#Henry Cavill Sherlock

[fallenangelkitten]

His Birdy

Synopsis: Sherlock takes you on a picnic, but he surprises you in more ways than one.

Warnings: bondage, soft!dom, romantic!dom, public sex, smut

Notes: I used to be fallenangelbb here on the Henry Cavill side of tumblr but deleted my account and have regretted it ever since. So here I am reposting my work :)

The tree was mighty and tall; it’s trunk thick and branches strong. He took the blanket he had draped over his shoulder and laid it against the grass. You couldn’t help but admire the elegant shape of his shoulders and back as he faced away from you, his long fingers laying out the pastries.

You joined him on the soft fabric, sitting across from him and nibbling on a piece of fluffy biscuit. Your gown formed a pool of layers around you, the ruffles along your shoulders fluttered with the wind.

“Come, my bird.” He motioned for you to join him as he rested against the tree, but he’d already pulled you down before you had the chance to take a step.

A giggle flowed from your lips as he kissed your temple. One of his arms draped around your waist as he continued his kisses across your cheek and down your neck. He nipped at your collar bone, making you squirm in his grasp. His hand pulled at the laces of your corset; the pressure against your ribs and breasts eased.

Though the gasp didn’t leave you, your mouth hung agape as you turned to meet his eyes.

“I think it’s time we have some fun, darling,” he mumbled against your ear as he pulled the cloth and boning from your body.

You were utterly exposed from the waist up; the breeze sent a chill down your spine and perked your nipples. His thumb lazily grazed one as he moved his arm from you to his jacket.

He retrieved a bundle of rope from the inside pocket.

Sherlock wrapped his large arms back around you with ease, causing your breasts to press together. “Hold your hands out, birdy.”

Your heart fluttered as he wrapped the rough fibers around your wrists and into an elegant knot that left your hands only slightly spaced apart. His digits trailed up your arms and down your back. As he stood from behind you, he gripped your waist to bring you up with him.

He guided you until your back was to the tree, the bark only slightly digging into your soft skin. He took your joined wrists into his grasp and brought your hands to his lips. He kissed each of them before placing them above your head.

“Keep them there.”

He tossed the other end of the rope over a branch and secured it. He left just enough slack for you to bend your elbows. You could feel his gaze rake down your body as you stood there- helpless. You felt his hand reach to the buttons on the back of your skirts. With a few swift movements, they fell to a pile at your feet.

“Step. One at a time,” he ordered. You lifted your right and then your left. He tossed the layers to the grass and turned back to you.

You were utterly naked before him. His eyes bore into your body, your soul. As he took a few strides to close the distance between you, you tilted your head to look up at him. His hand gripped the back of your head as he dipped down to kiss you.

But he was gone before you had the chance to even kiss him back.

You opened your eyes that had fluttered closed to see him sitting back on the blanket, a sandwich of some sort in hand. He wasn’t even paying attention to you.

Your arms involuntarily yanked on the rope, eyes darting to make sure a servant or gardener wasn’t on this part of the grounds.

You caught the smirk playing on his lips as he silently chewed his food.

“S-Sherlock?” Though you only said his name, he knew it was a plea. He only gave you a quick glance and continued to eat.

The wind's harsh assault on your body began to make the peaks of your breasts ache. The bite of the rope around your wrists as you tugged against them caused you to squeeze your legs together with need. You whimpered as you felt your arousal begin to seep down your thighs; your cold skin such a contrast to the warmth of you.

You weren’t sure when your eyes had closed, or when he had resumed his place in front of you. His finger pushed a piece of hair back from your face and behind your ear. His blue eyes bore into yours, before he swiftly turned you around.

You gasped as the bark scraped against your cheek, your breasts. He nipped at your shoulder and clawed at your hips. “Seeing you like this drives me wild.” The pressure against your rear was proof enough. “I’m going to fuck you like this. With you dangling for all to witness.”

You heard the echo of his belt unclasping before he plunged into you from behind. He pressed you harder against the tree, harder against him. As you cried out, his hand wrapped around your hair to pull your head back to his shoulder. You couldn’t help but quiver around his cock as he gently kissed your cheek.

He growled against your neck as he finally began to move against you. His thrusts were achingly slow, but strong and forceful- each one shattering you. He wrapped an arm around your waist to ground your shaking body against him.

It was almost embarrassing how quickly Sherlock could bring you to your breaking point. And though the feeling of him so deep inside of you made you claw against the ropes- the feeling of his fingers raking against your stomach and ribs to toy with your nipples made you writher against him. It was his words, whispered against the shell of your ear, that sent you over the edge.

“Cum for me, little bird.”

[l4long-winded]

s e r i e s m a s t e r l i s t

r e a d o n a o 3

summary: your upstairs neighbor is a pain to deal with for several reasons. not only does he annoyingly play his violin at all hours of the day, but he's also rude and patronizing. what makes matters worse is how he soon requires your help in a case he's working on. or, in other words, the five times sherlock holmes deduced you and the one time he was wrong (cavill!sherlock x afab!reader)

warnings: enemies to lovers, friends to lovers, condescending!sherlock, seamstress!reader, denial of feelings, close proximity, reader has a nickname, arguments, murder mystery, sexual tension, miscommunication, original characters, offscreen character deaths, alcohol consumption, cursing, overthinking, longwinded descriptions, kissing, flirting, suggestive language, a slight slowburn, dirty talk, praise, vaginal penetration, vaginal fingering, grief, angst, fluff, victorian era, smut (please let me know if there are other warnings i need to add)

word count: 50,000+

t a b l e o f c o n t e n t s

i. a sleep deprived meeting

your upstairs neighbor plays the violin often. so much so that it's distracting you from your work. you decide it's time to confront him.

ii. consequences and a lead

sherlock doesn't usually regret things, but he's regretting how he spoke to you. it's not out of the goodness of his heart, however.

iii. mr. wright and jane austen

sherlock observes you from afar and learns things against his own whim. that's what he'll keep telling himself.

iv. the distraction of rising temperature

now that you and sherlock are at a friendlier standing, it's time to explore more of your friendship. or whatever it is.

v. concealed feelings and abstract attitudes

the morning after your drunken fiasco is not any less awkward than you could have guessed. there seems to be a strain on your relationship with sherlock that seeps into the trips you go on together for his investigation. you don't know why he's acting the way he is, you just know that it's angering you.

vi. the puzzling case of clara grace and intricate, convoluted emotions

there are a few ways that you and sherlock reconcile. one involves a bed, the other involves a carriage, a dance, and then there's the matter of the revolver. what was once unclear begins to be disclosed, but it can only be unveiled to a willing, open, and observant eye. you're going to find what's there as well as what you want to be there.

#beyond answers #l4l.writes #sherlock holmes #sherlock x reader #henry cavill sherlock #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill #enola holmes #sherlock holmes x reader #beyond answers masterlist

[multific]

Run Away

Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Summary: When Sherlock went to work in London, he made a promise, a promise he has to keep and now, even more urgently as your father found a suitor. 

Ever since your eyes met his, you loved him. 

Back then, all he was is a handsome young man who intrigued you, but as the years passed, as he matured, your feelings grew. 

You two met in secret, just on the edge of your father's property, you met him every night. 

He told you about his dreams and you told him about yours. He dreamed of becoming a detective, the best one. And you had no doubt he would become just that. He had the potential.

But then, he needed to leave you.

He left you and his family for London.

"I'll become the greatest detective, My Love, and then I'll bring you with me to London, I'll ask your father for your hand in marriage. I promise." he said as he left you, and you believed him.

You believed Sherlock, so, you didn't look for another. But your father sure did.

And soon he found, Richard. 

Richard Moore was from a rich family, noble with way too much money, so of course, your father didn't have to think much and arranged your marriage to him.

You have never seen Richard, you never met him nor his family and yet, your wedding invitations were already sent out.

As y last desperate attempt, you asked for them to also include the Holmes family. Your father never knew about your feelings for Sherlock. But he sure knew who he was.

"Such an arrogant man. Sherlock had potential and yet, he became a detective," he said a year ago, just as Sherlock's popularity grew, so did your father's hatred.

"Being a detective mustn't be that bad. What if my future husband will be one?"

"Impossible! I'll never give you to a useless man! A politician or a hard-working man will be your husband. No arrogant detective can take my daughter's hand!" 

And ever since, this feeling of his only grew. Your father soon found Richard Moore, his family were known for their political views. 

No doubt, you would only be a trophy wife for him, he needed someone to call his and to show to the public, he didn't want feelings, and he would never love you. 

You were convinced you would never love someone as much as you loved Sherlock.

Which is why you insisted on inviting him to your wedding. If his feelings were true, he would come and he would rescue you from the future which seemed so dark now. A hand written invitation just for him.

You hoped he would get to you before the wedding, but as you stood there in your white gown, which you weren't even allowed to choose, your heart panicked.

Your mind told you the cruellest things, how Sherlock never even loved you, how he wouldn't come and how this will be your life from now on. And you started to believe. You started to believe that all of it is true. 

That Sherlock found someone more interesting than you, a stunning woman who is independent. 

And there you were, a love-sick teenager who was still waiting for him. He must be laughing at you, you often thought, at just how incredibly naive you were. And you don't blame him.

You were ready to walk down the aisle. You let out a deep sigh as everyone left you alone for just a moment before your father would come and walk with you.

"Love?" the voice behind you, barely a whisper, and you thought your mind was playing a trick so you didn't move, but then you heard your name getting called with the same deep voice. You slightly turned and saw, Sherlock. "Love, I'm so sorry for not coming earlier, I had matters to attend to, but now I'm here. And I'll keep my promise and bring you with me." he rushed over to you.

"What took you so long?" you asked, rather angry with him.

"We don't have much time, Y/N, please come with me I'll explain everything. And you did, you accepted his hand as he pulled you out of the church and into a carriage. 

You were surprised just how easy it was to get out of there, even in your white, very visible, dress. All that you left was the bouquet of flowers.

"I missed you, you are more beautiful than the day I left." he wanted to lean in and kiss you but you pushed him back.

"You have to explain a lot to me. There I was, thinking you didn't even care about me, that you found someone else, and then you just show up."

"I had to arrange many things. Didn't help that the police had another very interesting case, but you were more important. When I got the letter... I thought you moved on, that you found someone else. But then I noticed, the way you wrote, hand written by you just for me, and your hands were shaky, judging by the ink and the paper soaked with your tears. I am not sure how I missed that but when I realized I rushed."

"I never moved on. My father thinks your job is... not the best, to put it nicely. I tried to convince him, so we wouldn't have to run away, but he is stubborn. And Richard... I never met him, never even saw him." your eyes met his as the carriage stopped. You weren't too sure, but London couldn't be so close. 

"I thought we shouldn't let that dress go to waste." he got out of the carriage and helped you.

The scene in front of you took your breath away. 

A small chapel in the middle of a beautiful field, you recognized Sherlock's siblings, mother and a priest. 

"But only if you say yes out of your heart. I would never force you to marry me." you looked at Sherlock, eyes tearing up as you nodded. You pushed him and he nodded before walking to his place as his mother walked over to you and walked you down the aisle. Of course, there was no actual aisle, but you could live with that.

The smallest ceremony, this was about love, not about politics or trophies, this wedding was purely out of your love for one another. Suddenly even the dress you hated became the most beautiful.

A small kiss made it official, from that day on, you were Mrs Holmes.

---

London was much like you imagined but at the same time, nothing like you could ever dream about.

221B Baker Street was... interesting to say the least. Clearly, the home was a place for a man but you did see how Sherlock tried to make it more livable to you. 

"Well, this is..." you trailed off as you tried to maneuver through the books. "Lovely."

"It's messy, I know but I do not have much time too clean up. We can hire someone to do that, I do not expect you. Oh please, don't open the fridge."

And you did, and it was already too late. You closed it as quickly as you opened it.

"I really hope that is cheese... right?"

"I always eat out, so it could be anything. I'll clean it out later."

At least the bedroom was in a good shape. The bed looked comfortable and warm.

