to form against William’s blood-stained lips. Why, oh why did he insist on getting himself into these battles when the results were always the same?

She had to admire his willingness, though. He dared to try, and he was brave to do so, knowing the insane individuals he would meet up with could (and most likely, would) cause him harm. She just wished that they didn’t. Some small part of her wished he would give up - try something new. She was tired of this weekly occurrence, and her heart broke for him when William would look at her with defeated eyes once more - another attempt to cure the mad failed.

“I’m sorry,” William winced, the cut on his lip stinging from the cloth. As much as he tried to hide the thrill of, dare say, even speaking to Caroline, the guilt of her practically becoming his nurse carried deeply. “You should be with Robert, not cleaning up a failed alienist. But you are kind enough to do this, no matter the appearance I show you every week. Thank you, Caroline.”

Despite Caroline’s ashamed thoughts of wanting William to step away from this, even just for a day, she knew that isn’t what he needed to hear right now. He needed reassurance and she was more than happy to provide that - no matter the type or repercussions.

“William, as your friend, it is my duty to care. You are so brave and what you do is extraordinary. Besides, I like taking care of you.” Caroline’s eyes met William’s and locked for a second too long.

There was always something whenever these meetings occurred - a tension too sharp. Inappropriate thoughts ran wildly and freely in Caroline’s mind at even hearing William’s determined voice. She wondered if it was ever the same for him.

Have images such as her’s ever dared to preoccupy his mind? Has he ever touched himself? Touched himself to the thought of her? Did he ever imagine the words that would be spoken into her ear, as he would run his hands down her form? Too scandalous for words, would he care that she was taken by Robert? Or would that set jealousy within - causing him to want to prove how good he could make her feel; the pleasure he could bring by his praise and worship, and the most delicate yet precise touches to the most intimate part of her body?

William’s voice brought Caroline back to reality. “Are you okay?” He asked, concernedly, “You seem to be in deep thought, Caroline. I hope my injuries haven’t disgusted you.”

It was then that she was reminded of the fight he and Harold got into during the fake trial. How helpless the crowd was; how she was. How he was. The shouting and flailing around on the floor. The punches; the gasps. The bead of blood on William’s lip that was slowly appearing by the sheer force of Harold’s outburst…

“Caroline? Caroline, are you quite alright?”

“Yes!” Caroline cleared her throat and straightened up, the continuous bending down starting to ache her lower back. “Yes, William, I am fine. Your injuries haven’t disgusted me at all. Are you turning into a mad man too?”

William chuckled at Caroline’s joke. He appreciated the humour at this embarrassing and painful time, but he also noticed a slight sense of falseness. “You seem to be a little red. Are you feeling well? Would you like me to observe you? It is the last thing I can do, I can assure you.”

Caroline went back to the bowl to soak the cloth once more. “I was just thinking back to the trial. The pure lunacy of the man! You looked so…” She tried to contain herself and her thoughts. She didn’t want to skip too far ahead to what was a frightful time for William, but God, a gorgeous mess for her. “...helpless. When Harold pushed you onto the floor and hit you. The blood…”

“Yes, it wasn’t the best sight, was it? How embarrassing of me to think I could help.”

Caroline finally squeezed the excess water back into the bowl once more, but this time, placed the cloth onto the table. She faced William and walked back to him. While attending to him, Caroline was careful not to clean up everything so quickly. She bent down again and slowly traced her finger across William’s blooded lip.

“Caroline, what are you-”

She tilted William’s chip up with her other hand, making sure his eyes were only fixated on her. On her mesmerised face. On her finger with his blood.

William’s knuckles turned white by the act. He shifted but didn’t dare to look down, as though to dismiss the shiver he felt by this new intimidating position he found himself in. A gulp came next because should he speak, he was scared of the outcome. The thought of the noise he would make sent him deeper into his perplexed yet newly founded submissive state.

“Mm, yes.” Caroline turned her attention to her blooded finger, while still holding William’s chin with her other hand. “What is it I called you earlier, William?” She circled her finger with her thumb, spreading the fluid. “Helpless?”

Caroline faced William again, the most stunned expression greeting her. She finally dropped the hand at his chin and William breathed out deeply.