"At least nothing smells in here." he laughed slightly behind you. 

"It's a new one, I got it before I went to get you."

"We have to do something about the fridge. I don't mind the books and if it's a little messy but..." you felt his hands run up your arms.

"Do as you wish. I have the money if you wish to change something."

"I like your home, and I don't think Mrs Huddson will be pleased if I ruin her kitchen." 

Sherlock smiled as he turned you around to kiss you and hold you.

He finally had you in his arms, and he was not going to let you go ever again.

Taglist: imreadinggoaway @fleursirvart @v-2bucky ehsebastiancrunch-time-sports  @pxstelrainbow ablogbypeteparker liamssmilersmexylemony @greenarrowhead feelingsareharddd @thisismysecrethappyplace @sincerelyfan @theoneanna @aestheticsandmarvel @rororo06 @castellandiangelo @avengers-r-us @destynelseclipsa   @spilledinkindumpster celebsimagine @capsiclesdoll snoopy3000 @firstangeldragonranch @puknow @crazzyter  @alwayshave-faith @soleil-dor @alex12948 scream-kiwi79  @lxdyred  @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @liveforkarljacobs @anonymoussherlockandmarvelgeek @paola-carter

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

A/N: Thank you to my beautiful friend, @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl​ for helping me with the plot! 

#Sherlock Holmes x Reader #sherlock holmes imagines #sherlock holmes imagine #sherlock holmes #sherlock series #enola holmes #henry cavill imagines #henry cavill imagine #henry cavill sherlock #henry cavill sherlock holmes #x reader #domestic fluff #fluffy

[kittenofdoomage]

Let me take you back...

.... to when this happened:

I'm still not over it. Naturally, I wrote something for it. It's below the cut. Happy Friday! 😘

Carnal

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x fem!reader

Word Count: 1651

Warnings: smut, blow jobs/oral sex, fingering, unprotected vaginal sex, drunk!Sherlock, dirty talk, slight breeding kink, slight cockwarming, unbeta’d (we die like heroes)

You had been surprised to open the door to Enola and a very drunk Sherlock when you’d not been expecting either of them. Getting him up the stairs had been a challenge; Sherlock weighed about the same as a small elephant, and you had to hold your giggles at Enola’s repeated remarks about his ridiculous size. Once he was inside the apartment, he managed to move under his own power - just about - refusing assistance when it came to removing his coat and allowing it to hit the floor with an ungracious thud. He quickly landed on the chaise longue with one arm slung over his face, mouth half-agape as he got himself comfortable.

“You can sleep in the guest room,” you whispered to Enola. “I’ll deal with him.”

“Are you certain?” the younger girl asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m certain,” you replied, shooing her off, well aware she probably hadn’t slept in a proper bed for weeks, and you knew Sherlock wouldn’t actually mind. Despite his outward exasperation at his little sister, he adored her, and wouldn’t deny her one night of comfortable sleep. Enola smiled and headed off, content to leave her big brother in your capable hands.

Sherlock grunted as you unlaced his shoes, pulling them off one by one, offering no resistance but no assistance either. As you moved further up, going for the buttons on his waistcoat, he grabbed at your wrist, lifting his arm from his face to shoot you the most inebriated grin you had ever seen. “You should buy me a drink first,” he slurred, and you smirked at him.

“I think you had enough to drink,” you scolded. “Now let me get you out of this before you fall asleep and strangle yourself with your tie.”

He pursed his lips, blowing out a puff of air in irritation, but his grip on your wrist loosened, allowing you to pluck the buttons of his waistcoat undone, yet he gave no indication he was going to move for you to actually get it off of him. You clicked your tongue in impatience, lifting your hands to get his tie undone, only to find your fingers encased in his much larger ones.

“Sherlock -”

“You’re so gentle with me, my lady,” he murmured, kissing your fingertips. “Why do you take such good care of me?”

You smiled despite his intoxication. “Because someone has to,” you chided gently, attempting to pull away. “And you know very well why that someone is me.”

“Mmm, yes,” he chuckled, “because you love me.”

“Yes, dear. Now will you let me get -” His lips brushed your palm, and lidded lust-drink eyes flitted up to you. “Sherlock -” He grinned again, pulling your hand down to cover the bulge in his pants, and you sucked in a breath, glancing towards the door to make sure you were alone. “You’re incorrigible.”

A low chuckle greeted the slight, but you were already kneeling beside him. “Yet you remain,” he breathed, releasing your hand. “Let me feel that pretty mouth on my cock, sweetling.”

You glanced backwards again, letting your fingers find the fastenings on his trousers; he was already achingly hard underneath the material, springing into your palm as soon as it was free. Sherlock moaned when you stroked him, clinging to the low back of the chaise as he closed his eyes in bliss. “You are a bad influence, Sherlock Holmes,” you hissed.

“As I recall,” he mumbled, “you did not require much influencing.”

With a scowl, you leaned in, swiping your tongue across the thick tip, tasting the first beads of his essence, and when you looked up at his face, his teeth were buried in his bottom lip, an expression of pure ecstasy covering his handsome features. Once upon a time, you had believed such carnal indulgences belonged only in brothels, or at a stretch, in the wedded bed chamber - this was neither, but you’d quickly found that there was pleasure to be had in someone else’s enjoyment. The sound he made when you took him into your mouth was enough to prompt a rush of warmth between your thighs.

“Yes,” he groaned, hips undulating as you began to take him deeper, letting your saliva ease his path. One large hand came up, resting against the side of your head, guiding without pressure, and you moaned around him, squeezing your legs together to try and stem the throb growing there. “Don’t stop,” Sherlock hummed, arching on the chaise. “Mmm, your mouth feels perfect…”

Your neck was beginning to ache with the odd angle and the height of the furniture, so you pulled off of him to adjust yourself, only to find yourself pulled up and onto the chaise longue with him, manhandled until you were straddling him, skirts bunched around your hips. He grinned up at you, clearly still inebriated, though you didn’t protest when his large hands made their way underneath your skirt to the thin fabric hiding your skin.

“Too many layers,” he grumbled, tugging at the material, and you yelped as he gathered it in both hands and pulled hard, smirking up at you when the satisfying tear followed. Your protest at the loss of another set of undergarments was lost when his thick fingers prodded at your sex, and you gripped the back of the chaise as you slumped forward, gasping in surprise. “That’s better,” Sherlock muttered, arching up to kiss you suddenly.

A single digit sought out your entrance, finding you already wet, and you whined into his mouth as he used one hand to torment you, using the other to make the hole in your clothing bigger. His cock was trapped underneath your bottom, twitching and hard enough for you to feel it through the layers; you tore away from his mouth to breath, and he moved again, lifting you easily to force two thick fingers into your slick channel. The penetration knocked the breath out of you, and you bit your lip to stop yourself screaming and disturbing anyone else - the last thing you needed was to be caught in such a compromising position.

“That’s it,” Sherlock grunted, watching your face with a satisfied grin as he worked his fingers inside you, coaxing out your arousal until your body began to tremble. You couldn’t stop the way your hips worked against him, your traitorous body seeking out more friction, and you closed your eyes as you felt your walls clench around him, unwilling to see the smug look on his face.

Your orgasm was slow, a shudder that ran through you over and over. Sherlock murmured his approval, withdrawing his fingers, manhandling you until you were poised with the thick tip of his cock at your entrance. No amount of protesting would stay his enthusiasm, and you had to bite your lip to stop yourself crying out as he pulled you down, splitting you open in one hard stroke. He paused then, chest heaving, clothing disheveled, that one unruly curl falling into his eyes as he allowed you a moment to adjust. You shivered as you forced yourself to relax, feeling him press deep, almost missing the smile spreading across his lips.

“What?” you whispered, self-conscious under his heated gaze.

“This may not be the best place for this,” he muttered, reaching up to grope your chest through your dress. “I should conduct myself better.”

You smiled shyly. “Would you like to move? Perhaps to the bed?”

“No,” he exhaled, pulling you down to kiss you. “I shan’t.”

His free hand snuck back underneath your skirts, cupping your bottom through the ruined fabric of your undergarments, and you moaned into his mouth as he began to force your hips back and forth, creating the smallest amount of delicious friction inside you. Fresh moisture coated his cock, allowing him to increase the movements, and you found yourself panting when you pulled back, held in place by his hands.

“We must be quiet,” you whimpered, pressing your cheek into the palm of his hand.

“Mmm,” he agreed, staring up at you hungrily. “Yes, you should be quiet.” His hand moved, covering your mouth, and your eyes went wide at the rush of heat that filled you. “That’s it, sweetling -” A grunt followed the affectionate term and his face twisted in pleasure just as your pussy began to tighten around him. You could barely keep your eyes open, silenced and forced to breathe through your nose by the hand covering your mouth, unable to move more than he allowed by the hand on your rump. It took embarrassingly little to wring the pleasure from your body, and all you could do was gasp into his palm and quiver around him.

He didn’t slow even when you went a little slack, using his superior strength to manipulate your body on top of his, spearing up into you over and over. Usually, he would withdraw before the crucial moment, but this time he didn’t stop, and you found yourself suddenly craving it, falling into a final climax of your own as he spilled into you, warmth filling your insides and leaking out around him. Even when he was done and he pulled you down into a last kiss, he didn’t seem to care for the consequences of what you had done - his eyes fluttered shut, a ghost of a smile on his lips as his cock continued to twitch inside you.

“Sherlock…” You tapped his face lightly, and his eyes opened with a second of bewilderment before he smiled at you. “You finished… you… inside…” The heat in your face was unbearable, but he kept on smiling, closing his eyes again, apparently unconcerned that he was still buried inside you.

“Oh dear,” he drawled, sounding anything but upset at what he’d done, sighing happily as he wrapped his arms around you. “Then perhaps I shall make an honest woman of you.”

It would be remiss of me not to tag @deandoesthingstome (though I don't know if you even read Sherlock, I just don't wanna get yelled at for not tagging you 😅)

#sherlock holmes #sherlock x reader #henry cavill sherlock #ao3 link in the title #fanfiction #smut #fanfic #not spn

[st-juliet]

Prompt because your work is aMAZing: when it’s before Sherlock and y/n’s wedding day, and he’s being an insufferable gentleman but she bats her eyes going “do you not want me” and he absolutely loses it 😏😏

Your Only Warning

Character: Henry Cavill as Sherlock in Enola Holmes

Summary: Alone in the library with his betrothed, the Reader, Sherlock fights to remain a gentleman…with limited success.

Content: 18+ for incredibly filthy language, explicit description of future sexual intimacy, dominant, angsty “I AM A GENTLEMAN” Sherlock, with a side of mild “look what you’ve made me do” rhetoric from our dear detective, but for the benefit of the very eagerly consenting Reader who absolutely intended to make him do precisely what he’s done.

Notes: Thank you so much for the prompt; I loved it, and hope you like the story, Anon!

It is a rare occasion that your future husband allows you to be alone with him.

Ever the gentleman, ever possessed by the fine arts of propriety, justice, compassion, and self-discipline…all the qualities for which you find yourself more deeply in love by the day…Sherlock has become increasingly distracted, sometimes even dismissive, of your endeavors to cultivate closeness, as the day of your wedding draws near. You do not know what precisely has caused his detachment; never once has he expressed any regret for his proposal, nor suggested he does not wish to proceed with the marriage, but something has changed.

You cannot recall the last time he was tender—if ever he truly was. No soft words, nothing of your beauty, certainly, rise to your memory, even as you entertain the recollections of shared laughter, discussions of books or music, your eager interest in his cases and his equal enthusiasm to share his work with you. Meanwhile, you long to pour out your heart on the subject of his handsome face, his gorgeous eyes, how much you long for his touch, his kiss, his…

Well.

Sherlock’s true feelings for you are a mystery that only he could solve, and finding the time alone to ask him to unravel his secrets has been nigh impossible. But tonight, at another interminable dinner party for your family and his, a challenge from Enola to discover the secret passages of the Holmes estate has led you to the library, opening a hidden door behind a bookshelf to your delight…and the surprise of Sherlock, whom you discover pensively staring out the wide window behind his desk. He looks back over his shoulder, slightly startled, but smiles when he recognizes your familiar form emerging from the shadows.

“Very well done, Miss —,” he praises you, and your heart flutters happily at the accolade. “My sister will be most pleased to have such a companion as yourself with whom to roam these halls. When we can coax her back home, that is.”

“I hope you will find me a fine companion, too,” you offer, stepping out from the passageway and into the library proper. You look about you: no one else is there. Good.

“Naturally,” he replies, leaving the sanctuary of his desk, but still keeping a polite distance. “It will be entirely pleasant to share a home with you, here or in London. I have too long breakfasted alone, beginning the day in sullen silence, only to let supper grow cold, too, for want of more companionable nourishment.”

“Yes, I quite look forward to that, too,” you reply politely, a few tears of disappointment pooling in the corners of your eyes. His once ardent interest truly does seem to have waned into a wish for company over meals. Still, your hope preservers; perhaps this is only a gentlemanly demurring from more intimate matters? You have had some success in delving into his captivating mind. What line of inquiry might unlock his heart?

“And you must never hesitate to make use of this library.”

“Thank you. But…Mr. Holmes…”

“Yes?”

“I mean…certainly we shall share other…other rooms, too?”

“Of course. You must be honest with me in the correction of my bachelor habits.”

“Yes, and you must similarly address the conventions of my customary solitude.”

 These mirrored platitudes are maddening. You steel your courage and make a bolder proposition.

“But is it not true that, as is only proper, to my understanding, that when we marry, we will be…as one?”

At this, he meets your eyes for a brief, flickering moment, then turns away from you entirely, and begins to meticulously examine the books on the shelves, uttering a monosyllabic: “Ah.”

You wait.

And wait.

And wait.

At long last, he clears his throat slightly and says, “I hope that if you should have any concerns of that nature, you might seek out the counsel of a recently married woman of your own age—Mrs. Watson, for example, is a lady of faultless virtue and excellent education, and might allay your fears—“

“I have no fears!” you exclaim. “I have…great anticipation. Longing, for a closeness I thought you equally desired. Sherlock, please I long to know and be known as a wife, to share with you every facet of my life, including—my…our—“

“Please, Miss —“

“But of late you scarcely look at me—“

“Dear girl,” he interrupts again. “I beg you to cease this line of inquiry!”

Your frustration bubbles over. Determinedly, you cross the room to where he stands, and slip around his hulking frame, insinuating yourself betwixt him and the bookcase, demanding his attention whether he will or no.

“What is it, Sherlock?” you ask, gazing up at him through your eyelashes, feeling your pulse quicken at his nearness. “Do you not want me?”

“Do I,” he growls through gritted teeth. “Not want you?”

In an instant, he has you restrained against the bookshelves, one hand pinned above your head and the other left to grasp frantically at his lapel, feeling the hard muscle and pounding heart beneath his fine coat, like an ember burning beneath your fingertips.

“Every moment I am plagued with wanting you! Do you not understand why I have withdrawn from you, why I must keep my distance from the woman I love?”

Sherlock lays his palm against your cheek, then slides his fingers down your neck, across your collarbones, coming to rest against the heaving swell of your breast over your gown.

“This is why. To prevent this.”

Hands over hearts, you are more closely entwined than you have ever been, and you can see with perfect clarity that his eyes burn with deep, profound emotion as well as increasingly unbridled yearning. Pinioned there by his full weight and bulk, you are completely helpless to his whims, and nothing has ever felt so freeing in your entire life. Finally, finally, finally, you exalt in your mind, and you sigh his name, unable to suppress a slight moan, which only seems to afflict him further.

“Oh, Sherlock…”

“I am a gentleman of unimpeachable conduct, but you would turn me into a brute. The more time I spend in your presence, the closer the day draws near when you will be mine, the more I find my resolve tested,” he despairs, drawing in a deep breath, and shuddering as the scent of your hair, your skin, permeates his senses. “Look at us, look what you have done! All this time I have resisted, but you undo it in a mere minute…”

His lips are practically touching yours, his grip on your wrist grown tighter, the press of his unmistakable hardness against you firm and unyielding.

“This,” he explains, his voice gone ragged and low. “Is your only warning, my dear sweet bride. If you speak another word of wanting before I may lawfully, licitly show you every way a man may possess his wife, if you touch me—or, or, you perfect minx, my gorgeous tormentor, if you with all your whiles force my hand…if you insist I kiss your glove in public, or ask for my arm to cross the street…I will make you pay for it the minute we are wed. I will turn you over my knee and spank your backside bruised. I will have you in every room of the house; damn who might see us. I will hunt you down across the estate and take you in the fields or the forest like an animal, for so you make me, darling. I will bind your hands to my bed and make you come for me over and over again until you have not a single thought left in this brilliant little mind, and then I will fuck your pretty weeping cunt until I’m sated and you are dripping with my seed. And that for a start.”

Sherlock, eyes glittering with his barely leashed lust, presses a light, chaste kiss to your cheek.

“Are we understood, Miss —?”

“Yes, yes,” you gasp, and, with the final indulgence of skimming the pad of his thumb across your trembling bottom lip, he very gently, courteously releases you, and then promptly flees to the opposite side of the room to pour himself a substantial drink. He downs it in one gulp, then takes several very deep breaths, and though he keeps his back to you, you can tell, with a secret thrill down your spine, that he is adjusting his clothes in a futile attempt to disguise his arousal.

“You were best return to the drawing room at once,” he instructs, almost bashful at his body’s insistence against his mind’s prudence. It is incredibly endearing. “I must compose myself.”

“Of course. Forgive me, sir, that I have discomposed you so.”

“No, no, it is I who must apologize. Can you forgive me, dearest girl, that I have not made clear to you that you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen? I was never a man of sentiment until now, and feared that to linger too long on the object of my desire, might make me lose all control. But I will tell you every day, ten times a day—from now until the end of my life, that your loveliness of body and soul is to me as vital as the air I breathe.”

“Are you becoming a poet, Sherlock?” you tease, melting all the more at his rush of tenderness, so looked for and longed for.

“Only for you,” he sighs, and you almost faint away as his hand drops to palm the outline of his cock through his trousers. Realizing the nature of his reflexive gesture, he gives  a frustrated groan and points at you accusingly.  “Only a romantic fool, and only a devious, seducing scoundrel, because of you.”

You laugh together, and, sneaking one last fervent look over your shoulder as he sinks into his chair and begins to unfasten his trousers, you close the door behind you depart, practically skipping through the halls of the home that will soon be yours, too, to rejoin both sides of the family in the parlor.

About ten minutes later, Sherlock rejoins the party, too, and no one seems to suspect anything untoward, clearly a relief to you both as your eyes meet across the table with a shared, secret glow. Once all parting pleasantries are exchanged, Sherlock follows you and your family out to the carriage, keeping a painfully respectful distance all the while. He offers only a formal bow and a stern, “Good evening” by means of farewell, but you have other designs.

“Good evening to you, too, Mr. Holmes,” you reply with a cheerful smile, and then, in front of the whole company, you elegantly present your hand to your fiancé to be kissed…

 I am so, so honored by all your kind replies and reblogs! Thanks to those who commented on my other prompt fic, Pulse Point:

@fluffycutecevans @madeanaccounttoreadfanfics @nana1000night @writing-for-marvel @raccoon-eyed-rebel @sarcastic-coffeedrinker-reads @holmesbunny @peachyvulpixie @sillyrabbit81 @mayloma @inlovewithhisblueeyes @kingjuli3n 🥰 🥰 🥰 🥰 🥰 🥰

#Sherlock Holmes x Reader #henry cavill sherlock #henry!sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes x you #sherlock holmes x ofc #enola holmes fanfic

[tylerxrbtwhp]

Personal Favourite Fanfics | Sherlock Holmes |

NOTE: This is entirely my favourites so if it offense any of you, I don't care. It might seem mean, but this is how everyone is. P.S: ISTG I'm actually nice 💀

Henry Cavill's Sherlock Holmes:

En Garde https://www.tumblr.com/ithebookhoarder/700363473057628160/synopsis-your-husband-has-always-been-protective?source=share

Bewitched https://www.tumblr.com/cinebration/700022517638840320/bewitched-sherlock-holmes-x-reader-request?source=share

The Experiment {1} https://www.tumblr.com/sherlocksoft/720044593814667265/the-experiment?source=share The Experiment {2} https://www.tumblr.com/sherlocksoft/721735199838355456/the-experiment-pt-2?source=share

Dangerous Games https://www.tumblr.com/callmemaeverick/700148734404820992/dangerous-games-sherlock-holmes-x-femreader?source=share If Only You Would Know https://www.tumblr.com/espinosaurusrexex/709047438545190912/if-only-you-would-know?source=share Run Away https://www.tumblr.com/multific/699612561573920768/run-away?source=share It Takes Two https://www.tumblr.com/frost-queen/734448194490089473/it-takes-two-reader-x-sherlock-holmes?source=share Pulse Point https://www.tumblr.com/st-juliet/700595018092675072/can-i-request-an-nsfw-fic-sitting-on-sherlock?source=share A New Years Kiss https://www.tumblr.com/make-me-imagine/705226568468971520/a-new-years-kiss?source=share Unfailing Confidence https://www.tumblr.com/cinebration/700296882676711424/unfailing-confidence-sherlock-holmes-x-reader?source=share Only You https://www.tumblr.com/thisisawonderfulusername/704360254583996416/only-you-cavillsherlock-holmes-x?source=share Dance In The Winter https://www.tumblr.com/darlingdekarios/722523690629234688/dance-in-the-winter?source=share Benedict Cumberbatch's Sherlock Holmes: https://www.tumblr.com/iamsherlocked1479/713022583842422784/admit-it?source=share

Hold It Together https://www.tumblr.com/iamsherlocked1479/723734057530408960/hey-could-you-do-a-smut-where-virgin-reader-is?source=share

My Muse https://www.tumblr.com/specialagentlokitty/720463481796771840/sherlock-x-reader-my-muse?source=share

Stolen Love https://www.tumblr.com/freckles-things/704444975185821696/stolen-love-bbc-sherlock?source=share

Brother Dearest https://www.tumblr.com/starks-hero/697324677898584064/brother-dearest?source=share

What A Lovely Inconvinience https://www.tumblr.com/starks-hero/712182074421985280/what-a-lovely-inconvenience?source=share My Type https://www.tumblr.com/specialagentlokitty/719588419383230464/sherlock-x-reader-my-type?source=share Exact Opposite https://www.tumblr.com/lykaonimagines/702753577537568768/exact-opposite-sherlock-x-reader?source=share My Favourite Person https://www.tumblr.com/specialagentlokitty/718640213077950464/sherlock-x-reader-my-favourite-person?source=share Don't Be A Brat https://www.tumblr.com/iamsherlocked1479/735527507205423104/dont-be-a-brat?source=share

[No Name] https://www.tumblr.com/yandereaffections/188283801811/sherlocks-beyond-concerned-for-how-you-react?source=share

[No Name] https://www.tumblr.com/mykinkyyandere/685510432203603968/imagine-the-reader-coming-to-sherlock-for-help?source=share Robert Downey Junior's Sherlock Holmes: Oblivious Pain https://www.tumblr.com/just-dreaming-marvel/686875499130191872/oblivious-pain?source=share

And Then There Were Two https://www.tumblr.com/nikoruistyping/676683580767895552/hi-again-this-is-the-anon-from-before-if-i-can?source=share Robert Downey Junior's Sherlock Holmes, Series:

In The Game Of Love {1} https://just-dreaming-marvel.tumblr.com/post/662704224159793152/in-the-game-of-love-1 In The Game Of Love {2} https://just-dreaming-marvel.tumblr.com/post/663945231671181312/in-the-game-of-love-2

In The Game Of Love {3} https://just-dreaming-marvel.tumblr.com/post/664791573947662336/in-the-game-of-love-3 In The Game Of Love {4} https://just-dreaming-marvel.tumblr.com/post/666249575040974848/in-the-game-of-love-4