What just happened? What was Caroline up to? He was stunned. He tried to compose himself. William remembered his blood was still on Caroline. His face shot up, not knowing where to begin.

“You-”

“Poor thing.” William gulped. “Oh, don’t be so nervous, William. I’m not going to hurt you.” Caroline bent down once more, but this time, made sure to get as close to William’s ear without raising suspicion to the public.

“I have a blood kink,” She breathed into his ear.

Those words sent William insane. He tried to say something, anything, but he found his throat closed up and dry; the air nearly knocked out of him by Caroline’s statement.

Caroline returned to her standing position. With only the face that could only be described as enchanted, adorned by William, she decided to take it one step further. With hesitation, she looked around, almost as if to see if the coast was clear. She locked onto William’s eyes once more and slowly put her blooded finger into her mouth. William was in a daze; hypnotised, even, by Caroline’s action. Every movement she made with her finger until his blood was on her dominant tongue was tracked by his eyes.

William was out of it. He thought this was a dream. He thought he would wake up and have to take care of things. But what Caroline did next proved to be the opposite.

With one finger now licked clean of William’s blood, there was only her thumb to go. This new found confidence Caroline had was now desperate to be shown. With less hesitation this time, she quickly glanced around, and returned her gaze to William.

Quickly and quietly, she placed her thumb onto William’s lower lip. “Open up,” She whispered. Without even realising what was happening or what he was doing, William opened his mouth and felt Caroline’s thumb in his mouth. His blood in his mouth. Caroline’s thumb, with his blood, in his mouth. He ought to find it disgusting. But he was entranced. This feeling was foreign, yet he loved it. He couldn’t help but emit a strangled whine from his throat; he prayed Caroline didn’t hear.

After she was sure the rest of William’s blood was gone, Caroline slowly removed her thumb from William’s mouth. “There we go. Thank you for being so good while I cleaned you up, William. I’ll see you tomorrow, yes? Try not to get into too many fights before then. Otherwise I may just have to clean you up again.”

[saturatethe-written-whitewa-blog]

sherlock fandom appreciation day!

here is a link to the original post! a little late, yes :P

i’d gotten introduced to sherlock bbc long before i actually began watching it, for time constraint reasons. i love the show, for how clever and intelligent it paints sherlock to be and how sherlock isn’t the do-good heroic protagonist i expected him to be, but rather this flawed, brainy bastard (”I’m a high-functioning sociopath.”) the change in things is lovely and the show was so god damn interesting and i just love it and sherlock but don’t we all 

enough talking, have around 1000 words of fanfic, hope you enjoy :)

pairing: sherlock holmes & irene adler

alternate universe wherein sherlock isn't the brainy bastard that he is, and irene enjoys nighttime mellows more than bringing people to their knees. (sherlock works at a meek diner, and irene's is a face he's sure to remember.)

The night was cold, as far as the woman in black was concerned (Which was not very far, for she welcomed the polyester embrace of her coat and she looked at the sidewalk as if carcasses danced on broken times, turned-up nose and eyes batted all taken-aback like.)

Perhaps there really were twirling carcasses, slack-jawed and empty-minded and the woman in black had simply passed them by, breathing through her painted lips and trying to burrow, unsuccessfully, into her coat.

Her coat was dark. The night was darker, clouds pulled together in a sky the woman in black dared not to peer up at, afraid of the first rain to shoot at one of her eyes, leaving her groaning and cursing and looking one-and-three-fourths mad as she tapped her heels in the darkness.

She had been released from her work early, maybe because the traffic had whimpered and waned to the darkening sky, seeing clouds tumble over each other outside a clear glass window as early as two hours after her lunch, spent mostly laughing and suspending forks and other things in the air (With her fellow male employees, she liked to fill in the gaps, playfully, and imagine an intimacy between them that was more than ‘Good morning’ and ‘What's that you've got there?’ Ultimately, they're still fantasies, and she plans to keep them where they're safeguarded in her head.)

She worked at an office, computers and websites and prodding the age of technology into further evolution (Often, she felt isolated when she walks past and sees children laughing at something on a screen she can’t see. She was once a child. She spent her days, through spring, summer, autumn, fall, watching the sun change the colors of the sky. Like magic,) tucked away in a building she often looked up at when she clambers out of the cab, squinted from harsh sunlight more often. The area she worked in was plaid white: white walls, white glass, white lights, white lies; water dispensers and windows that only make her yearn for the outside where the potted plants weren’t fake and the leaves felt more than plastic and ornamental distress.