In The Game Of Love {5} https://just-dreaming-marvel.tumblr.com/post/669679249658150912/in-the-game-of-love-5 In The Game Of Love {6} https://just-dreaming-marvel.tumblr.com/post/670429416861614081/in-the-game-of-love-6 In The Game Of Love {7} https://just-dreaming-marvel.tumblr.com/post/670665006890778624/in-the-game-of-love-7

In The Game Of Love {8} https://just-dreaming-marvel.tumblr.com/post/670681378996748288/in-the-game-of-love-8

In The Game Of Love {9} https://just-dreaming-marvel.tumblr.com/post/670781776622469120/in-the-game-of-love-9 In The Game Of Love {10} https://just-dreaming-marvel.tumblr.com/post/672584933855870976/in-the-game-of-love-10 In The Game Of Love {11} https://just-dreaming-marvel.tumblr.com/post/675767664185163776/in-the-game-of-love-11

In The Game Of Love {12} https://just-dreaming-marvel.tumblr.com/post/676397774885011456/in-the-game-of-love-12 In The Game Of Love {13} https://just-dreaming-marvel.tumblr.com/post/676412402640797696/in-the-game-of-love-13 In The Game Of Love {14} https://just-dreaming-marvel.tumblr.com/post/676841121888043008/in-the-game-of-love-14 In The Game Of Love {15} https://just-dreaming-marvel.tumblr.com/post/677125955018457088/in-the-game-of-love-15 In The Game Of Love {16} https://just-dreaming-marvel.tumblr.com/post/678402072761270272/in-the-game-of-love-16

In The Game Of Love {17} https://just-dreaming-marvel.tumblr.com/post/678567136800686080/in-the-game-of-love-17 In The Game Of Love {18} https://just-dreaming-marvel.tumblr.com/post/678588326088966144/in-the-game-of-love-18 In The Game Of Love {19} https://just-dreaming-marvel.tumblr.com/post/678643863030808576/in-the-game-of-love-19 In The Game Of Love {20} https://just-dreaming-marvel.tumblr.com/post/678682570019487744/in-the-game-of-love-20 In The Game Of Love {21} https://just-dreaming-marvel.tumblr.com/post/678765024046694400/in-the-game-of-love-21

#bbc sherlock #sherlock holmes #sherlock fandom #sherlock x reader #sherlock & co #rdj sherlock #henry cavil x reader #henry cavill #henry cavil x y/n #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill x y/n #henry cavill sherlock x reader #henry cavill sherlock #BBC sherlock #benedict cumberbatch #benedict cucumber #benedict cumberbatch x reader #robertdowneyjr #robert downey #robert downey jr #robert downey jr x reader #robert downey junior #robert downey jr sherlock #rdj #rdjr #rdj x reader #benedict cumberbatch sherlock #benedict cumberbatch sherlock holmes #rdj sherlock holmes #robert downey sherlock

[espinosaurusrexex]

Writing Bingo Masterlist

for my 1k follower celebration

! BINGO: this challenge is complete !

The Bingo Challenge is officially finished! Thank you all for participating. Here you can find all the requested fics in order:

secret relationship (Bucky)

period cramps (Steve)

presumed dead (Bucky) part two (protective)

one saves the other (Bucky)

cheesy pick-up line (College!Henry!Sherlock)

convincing to adopt animal (Steve)

secret admirer (College!Steve)

“Who did this to you?” (College!Roommate!Bucky - enemies to lovers)

touch starved (Ari)

tending to wounds after a fight (Bucky)

protective (Bucky) part one (presumed dead)

verbal fight (Bucky)

mind reader (Bucky x Enhanced!Reader)

miscommunication (Bucky x Enhanced!Reader)

#1k follower celebration #writing challenge #bucky barnes #steve rogers #henry cavill sherlock #ari levinson #enola holmes imagine #steve rogers imagine #henry cavill imagine #sherlock holmes x you #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky x female reader #bucky x you #winter soldier #steve rogers fanfiction #ari levinson au #ari levinson x f!reader #captain america imagine

[spencerrxids]

begin with a dance

labyrinth ( chapter 01 )

main masterlist | series masterlist | next

pairing : sherlock holmes x fem!oc

genre : slight angst(?), tension

summary : in which Sherlock Holmes finally met the girl who had been nothing but a fond memory in his head

wordcount : 1.9k

Annaliése Amélie Moore is a dear in the society. At least that's what some people like to call her. Born into the Moore family, she was expected to grow up as a proper lady, whatever proper means in their eyes. And so she did. Or at least she half-ly did, if that's even the right word to describe it. Annaliése Amélie Moore could easily blend into the crowd of a ball. Dancing on her feet, her hand brushed against the gent's shoulders as she twirled onto the other with the grace of a former ballerina. Just like the meaning of her name, Graced with God's Bounty.

You see, Annaliése did grow up as a proper lady but that itself wasn't enough in the public eye. Some would say that to be seen, a woman such as herself would need to find herself a suitor, a husband to provide for her which she found as such a dulling mindset. Is not the idea of having a husband that aggravates her nor was it the idea of loving someone with such honesty and innocent purpose, for Anneliése, was someone who once yearned to love although she seemed to give up on that long ago.

But would she? Would she be seen as an individual if she ever found herself a husband who will provide for her? Would people finally acknowledge her tremendous mind? In the truth of her mind, she didn't think so. Even if she found herself a name, all of those will get credited to her husband because what a man he is for getting himself a woman like her. And of course, it wasn't the man's fault, no it's not. It was the society and the world she grew up in that was at fault.

She changed her whole demeanour as she realised the deep thought she was in had brought a scowl on her face. Putting back a smile, she muttered a small apology to her companion whom she was waltzing with. Although, that didn't last long as her eyes caught a familiar pair of eyes who was also waltzing not even five feet from her.

What is he doing here? She found herself asking the question that she already knew the answer to.

Not even a minute later, she twirled around and landed in the arms of a man that she once had the privilege of being close with. She said nothing and let him lead the dance for the night. And it seems that the same idea appeared inside his head. His arm fits flawlessly around her waist as he dips her before the proximity of their body becomes closer as she faces him again.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence tonight, Mr. Holmes?" She asked, breath fanning the side of his face as she could feel him tense under the sound of her voice which brought a small smirk to her face.

"I was hoping to find you here. I heard you are finally back from France." The lie rolled out of his mouth so naturally, as if he just received the news of her arrival earlier the day when in fact he had known exactly that she first arrived back a month ago.

The orchestra faded as the dance came to an end, the two friends facing one another. The two friends that have a well-known face in the public eye. Her eyes met his once more, daring him to say something more about his unwelcome presence. "It seems that the news has gotten a bit late for you. I've been back for a month, Mr. Holmes. Now if you really don't have anything more to say to me, I will excuse myself and let you get on with whatever case you are on right now." She said, already preparing to take a step away from him when the man himself took a step forward causing her to slap his chest out of instinct.

"Now what are you thinking you're doing?" She asked once more. Sherlock only smiled slightly at the people around them, before grabbing her by the forearm and leading her away from the crowd. "Sherlock!" She yelped, and tried to look over her shoulders, perhaps one of the guests there would notice that a man had taken her away without her will. But then again, everyone recognizes Sherlock Holmes, and who would dare to question his integrity, at least that's not what the general public would do.

The man leaned forward to her shoulders. "My mother and sister are missing." He said, finally letting go of her once they are far enough from the others. She turned to look at him, taking in the information. Although she had never met Enola, she did get the privilege to meet the amazing mother of the Holmes family once. Hearing them go missing isn't precisely how she expected herself to meet him again.

Sherlock Holmes is never one to waste time in striking up a conversation. Always getting to the point of it. She might be used to it by now. But she couldn't help but feel that it was a bit much for the man to dump the information on her after not even acknowledging her existence for the last two-three years.

"What happened?" She questioned with concern laced in her words.

Sherlock turned slightly, making sure that no one are listening to their private conversation. It would be such a nuisance if the news had gotten out to the public. Sherlock Holmes's sister and mother were missing. People sure would get the chance to ruin his reputation. Even more, if they had known that at least one of them are running away from her own family.

"If we could go to your place-"

"There's no such thing as you being in my place," She talked back. "What makes you think I'll welcome you, Sherlock Holmes? Was it because of your name? Does being a genius renowned detective give you the privilege of being anywhere anytime you want? You could've at least told me what your intention was before asking such a question."

"Anna, I-" He halted and she raised her eyebrow at the nickname he uttered. He looked away for a bit. She could sense him hesitating to say the words. "I need-I need your help."

And within those four words, she found herself letting him back into her life. That was a decision that might get her hurt but surely not one that she will wish undone.

***

"So you're saying that your mother left home leaving young Enola behind? And Enola ran away the day after meeting her two brothers for so many years?"

She took a seat, finger trailing the rim of her teacup as she stared at the man in front of her. Although Sherlock's eyes seemed to have more interest in looking around her flat. He only nodded slightly in her direction without taking his eyes away. Without even saying anything, Annaliése had already known what was in his mind. There's no point in hiding something from the Sherlock Holmes.

"I mean not to be insensitive, but I would've done the same if I had a misogynist of a person as my brother. Not to mention that Mycroft tried to force her into these lady-ish traits. You do see the problem here, don't you?" She asked him. And this was when Sherlock decided to turn to look at her directly with one of his eyebrows raised in a questioning manner.

"Don't look at me like that. There is a difference in our situation. I was educated that way since I was a kid, it was essentially my sole purpose in life to become a lady or so they said, whereas Enola wasn't. So you could imagine her horror of being forced into something that she isn't used to." She explained.

"You've met her." Those are the first three words he uttered after being quiet for some time.

"What?" She questioned.

"Enola. She had come to you, did she not?" He leaned forward, propping his elbow on the table. She only stared at him as he stared back, both not making a single move. "She's my sister, Annaliése." He said.

She was silently debating on what to and what not to say. Each word she uses would reveal yet another thing about her. She thought about the young woman who had come to her early that day, at first glance she didn't recognize who it was. But by opening her mouth, Enola had revealed her identity without even saying her name. It wasn't very difficult for Annaliése to recognize a Holmes just by the way they were speaking.

There was indeed nothing you could try to hide from Sherlock Holmes. And it's not necessarily hiding something when the man hadn't asked her the question and she answered with the truth of it. Downcasted her gaze, she spoke out. "If you truly cared for her, you would've made her your ward instead of Mycroft's. I know you have problems connecting with other people, but just like you said. She is your sister."

"And Mycroft is my brother." He replied.

Anneliése scoffed at the words that he just uttered. "In that case, I think both of us know that he's not really the best in that category." She stood up and walked over to the other side of the room, putting her cup down on the kitchen table. "You've figured out that Enola had come to me just by stepping into my flat. You sure will be able to figure out that I sincerely don't know about her where being at the moment." She looked over her shoulder at him.

"I met Edith." He said, suddenly.

"Who?"

"My mother's friend. Called me an ostrich for being alone. Enola had come to her too, my mother had led her there. So tell me Annaliése, why mother led Enola to you? Furthermore, why did she send two letters to you?" He stood up from his seat, making his way to get closer to her.

She straightened her back, furrowing her eyebrows in irritation. Anneliése does not like how he worded the sentence against her. "I don't understand. You keep asking questions, you already know the answer to." She stepped forward towards him. With one finger up, she pointed to his chest. "You came to me in the middle of a dance, practically ruined my night. I invited you to my flat because you said you are in need of my help and now you're accusing me." She said.

"Of what?" He asked, leaning down ever so slightly. "What am I accusing you of?"

"I am not hiding anything from you." She stated, not breaking her eyes away from him now that they were practically chest to chest. He did the same, although his eyes seemed to soften, knowing that she is, in fact, telling the truth. However, his mouth seemed to lose its ability to speak under her stern gaze. The topic of the night had spiralled from one to another in a quick ill-mannered way. That was his fault, undoubtedly.

"If you are stressed, I beg you not to let it out on me. Take a walk, Sherlock. Clear your head, you're in need of it." Those are the last words spoken to her that night before she turned her back on him and went out of the room. Leaving the man standing in the middle of it. And Annaliése was already in her room when the sound of the front door being closed was heard.

Sherlock lingered in front of the door for quite a long time, pondering whether he should go back in there or not before he turned around and walked away from the place. This was not how he wanted the reunion to be.

taglist! @mostclevermiss @strangeobsessed @officialjellydoughnut @redpostssometimes @mysticwitchcraftco @calamityjanet @literary-mind @km-ffluv @juliespellman @omg-itsmee @lexx-ee @sopanngon @kelloggs-world @thereisa8ella @juliette151 @dinosthatrawr @hotmomsluvme @erensloveinterest @mell-bell @sebastianthelobster @astronomiesd @aboywithsecrets @sugarraybeets @ihrtcevans @666-li @m4nif3st4t10n @incendiafalling @matchstick-doctor @moomoothecowking @emmaolsen @rain-clouds1 @maike3ee @anelissemariem @aestheticallystrange @girlonlinealways @keigoooo @supermanredundie @scar-let-mess @xcixosh @elysiasgf @sweetstyless @pepe-caca @nancysivrr @djopjm @hiyorinatsuki @sonicussy

#sherlock holmes fanfiction #sherlock holmes x oc #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock x oc #sherlock x you #sherlock holmes #enola holmes #henry cavill sherlock #henry cavill #fanfiction #sherlock fandom

[needmorereading]

He does have very recognizable shoulders, doesn't he?

Lol

#sherlock holmes #henry cavill sherlock #enola holmes 2 #lovely movie

[otometrashqueen]

So I watched Enola Holmes on Netflix, hoping it would make me feel better after watching Sherlock and it absolutely f*cking DID!

That’s the story I love, I don’t care give me all that Mary sue-tropey-shit, with strong female characters, I eat it up 🤤

Plus I’m going to say it Henry Cavill’s Sherlock actually had a bit of emotional intelligence! And I enjoyed his small part as Sherlock way more than I have 2 seasons of Sherlock :/

I’m not taking anything away from Batch, he acted the shit out of his version, but I just don’t enjoy watching it all that much, I don’t find him relatable, regardless of how handsome he is, that’s just kind of where I am in life I guess 😬😅

Henry Cavill 10/10 😍

I’m looking forward to watching the sequel tomorrow

#plus all the Holmes kids interacting #love Mycroft even tho he is an asshole #he’s a perfect queen #I think Mycroft does love her but enjoys just being the bad guy of the 3 of them #I like enola did immediately seek out her brothers #but I hope she stays with Sherlock eventually #they are so cute #I’m a sucker for siblings that actually get along sort of #henry cavill #enola holmes #Mycroft Holmes #Henry cavill sherlock #enola and sherlock #sherlock holmes

[dolce-cavill]

hey! if u saw these on my other blog i am not stealing them - i’m just moving them here to my new blog instead 🤍 i won’t delete the other post though 🤗

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

*i’m constantly adding to these as well

august walker - mission impossible: fallout

clark kent - man of steel

geralt of rivia - the witcher

mike - hellraiser: hellworld

napoleon solo - the man from u.n.c.l.e

sherlock holmes - enola holmes

walter marshall - nomis / night hunter

will shaw - the cold light of day

evan marshall - blood creek

captain syverson - sand castle

charles brandon - the tudors

melot - tristan and isolde

bonus!

henry cavill - (secret celebrity dating vibes/au)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

#henry cavill characters #henry cavill sherlock holmes #henry cavill sherlock #enola holmes #henry cavill #henry cavill playlist #playlist #spotify playlist #character playlist #august walker #mission impossible fallout #clark kent #clark kent man of steel #man of steel #clark kent playlist #geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia playlist #the witcher #geralt #hellraiser #hellraiser hellworld #mike hellraiser hellworld #napoleon solo #the man from uncle #walter marshall #night hunter #walter marshall playlist #will shaw #the cold light of day

[fallenangelkitten]

Literary Cruelty 

Synopsis: Sherlock will reward you if you keep reading to him like the good little bird he knows you are.

Warnings: dom Sherlock… ;)

Notes: I used to be fallenangelbb here on the Henry Cavill side of tumblr but deleted my account and have regretted it ever since. So here I am reposting my work :)

“Read to me.”

As he slipped the book against your palm, Sherlock’s fingers brushed yours. You knew it was intentional; he did nothing without calculation.

“R-Read to you?”

A light flashed in his blue orbs. “Don’t make me repeat myself, darling,” he leaned down to kiss your forehead. “Read.”

He motioned to the chair in the corner of the room. As you stepped towards it, you could feel his gaze on your back; along the buttons of your bodice and the shift of your skirts.

Once you rested against the cushions, you opened the book. There was a thin layer of dust on the cover, but the pages were pristine. The sun shone brightly through the window beside you, the light glimmering along the words.

Sherlock stayed leaning against his desk as you began. You had no idea what it was or what it was about- all that mattered was your obedience. He made slow steps towards you as you read. He leaned against the window, studying you rather than listening to what came out of your mouth.

Before you had even gotten to the second page, he kneeled before you. The words faded from the tip of your tongue. “What are you doing?” You questioned.

“I don’t recall telling you to stop, little bird.”

“N-No sir, I’m sorry. I’ll continue.”

And you did. Even as his fingers trailed from your ankle to your knee, slowly lifting your layers of skirts.

“The day gave way to night. The seas rose and fell against the sand. But she was still- S-Sherlock?”

You jerked as his lips danced over your very center, causing you to take a sharp breath. He pulled back.

“If you stop, as will I.” There was a fire in his eyes. One that sent a very dark and hot shiver through your core.

So you continued.

Even as his warm tongue moved along your slit, as his hand rubbed circles against your quivering legs. You desperately kept reading.

“It had been days since the sun last rose. The moon had taken over, causing…” Your entire body trembled as a deep sound emerged from him- one that sent a rush of pleasure through you. “T-The evil to fall over this land once more.”

His tongue teased at your entrance, making your hips involuntary buck against his face. One of his large hands moved to the inside of your thigh to keep them apart, while the other moved to cup your rear and pull you closer.

But when with your cunt pressed against his mouth, he came to a halt. “Keep reading, (Y/N).”

You peaked over the book to have his eye meet yours, the pupils blown with lust. Lips glistening with your arousal.

You had completely forgotten about the lines on the pages. Of the conditions to his pleasure. You were struggling to take a breath, let alone read, but you managed to find where you left off. “That’s my good little bird.”

“The only hope that the people-,” You bit down on your lip to try and keep the whimpers at bay. You pried it from your teeth. “T-That the people had was the king.”

The hand splayed against your thigh drew closer to your dripping core. As his lips wrapped around your already aching bud, he slipped two fingers inside of you. Your hips lifted once more- the hand on your rear squeezed in approval.

As his fingers curled inside of you- over and over again- you could no longer make sense of the words. They blurred together into a jumbled mess, not one indecipherable from the other.

All you knew was him.

Maybe he didn’t notice that you no longer spoke, or maybe he did and didn’t care. Maybe he enjoyed the way your mouth hung agape, the way the book was slowly slipping from your hands.

Though, the words never mattered to him anyways. Only the way your body responded to him. That much you knew.

And with his nails digging into your lower back, his tongue flicking against you, fingers never missing a beat, you shattered against him. All that was left was the echo of the book colliding with the study floor.

[l4long-winded]

v. concealed feelings and abstract attitudes

summary: the morning after your drunken fiasco is not any less awkward than you could have guessed. there seems to be a strain on your relationship with sherlock that seeps into the trips you go on together for his investigation. you don't know why he's acting the way he is, you just know that it's angering you (cavill!sherlock x afab!reader)

reflection: this took a bit of time to put together, but as i have previously stated, i have a certain vision for this story. we are nearing the end of it and i hate to depart from these two emotionally stunted beings, but i am also glad to begin offering them what they deserve. i hope everyone enjoys and as always, feedback is welcome and greatly appreciated!

warnings: seamstress!reader, conflicted!sherlock, sherlock is in denial, reader has a nickname, arguments, sherlock is rude, close proximity, investigation, enemies to lovers, shame, miscommunication, sexual tension, cockblocking, original characters, sleep deprived!sherlock, kissing, escalation (please let me know if there are other warnings i need to add)

word count: 10,017

previously: the distraction of rising temperature

( this work has been cross posted to ao3 )

Sunlight pours in through a crevice of the curtains ahead of your sleeping face, warmth melting into your eyelids, sinking into your cheeks and your nose that scrunches up in reaction to the beam’s discomfort. You rightfully turn away from the brightness with a gruff, an ache you’re now extremely aware of settling into the base of your skull, pounding away against the fluffed pillow beneath your hair. Everything feels like a blur, you can barely bring yourself to open your eyes. You don’t recall your pillow being this comfortable, smelling of peppermint and bark and something familiar you can’t quite place in your sleepy haze, but you do nuzzle your face further into it in an attempt to get back to the appetizing thrall of cloud filled dreams and undemanding realities. Your knee raises up bending your leg into an acute angle on the bed that you seemingly have more of than usual, the edge not nearby despite how you try and stretch it out into the vast material of blankets that smoothly graze your skin and beckon you to explore the contrasting cooling effect beyond. You answer it in kind by scooting towards the relief away from the heat your body’s generated from being in one spot for too long, maneuvering until your toes flex out and finally greet an edge that you don’t venture out towards because you would much rather catch up on the winks you’ve been unable to for over a month.

Despite this willingness and acceptance to remain where you are, there’s this nagging feeling pressing down into your chest the more coherent you become. You’re not sure what possesses you to open your eyes in this instance, but when you do, you come to a shocking realization, and that is the realization that this is not your bed, this is not your flat, and by how memories begin to come forward in fragments, you know exactly where you are, or more so, exactly where you aren’t.

You shoot up seconds after your revelation with a heaving chest, the sudden movement too much for your brain to catch up with, dizziness overtaking you and joining alongside the migraine forming as the wine from last night’s bitter parting gift. In reaction, the palm of your hand nurses your right temple and you’re forced to control the pace of your breathing then to calm your spiking blood pressure. It helps with your equilibrium (though, you’re literally only sitting up), but it does little to help the racing thoughts vying for attention inside of your head. From the images you’re gathering one by one, you remember leaving your flat and ascending the stairs. You can’t for the life of you remember whose door you knocked on or if they let you in or not, they clearly did, but you do remember climbing into bed and nodding in and out as the fumes of black tea flooded your nostrils. You can still smell it. It was masked away by that maddening aroma coming off your [not yours] pillow, but now you’re awake enough to register the tray at the bedside table. The tea’s cold, but you reach for it anyways needing some kind of hydration that isn’t wine or the dryness your mouth’s succumbed to while you let exhaustion get the best of you in a stranger’s flat.

A knock resounds at the door during your second gulp. At the same time, you glance up at the wooden barrier and sputter on the tea, coughing to clear the liquid from the wrong pipe it chose to pour down in your distracted manner. A muffled “Is everything alright?” comes through the door and you recognize that voice all too well. A string of memories float by, pigmented photographs and images of Sherlock’s arms assisting you in your balance, guiding forces into his home as you babble about who knows what. You don’t know if anything transpired between you two, if you did anything to offend him. You just know that you’re occupying his personal space while he’s on the other side knocking as a gentleman should, checking on your well-being when you’re the one who turned up here without warning. In a fit of shame and guilt, you stumble out of the agonizingly pleasant mattress. Your overcompensation for your headache manages to knock your knee into the bed frame and you unwillingly squeak because of it, hand flying to your mouth, but it’s too late. As if sirens went off, Sherlock comes bolstering in and you can see his shoulders rise and fall from what appears to be relief that you’re unharmed. The sudden stop of his momentum awkwardly shifts his weight back and forth from one foot to the next. You’re unsure what caused the hurry, but you preoccupy yourself with taking him in.