(If people could not even remember to breathe sometimes, how would she have expected them to remember to water a plant with arches for leaves? Of course they were fake, all eight of them.)

Her workplace was the natural habitat of suits and dress shirts and the damned crucible where things go wrong. Fluorescent shined, guided no matter where the sun positioned itself: whether it reflected from the right side of the screen or behind her, which felt exploitative sometimes. The smell of caffeine is ever-present, like the ghost of yesterday’s past, like it’s what people wear to work instead (Tired smiles are her second favorite thing, because her own mixes and matches with a pinch of empathy and a quart of sympathy and her heads nods something a little like: It'll be alright, buddy.) Her next favorite things are the sounds of keys pressed into themselves, the lost feeling of her fingers moving all over own, talkative printers spitting paper, and the sound of somebody -there’s always going to be somebody- trying to talk above it all.

The woman in black leads herself to a familiar diner before she even knows it. She smiles, tired but still a weak luster of genuineness; she feels herself relax. She enters it without much more effort. The wind sweeps low, picks up the weak: leaves, plastic wrappers smeared with ketchup, forgotten dreams, lost dreams. The wind seems a little bit supernatural, the woman in black was not there to see it, already tied into the warmth of the diner that tickles even the innermost tensions of her bones.

The woman’s name is Irene. Her surname was not of importance, after all, her name-tag had no space for it.

(She looks into her pocket; her dreams are still there, not forgotten, not lost, although they are injured and not the same, they are still there. Irene cherishes them; she pats them gingerly, chooses a seat among dozens.)

A waitress gives her a menu not long after she sits. A semi-regular, she was, but she was not the type to claim a table and a chair for herself and glower at whoever passes by, like it was her own pile of forbidden treasure and everyone else was a pirate with a sinister smile and a missing limb.

Irene doesn’t look at it very long before she decides what she wants to order. Face-down, the menu returns to the table that faintly reeked of whatever soap they’d used to scrub it clean. She crosses her embellished nails over it, five strawberry-ice-cream-colored nails over five others (Ironically, she stuck out her tongue whenever the flavor was offered to her as a child, always asking for the popular chocolate chip instead.)

Briefly, Irene owes a thought to the waitress that gives her a menu before dashing off to do God-knows-what. She remembers hair the color of a duckling, young and unknowing of everything, wiggly-tailed and boisterous-quack, tied into a ponytail that began on her nape; her eyes were bright, frantic, looking at tables everywhere that weren’t Irene’s. Irene did not mind. The young lady deposits a single menu and spins around, fluttering her apron and murmuring unintelligible murmurs. Irene recognizes the gloss of a name-tag, something that began with ‘E’ (Elizabeth? Ella? Ethel?), something she definitely wasn't going to select if somebody appears at her window and asks what she would change her name to if given the luxury. (Irene goes into much deeper thought about that instead, fond of Veronica, or anything that left the tongue spicy and exotic and wanting.)

Irene is interrupted by a gentle clear of the throat; she blinks, nonplussed, climbing her gaze up until she meets the serious, professional look of a man her age. Powdered, embarrassed blush decorates her cheeks, all up to the rise of her cheekbones, the ones she's always been told were to die for. He was much more different than new Elizabeth (Whatever her name was,) who looked unsettled about a great deal of things in her life in the few moments she saw her.

His hair is a mess of curls atop his head, fluffed by a baker, looking intentional, kept clean from odd contemporaries. His lips were caught on soundless words, chapped and pink, making Irene look at her nails. She reads the name tag, a simple yet bemusing: ‘Sherlock’, without surname and without anything more than boring font and a capital ‘S’.

“What would you like to order?”

Irene smiles, charming. It's the kind that knocks men off of their heels. Sherlock looks at her the same way a dog watches its favorite toy held, dangled in front of it, a hop, skip, and a jump out of reach; all helpless and what-do-I-do?

Irene’s smile grows, one of her strawberry-ice-cream nails roam close to her mouth, little and shy against the hot red that looked perfect, untouched on her pert lips.