“Forgive me,” he begins, fully dressed, one arm having an azure robe hanging off of it as his hands’ knuckles meet in front of him, “It sounded like you needed… aid.”

“No, I,” you grasp at your knee, a dull pressure in it from the bump it took against his bed frame. “I’m not used to your bed, evidently.” You chuckle, but it fades out as quickly as it comes into fruition. It’s humorless, a half-hearted attempt to try and make this normal when it’s anything but. It doesn’t help the nature of the situation any when Sherlock doesn’t laugh and cooperate with your failed gesture out of common decency.

In this refractory period you’re both in now, you both take advantage of the silence to look over one another. At least, you sense Sherlock glancing down and then at the top of your head and it causes you to think that perhaps you’ve done something wrong. The only time he’s looked at you in such a way, respectful and yet cautious, it was when… oh, it was when you answered the door fresh out of the bath. At once, you take a long look down at your current state and much like that incident, you’re clad in a dainty chemise. Which means, either you came in this attire last night or you stripped yourself of your clothes. With that possible alternative in mind, your head snaps around in search of any of your usual layering, but there’s nothing around for you to consider the possibility. But really, you don’t know which is more embarrassing. Showing up at your neighbor’s door in such a scandalous setting or removing your clothing in front of said neighbor who’s only recently decided that he didn’t hate you. Overthinking and almost drowning from the waves of implications, no thanks to your imagination trying to cram in puzzle pieces where they don’t belong, you drag off Sherlock’s duvet from his bed in order to hide your body from his eyes. The damage’s been done, but it’ll help soothe your psyche and maybe lower the chances of what Sherlock may think as attempts to seduce him with unladylike measures. You can see his smile lines quiver from how he reinforces the narrow shape his mouth has formed.

“Here,” he extends the robe at his arm. It’s warm from what you can tell and most definitely his size. You almost squirm at the thought of him surrounding you in fabric as if you didn’t just spend a slumber already in that position. “I brought it for you.”

Gingerly, you eye the robe he offers and can feel the tension rising in the room by the minute. It seems to grab the both of you so forcefully and yet neither of you make any efforts to confront whatever it is. You won’t be the one to do so, not when you’re scrambled, when you hardly know anything of what transpired last night, if anything at all. This, in your mind, is an intimate gesture. You wonder if there were other intimate actions to warrant this.

As if hearing your thoughts, Sherlock jostles the robe slightly. “I don’t wish for you to get back to your flat without some kind of security.” It hardly answers any of your questions swarming your head. It’s kind… as long as nothing happened, something you’re far too afraid to ask about for fear of looking like an imbecile, for forgetting him of all people, for bringing up what could’ve been a harsh/lovely night. And if something did indeed happen, touchy, feely, invasive, his reaction is rather worrisome. It appears he wants to get rid of you and that could mean your drunken mess has scared him away, the sole person you’ve interacted with outside of work, the sole person who you consider a friend in this trivial city.

“Thank you,” you murmur as you retrieve the robe from Sherlock’s hand. Your knuckles graze his, your skin lighting up from the contact. You don’t dare to snatch your hand away since you don’t want to show him how much that alone affected you, but an odd motion comes from him. His hand jolts like it’s been burned and he immediately catches himself, a mere centimeter in drawing the arrow back, but you noticed it nonetheless. It does nothing to appease your negative thoughts. If anything, it fans the flames of the notion that you’ve offended him, that maybe you took things too far, that your actions have crossed boundaries. You turn away from him then to conceal the disappointment in yourself setting in your features, his duvet discarded so you could mask your intent through putting on his robe sleeve by sleeve. What have you done? echoes in your head for a moment. Only a moment passes when you realize just how soft his robe is, just how much more overpowering his scent is now that you’re engulfed by it, by the extra fabric that bunches around you, by warmth so intense that you realize he perhaps wore it himself very recently, perhaps before he came in here. You swallow hard thinking about it, tying off the robe in an instant to busy your hands and maintain your cover-up. It goes past your knees and then some. You don’t recall when the last time was when you didn’t wear something fitted to your body, you had your profession and mother to thank for that, but it doesn’t dispel you or make you feel out of place. You try and smother how right it feels on you as you pivot back to look at Sherlock again.

“Better?” He asks. His hands are stuffed in his pockets.

His robe soothes you more than you can admit. You nod your head, “Better.”

“Good… good.” He looks to the ground, and you can see his thinking features setting in. He must want to say something. From previous affiliations and altercations, you understand how he can have plenty to say at any time. He’s biting his tongue and it just spells further bad news for you. You don’t know if you wish to have this conversation so early, with a bottle-ache pounding on your brain, in a humiliating white flag in the form of a cozy robe he’s given you to hide away your sin. Either nothing occurred or something occurred and it’s maddening to you no matter how you can imagine it. Your hand slowly comes up to the wall behind to steady yourself because you’ve unknowingly held your breath for too long.

“So, I… I wanted to speak with you about last night—”

“We don’t have to talk about last night,” you blurt suddenly, against your own will. It seems the fear of the unknown has won this round and decided this as the best route. The surprise on Sherlock’s face would mimic your own if you let it seep through. You, instead, half smile and wave off the awkwardness collecting. “We can pretend it never happened.”

Sherlock blinks at you and waits. You know he’s expecting an explanation for you to continue on, but you have nothing more to say. You already improvised this to mend whatever faults you may have committed and this is as far as it goes. If he deems this incorrect for his conversation, then he will tell you so. From what you have gathered, Sherlock could not resist the chance to correct someone. But, he merely looks at you. His talents, as grand as they were, could not read your scurrying thoughts. You don’t give him the option with your smile still present and how confidently you stand your ground. He observes and you won’t give him anything to read into.

“Are you sure?”

Success. You chose the right response. “I’m sure. I’ll be on my way.”

“Oh, alright. Yes. I’ll walk you out.”

You don’t want to rush out of there, especially when you don’t know what you turned down, but it’s difficult not to run out of the room and avoid him. You take gentle steps out from there, a soft expression you give him as he steps aside to let you pass through. Your shoulder brushes his chest. To you, even with the robe, it’s the same spark that carried over your knuckles when your hands touched. You don’t wish to contemplate this any further and opt to ignore it, but you could swear you hear Sherlock exhale as you make it past the first threshold, past his body that generates almost scalding heat. You don’t turn around as much as you think you should. You just keep walking forward with his front door in your sights, your exit to get back to where you can remove your veil and panic away from him. As you get near the door, he maneuvers in front of you. You immediately pause in your tracks as he presses a hand up into the air sitting between you.

“Wait here for a second.” Sherlock opens the door and steps out, the obstruction shut enough to block out the hall. Curiously, you stare at the crevice he’s left and ironically taken up with his frame. He soon comes back in, this time, widening the door open for you with a movement out of your path. “The coast is clear,” he confirms.

It’s not what someone wants to hear if they had intimate relations with an individual. If you and Sherlock slept together, whatever sense of the word, you have every right to slap him across the face from the shame he seems to feel at the idea of someone finding you leaving his flat. You refrain because it was your conception to not speak about last night.

With this point of contention floating around your head, you stop in front of him. “We’re alright, right, Sherlock?”

He smiles. It’s a half smile, but you have a feeling he isn’t done with you and for some reason, that’s enough for you. It’s odd how much you wish to keep a person around that you haven’t had much time knowing. “We’re alright, Lily.”

You crack your first genuine grin of the morning and then step into the corridor. “I promise I’ll return your robe,” you reply, and the corridor leads you to the staircase which then leads you to your flat. Much to your chagrin, the door is unlocked. You mutter your lashings to yourself as you get inside, soon finding the empty wine bottle that brought you into this mess. Nothing looks like it’s been tampered with save for your clothes on the floor that you haphazardly took off last night. You can ditch the theory of stripping in front of Sherlock, but the image of you showing up at his door in barely any clothing is mortifying enough for you to trudge over to the bath to scrub yourself clean to the bone. You can move on. You and him don’t need to have any ailments in your friendship, whatever the context of last night.

This is the same belief Sherlock hangs onto as he busies himself in his flat. He’s not thinking about last night, hell, he didn’t want to talk about it, either, not really. He was getting ready to tell you how you two were only friends, anyway, how he throws himself into his work, how he has no time for nothing but his private practice. He’s not thinking of how you asked him to lay with you. He’s not thinking of how close he came to doing so, how he paced the floor wrestling with whether he should climb into bed with you or not for almost as long as you slept. And he’s certainly not dwelling on the fact that you regretted it. No, it doesn’t bother him. It can’t. It won’t.

It’s noon when the bell at your shop’s entrance rings. You can’t help but spring up from the back room. As it’s been for weeks, work is slower. Your usual clients come in, get their pieces, and then leave. They have kept you in business with their rampant commissions, but it’s rare for you to gain new customers steadily. You would like to see new faces, perhaps younger ones at that, but you’re also aware that the person who rang that bell isn’t a new prospect. As you almost skip from the back of the shop to the main counter, you see Sherlock standing around, his gaze on a yellow dress you’re saving for a client.

“Right on time. You’re very punctual, you know?” Your smile broadens, but peculiarly, Sherlock acknowledges you with a noise, a half-breath half-grunt. Strangely, with that alone, you could hear his tone beneath it agreeing with the statement. Or, more so, seeing it as a fact that is perhaps not worth exploring any further than the greeting.

“Did you acquire that list of names?” He confirms your assumption by bypassing it altogether and diving straight into this planned meeting’s purpose. As much as you wish to read into it, you compose yourself, nod, and then retrieve a piece of paper scribbled with the list he requested in your prior discussions of what he needed from you for his investigation. His hands are quick to steal away the paper. You could see his eyes studying every name on the list, every address associated, every curve of your handwriting as he mouths it to himself. From what his lips form and from how you guess through the position of his eyes on the paper, you can tell where he is and just how far he is from reaching the end of it. You can’t resist twiddling your thumbs as you wait for his further direction, occupying them as strings of pure nerves bounce around through your digits.

When he finishes, Sherlock doesn’t say anything like you expect. He doesn’t say anything at all. He holds the list higher to himself and then turns away from your counter heading straight for the door, not bothering to bid you any form of goodbye or grant you his appreciation for your compliance. You’re so flabbergasted by his antics that it takes you two seconds longer than normal to step from behind your counter and start after him, “Sherlock?!”

You call for him at the same time that he exits your shop, but you don’t let that stop you from hurrying outside and repeating his name. One hand lands on his left shoulder and he instantly pivots around to look at you. And it appears… it appears as if he looked disturbed by the action.

“Yes? What is it?”

The hard lines surrounding his eyebrows add onto his exasperated expression. You’re not sure where this attitude is stemming from, but from this morning’s exchange and how eggplant rings decorate in half wreaths under his eyes, little sleep can possibly be the scapegoat. Your patience with him is higher than it would usually be with anyone else through this understanding. That and you didn’t plan on lingering in your empty shop for the rest of the day when Sherlock’s holding an opportunity to venture out into London.

“I thought you required my expertise?”

“It contrived me this list, did it not?” He raises the parchment into the air. You stare at it with a hardened gaze before you dare to look back into the intensity of Sherlock’s now royal blues. You’re not like him. You can’t read him as well as a book like he can read you so you stop your searching (for whatever the fuck it was) and snatch the list out of his hand. It slightly irritates you how his exasperation seemingly deepens.

“When you asked me to scribe you a list of the names of those who’ve purchased that particular exported fabric, I trusted that you understood of just how much I was implicating myself offering private information regarding my father’s—m-my clientele…” Your slip displaces your uneasiness in your hands to your throat. That familiar lump begins to form in your neck, your head repeating No, not here as you try and quickly collect yourself. Sherlock’s expression softens at the mention of your father and the inner corners of his eyebrows upturn. You set your jaw, No, not here, not in front of him, and clear away the cobwebs of grief to return to your point. “You’ve made it perfectly transparent how you don’t wish to divulge the details of this case to me because of the entanglement it could garner, but please,” you gesture to your list, “allow me to assist you in this. I know these people better than you do and I doubt they would be keen on welcoming a stranger into their homes, much less a snooping one.”

Sherlock’s gaze hasn’t moved a centimeter from you. The tone of his intensity has shifted, but not in the pressure it engulfs you with. The sympathy expanding in his tired pupils causes you to cringe inwards because you didn’t want to bring your father up in the first place, but it had happened so organically. As organically as the bystanders passing you both by. They chance singular glances at you and Sherlock, some curious about the endeavor because you’re halting traffic, others brushing by you without a care of who you are or what you’ve been through. Perhaps being invisible could have its perks, perhaps then you would feel normal and not a scared girl desperate for an escape an emotionally-stunted man could provide.

Said emotionally-stunted man relents and sighs. Thankfully, without you telling him to stop staring at you like that, he drops his gaze and readjusts his gloves. “Fine, but at any sign of risk, you will do as I say.”

A smile blooms on your features. You can feel the excitement building inside of you and before you realize what you’re doing, you take a step forward and then hop on the next step into Sherlock’s frame. Your arms wrap around his neck, the scent from this morning, the one from his robe sitting in your flat and from his pillow sitting in his, radiating off him. It permeates your senses immediately. It haunted you until you scrubbed yourself from it in a bath, but now you have this fleeting desire to sink further into it. It’s Sherlock’s hands gently acquainting themselves with your hips that causes you to remember how you’re both out on the pavement in public and not in some otherworldly dimension you two keep finding your ways towards.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, gradually lowering yourself down to your heels that elevated in efforts to match his height. Your arms slide from his neck, linger at his chest, and then detach altogether. Sherlock’s pace is about the same in removing his hands from you. You can feel tension as you both initiate eye contact.

“I’m going to go… close my shop for the day.” You point with your thumb to the establishment behind you. You almost forgot about it, but it seems like as good an excuse as any. “Wait for me?”

It’s hard to explain what it is between you two. It sits as thickly as ever as you look awkwardly at each other with looming responsibilities to attend to. Sherlock looks at your shop instead of the obscure air in the space occupying the gap your bodies share. Maybe he’s using the same excuse as you.

“I’ll wait for you.”

Mrs. Blanche Thomas’s living space is full of cat figurines from the arms of the sofa to the nearby desk perched next to a windowsill with semi-drawn cherry curtains. Sunlight invades the room with a vengeance and illuminates the porcelain of each figurine while the rest of the room is draped in a fuchsia pigment, no doubt from the curtains, that naseates your head. All of your clients were rich in so many senses of the word, but at least they didn’t lower themselves to buying endless streams of knick knack felines. You almost think you’re going to knock some over with where you sit on the sofa, the skirt of your dress ruffled along the lace doily you’re on top of. You cross your legs to try and limit the space you take in order to save the figures, but in doing so, your knee brushes against Sherlock’s. He doesn’t budge from where he sits, seemingly doing the same thing as you in attempting to minimize himself for the sake of Mrs. Thomas’s decor, but it’s of little use with someone his size. You can read his discomfort on his face, but a small part of you can’t help but feel triumphant over it.

All day, he’s found a way to antagonize you. It started to occur around the second house you visited. During the first visit, he barreled into the house with hardly any warning and began to investigate the Newtons’ hearth wordlessly to their horror. After you lectured him on how he couldn’t just go full detective mode with these individuals and their prized possessions, he pulled away the friendliness you two engaged in at your shop more and more, bit by bit. As you two arrived at the second house belonging to the Jeffersons, he departed from you to roam their rooms while you kept up in conversation. You tried to be casual, but they soon caught wind of the antics and asked you both to leave. On your way out, you glared at Sherlock while he stared forward with his chin turned towards the air. You couldn’t believe how he blatantly ignored your input and carried on with what he saw fit. His haughty demeanor turned away from you showed you that he knew he did it too.

“Didn’t I just tell you how you couldn’t do that? They were mortified and—”

“They had nothing worthwhile. It was a complete waste of time.”

He grunted his words out at you, not only cutting you off, but speeding his gait so he could maintain a clear lead ahead of you. Your annoyance grew as you followed after him.

It didn’t end there. From today’s length, you would guess that he was purposely trying to get under your skin. He played ball at the third house and made small talk with you to persuade the Porters, but when it came time to observe, when you accidentally bumped his frame in crossing each other’s paths towards written letters sitting atop furniture, he leveled you with a glare of his own.

“I didn’t bring you along to get in the way.” You gulped the hurt that it gave you and replaced it with your heightening vexation. Your eyes shot daggers into the back of his head as he took items into his hands and carried on as if nothing happened. You’ve learned more and more about how Sherlock does not apologize for his ramblings, much less for the ones that sting the most. Keeping your composure, you donned a fake smile and discussed taxes with the Porters until he emerged from a hall and stated, “We’re done here.” You wondered how moronic you appeared chasing after him because after his assertion, he walked right out the front door without any preamble, the same fashion he underwent this afternoon at your shop. It forced you to apologize on his behalf, a parroting dialogue as every house you attended from that point felt the wrath of his attitude and severe lack of manners. Your word was also at stake since you were defying trust.

You didn’t say another word to him for fear of further adding onto the weight of the enormous chip sitting on his shoulder. Fortunately, you two found a rhythm of talking to your clientele and continuing on with the investigation. You didn’t know what exactly you were looking for, but there were times where the trust of your clients meant that they left you two alone to investigate to your hearts’ desire. You dreaded this trust at those moments. Not wanting to sit idly, you busied yourself looking around, searching for ways to ensure you entertained yourself and stayed firmly out of Sherlock’s way. In one instance, you lifted up a handbill discussing an upcoming ball. It was an event you kept seeing in the other houses, but seeing as it was a common thread, you felt excitement spur within you at the prospect. It almost made you forget about how Sherlock was acting and how he was treating you. Almost. Almost since he quickly reminded you.

“That ball has no value to this investigation.”

You could’ve shrunk into yourself at his dismissal. He didn’t even look at you, just continued to flit through items, scrubbing the tips of his fingers clean against one another from the dust he found.

And now at the seventh house, the one belonging to Mrs. Thomas who insisted you two sit down and have tea and perhaps something to eat for your troubles and the journey there, you’re caged in and all alone, the door to the area shut behind her as she stalked off to fetch the necessities she spoke of. Minutes passed. Only minutes. Minutes of silence sans for the movements the two of you made to try and get comfortable on her tiny couch (which would be fucking easier to do if it weren’t for the mammoth of a man sitting beside you). You can feel every brush of his bicep the more he tries to adjust.

“What’s taking her so long?” Sherlock blurts, but from how today has gone and from how he’s furrowing his brow at the empty space ahead, you assume he’s talking more so to himself. He fidgets, much like he’s been doing this entire time, and again, your knees touch. This time, he doesn’t hold his impassive demeanor, his eyes flitting down to the point of contention, where your skirts don’t hide away the skin. You notice his reaction and to try and assuage him, you bring your knee away from his. You think it’s what he requires seeing that he can hardly find comfort in this position and you really don’t want him to harm you with another illy-thought sentence, but as you have been all day today, you’re wrong.

He stands to his feet in an instant with an audible scoff. If you didn’t know any better, you swear it was directed towards you. Your patience is running thin for the detective, watching as he stands and husks out another noise as he simultaneously lifts an orange cat from the table in front of you both. He won’t find anything there, and you know he knows that, so you’re aware the action is because of how he’s avoiding talking to you like an actual person. He would rather waste time doing something miniscule than engage you and it’s this discovery that has you mimic the sounds he’s made all day and stand from the sofa yourself. Fine, if he doesn’t want to talk or be near you, then you’ll increase the distance. You stubbornly walk away with your back towards him in the direction of Mrs. Thomas’s desk, your arms crossing against your chest, shielding yourself from whatever onslaught possibly lurking on his tongue. But you don’t want to be caught off guard again and you certainly won’t let him get to you as he has before. The fire inside of you has been tempered all day and you don’t want to remain quiet.

“That cat have all the answers does it? Was it at the crime scene? Are you questioning a real, live eyewitness?” You can feel Sherlock’s eyes on your back and can hear him shuffling. A tap of glass on wood tells you he’s put the cat down. So much for the eyewitness.

“Don’t speak of things you know nothing about.” Your smirk shifts into a grimace. Still, even as you hear Sherlock’s heavy footsteps across from you, he must be digging for something to remark in the background, you don’t turn around. You hug your arms tighter into yourself.

“I would know of such things if someone wasn’t so greedy with the details.”

Much to your chagrin, Sherlock doesn’t reply. You can hear his fumbling, but he doesn’t even offer you a sound of acknowledgement. You should be happy that he’s not falling into the trap of a brewing argument, but for some reason, you’re having trouble accepting it. After how much he’s tested you today, you feel a misguided desire to test him back.

“Have you found anything yet? You know, with me out of your way.” You’re bitter in droning your words, your glance at your shoulder to turn your ear towards Sherlock. You hear the shuffling come to a sudden stop and you can’t help but smile to yourself knowing he’s staring hard at you. You can feel the heat of it.

“If you have something to say, then say it.”

Oh, it’s at the tip of your tongue, choice words to bring a sailor’s cheeks crimson, you can feel it, but you relent on that sentiment and continue on. “I’m just reflecting on the obvious, Sherlock. Or do you really think you haven’t found any clues because the distance between us hasn’t been enough?”

You wait a few beats for something, any kind of response, but you’re met with silence. Growing impatient with the circumstances yourself, you turn fully to look at him to find him already looking back. His jaw’s set tight, the molars of his teeth accentuating the chiseled line of it as he holds still. It appears as if he has something to say himself, but he’s holding back on purpose, much like you are. You’re about to coax him to it, ready for venom, when he removes his eyes from yours and beelines towards the door.

“Perhaps more distance will be sufficient, then,” he mutters cruelly under his breath. It’s the opposite of what you wanted. Though, as much as you would like to face this head on even if it’ll lead to a fight, you don’t have enough of the physical fire present to saunter after him. You stay where you are, your heart throbbing with something in your chest at the thought of being left alone stranded with Mrs. Thomas in the other room.

You almost call his name to halt him, but he doesn’t get far. You hear the door handle rattle under Sherlock’s hand. From your annoyance, confusion replaces it. You slowly walk towards him as he releases the handle and grunts out another deep noise.

“It’s fucking locked,” he croaks, backing away from it and you. His hands land on his hips, perplexed eyes glaring at the door as if he could burn a hole through it if he tried hard enough. “Why would it be fucking locked?”

You reach for the handle yourself and much like Sherlock’s luck, the same goes for you. “Yes, I just tried that,” he sarcastically reminds you and you have to inhale and exhale slowly so that you don’t remove your heel and throw it at him. It agitates you and just like that, you remember how he tried to leave you here. You groan your displeasure and sulk from the door back to the desk near the window. The furniture’s the furthest thing away from Sherlock in the room so you sit on top of it, cautious to avoid the figurines, and your arms return to crossing over your chest.

“Serves you right,” you sneer, “after trying to abandon me when you’re the one who’s been a belligerent oaf all day.” You hear him scoff and he says nothing. You take this is as a means to continue since the both of you couldn’t go anywhere until Mrs. Thomas returned. “I should be the one storming out.”

You don’t expect anything from Sherlock. He’s thick and stubborn to avoid conversation with you. Just seconds ago, he tried to leave in order to avoid a discussion, so you’re thinking you can get more of your issues with him off your chest in the silence he offers you. Only, he doesn’t offer you silence when you’re expecting it. No, he’s unpredictable that way. You’re not even looking at him when you hear, “Mhm, just like you did this morning.”

Your head whips in Sherlock’s direction. That’s the last thing you’re thinking about and it’s rather ridiculous to bring up now in this context, but his expression is dead serious. You don’t know if you prefer him ignoring you or him boring his eyes into yours like he’s doing now.

“Me? You couldn’t wait to get rid of me! You didn’t even want people to see!” You’re aware of how you’re raising your voice, how Mrs. Thomas might hear, but at this point, you don’t care anymore. You’ve been poked and prodded at for hours and you’re at your wit’s end. Sherlock takes two steps in your direction.

“How the hell was I supposed to keep someone around who was that ashamed of their own actions, actions that put them in that situation in the first place—not me,” he comes closer and closer as he talks, his footing carrying him forward after every three words or so. You don’t feel intimidated by how much bigger he appears the closer he gets to you, how his voice is getting louder and not because of how he’s lessening the space between you, nor how the vein in his neck strains against the collar of his undershirt sandwiched underneath his vest.

“Oh my god, I told you that we can pretend last night never happened, you can save me the responsibility speech.” You roll your eyes, the huff that falls from your lips being the gust that pushes your hair strands out of your face. They land right back, but your attention is solely on Sherlock. There’s less than a meter between you and him, you can pinpoint the burning in his eyes now from the lack of sleep and from the agitation.

“You are so… stubborn. And defensive. And meddling.” His hands reach the edge of the desk. You surmise it’s to support himself as he leans forward in incredulity of your words. It brings him closer than before, the lines on his face more apparent, the passion simmering in his gaze that he refuses to rip from you.

You hate how small he makes you feel. Always having to show off intellect as if no one knows he’s the smartest person in the room. Your hand lands on his chest in efforts to push him away, but it just stays there limp. “And you are improper, pompous, brash, impatie—”

The last syllable of the word “impatient” doesn’t resonate any further into the atmosphere, instead lost to the plushness of Sherlock’s lips, muffled by his contact, cut loose by a noise you fail to suppress as your eyes slip closed to relish in the feeling. His mouth bruises yours, robs it and your mind of the English language and the unpleasant choice words you had for him. Normally you don’t take kindly to being cut off, but as your other hand joins your left on his chest, you can feel the thrumming heartbeat in his ribcage accelerating almost as quickly as your own is. It somehow greets your palm beyond the hard lines of muscle you tread over, the same ones you trace blindly without your vision, without the breath in your lungs Sherlock is currently kissing away and swallowing into himself. Dizziness overtakes you and you don’t trust your body to support you and you lean back to try and find the desk as a means to help you here. To Sherlock, he views it as you backing away from him and he reluctantly brings his mouth away from yours. He knows he’s overstepped.

You both utilize this time to breathe heavily as you stare into each other’s eyes. You don’t know what came over him to act so boldly and from how he’s hesitant, you don’t think he knows either. Something plays at his lips, the very same that just grazed over yours, and you know he’s about to say something else. Whatever it is, you decide at that moment it can wait and you grasp the collar of his shirt in your fingers to pull him in once more. This time, you’re rewarded with a lecherous noise from the back of his throat and one arm wraps around your waist, his bicep and forearm deluging the small of your spine. It’s just the support you require to keep you upright, whimpering as he licks into your mouth, doing so immediately when he mashes the word “again” against you in a straining command. You’ll leap off a building if he keeps kissing you this way, if it means he’ll slip his tongue along yours and leave your mouth reddened and swollen from your affairs.

Sherlock wants, needs, to get closer. Every touch and caress is driving him mad, to the brink of an area he hasn’t really explored before. He’s not completely inexperienced, but he doesn’t recall ever being this eager, eagerness you meet with earnest of your own through those beautiful sounds he’s muting, through the tilt of your head that allows him to deepen the kiss. “Part your legs,” he requests, bass in his tone, never neglecting the lock you currently have on each other. Obediently, you do as he says, your knees separating to make room for his frame that he instantaneously occupies, as if he was made to be there. Your skirts bunch up at your mid thighs and the sensitive flesh of them rubbing along his trousers’ material has you reeling. He groans as he steps in, contrasting to the idea of being made to fit between your legs because his width forces them even further apart, his concealed arousal bumping into your thigh, scraping into your flesh as he lowers you onto the desk and bends at the waist to ensure the connection of your lips.

The cat figurines lining the desk fall to the floor, thumps that resound one after the other as they are pushed off sporadically with the movement of your bodies. Your leg wraps around Sherlock’s waist, heel digging into his back, and your lips fall open to a silent gasp as he descends and kisses down the column of your neck. The sensation almost tickles, his stubble catching along your skin almost as frequently as his teeth do. As he rises back up to greet your mouth with his, you forgot to use the opportunity to breathe. It didn’t matter, you would rather be empty of oxygen than miss out on how Sherlock renders you simple-minded, on how he generously lets you moan into his mouth, you depraved thing, on how he slams his hand into the desk beside you because your body intuitively rolled your hips up into him without realizing, sending more figurines flying off the wood to their far drops. Your fingers run up from his collar to the hair at the back of his head, clutching his curls like they will ground you into this moment in time permanently. But it barely helps. Luckily for you, it’s Sherlock who grounds you down. Who covers your body with his. Who subjects you to the durable surface below as well as his muscle mass.

There’s a knock on the door and a laugh. “Oh dear, I hadn’t realized I locked the two of you in here!” Mrs. Thomas taps the door. “This old handle is broken, would either of you mind helping me open it?”

The two of you have refrained from kissing, looking at each other in disbelief. Disbelief of being interrupted, disbelief of how far you two were going in someone else’s home, an old woman’s at that, and disbelief of what you had just done. Neither of you move, catching your breaths, exhales hitting at both of your mouths from how Sherlock is still half on top of you, your faces startlingly adjacent. Clearing his throat, he pushes off the desk to his feet and reaches a hand out to you.

You clear your throat the very same and capture his hand to sit up, your chest heaving from that intense interchange. You, as well as Sherlock, got caught up in it all and now the repercussions were waiting in anticipation. Neither of you say anything to each other, you simply stare. Sherlock, in all his faults and issues with social cues, knows he should say something that could help you both. It can’t be an untouched subject, not when bottled feelings came up earlier and led you two to argue… led you two to whatever that was thereafter.

“Can you hear me?” Mrs. Thomas asks. Remembering where you are, you nod at Sherlock and, reluctantly, he slowly walks to the door away from you. You scoot off the desk and compile the fallen heroes on the floor into your cradled arm. You then place them messily back on the desk, not sure if there was any particular order or not (goddamn were those things uncomfortable on your back).

You adjust your clothes after as you hear Mrs. Thomas talk with Sherlock through the door: “Alright, son, you are going to push the handle in and then open it while lifting upwards…”

You’re in the middle of fixing your corset when you spot a glint of indigo hanging out of one of the desk’s drawers. Interestingly, the sun’s rays cause it to glimmer and you don’t know how many things can shine like that besides… the fabric.

Your fabric.

You dart your eyes to Sherlock, unsure if you should follow this lead because everyone’s house you visited also had this fabric as you kept inventory and created your list, but he’s not paying you any mind. His attention is on trying to get the door open with Mrs. Thomas’s guidance. The problem, or perhaps lucky circumstance, was that Sherlock couldn’t get the door open. Mrs. Thomas kept changing her damn instructions.

“I thought you said to pull up!” Sherlock exclaims at the door, no doubt annoyed by the obstruction, by his already pent-up frustration, by being cockblocked, and how he doesn’t hide his agitation of poor Mrs. Thomas who’s forgetful in her old age.

“No, dear, I said to push down!”

You try to open the drawer, but it needs a key. Searching around the desk in a frenzy, you alternate between snatching papers and promptly placing them back to avoid suspicion when you catch another glint at the floor beneath. The sun bounces off it when you align your eyesight and it flashes a weaponized beam straight into your vision. You kneel to pick it up, while blinking away a memory of light imprinted, only this isn’t illusion-ally reflective, this is golden and small, exposed by a sun taking its time to set. It was hidden by the shadow at the corner of the desk that you and Sherlock accidentally knocked off. Blushing, you lift the key and work on the drawer.

“I have pushed in every direction, are you confident this is how you open the door?”

You twist the key and hear a soft click. Excitedly, you pull the handle and stuff the fabric into your bodice, alongside the envelope that was left with it. You close the drawer and lock it when you finally hear a loud noise crash into your perception. You stick the key into your corset at the same time that your head snaps up to see the door’s handle sitting in his hand… detached from the door. Sherlock’s looking at you now, his eyebrows knit in, his eyes closing in irritation of what he had just done. You could tell he’s forcing himself to breathe manually so he could keep a hold of his agitation. You round the desk and politely curtsy to Mrs. Thomas, who enters the room now that the door is broken. She shakes her head at Sherlock on the way in and you point to the desk.

“Oh, dear, Mrs. Thomas, we accidentally knocked over your figurines! We’re sorry,” you exclaim and she’s distracted from the door to tend to you. She rests her hands in yours and chuckles as she always does. Sherlock raises an eyebrow as he watches the scene unfold.

“It’s alright, thank you for telling me! They were due for a reorganization, anyhow.” She squeezes your hands and then walks to the desk. You think you might be in the clear, but then she looks at you puzzled on her way there. “Wait, how did you two knock them over?”

Sherlock releases a breath of amusement that both you and Mrs. Thomas hear and turn your heads towards. He can hardly believe it since she can hardly hear anything else.

You give Sherlock a look and then raise your hand to rest on Mrs. Thomas’s shoulder to get her attention back. She turns to you and you offer your best smile. It’s hard on you to smile in general after everything, but these days, it’s easier and easier. “We were… we were dancing.”

Mrs. Thomas gasps and both of her hands go over her mouth. She looks back and forth between you and Sherlock and then she reaches her arms out to hug you. Sherlock’s confused by the reaction, and honestly, you are as well since the excuse was so bad. You shrug your shoulders as subtly as humanly possible without alerting Mrs. Thomas. He notices.

“I am so proud of you, you deserve to be happy.” She squeezes you without any real pressure. Real pressure would be suffocating, but it’s what her strength is allowing and such a thing makes you think about the fact that she may be trying her best to convey it and something in you feels blanketed.

“I remember when Edmund and I would dance randomly… being in love and all… made you spontaneous.” She laughs to herself, as if remembering right before your eyes. There’s a lump in your throat again, you have fought these off so consistently, but it’s there because Mrs. Thomas cares for you. Even if it is a lie, she could think you and Sherlock arrived here together because you were in fact together. He seems to look at you with shock at the lack of denial on your end. He doesn’t know what to make of it, if you’re saving him from trouble with the door, if you’re tricking her so she wouldn’t ask questions of the desk, but he stays quiet and trusts your judgment. Because it’s obvious you’re hiding something and chances are, it didn’t involve the affection and intimacy of what occurred on that desk.

“Mrs. Thomas, we apologize for the mess, but we have to go. The sun will set soon and we are a long way from home.” You reassure her and she looks at you and then at Sherlock.

“I promise to fix this door in the near future,” he states and she actually laughs at it.

“Do you feel better now that you’ve eaten something?” You ask as you walk alongside Sherlock, your shared building close in distance. Your feet ache from all the walking, from trying to keep up with Sherlock, but you’re glad he’s calmed down. Mrs. Thomas sent you both off with bread and since you felt slightly guilty, you lost your appetite and gave the rest to Sherlock. You’re joking, clearly since you both know he’s lightened up even before Mrs. Thomas gave you bread. Who knows the reason. The unsaid, unexpected, wonderful reason.

“Yes, actually. She’s lousy with her timing, but she knows how to bake bread.” You laugh at his reply, your hands pulling his coat closed that he gave to you after you complained about the cold. The two of you have been switching nonchalantly in conversation since leaving Mrs. Thomas’s house. You told Sherlock you needed to tell him something and he asked if it could wait until you made it back to Baker Street. With your agreement, you didn’t talk about it or what happened. You were afraid to. Sherlock didn’t want to ruin it again. It was nice to just walk and enjoy each other’s company on the way home, the occasional question asked.

Once on Baker Street, you nudge Sherlock and he pauses for you to continue. There are hardly any people walking around the two of you so you feel secure and you bring forth the scrap of fabric that you hid in your bodice. Sherlock recognizes it, to your surprise, and reaches for it, to which you hand off and watch as he examines it with great interest.

“Where did you get this?”

“I found it locked in a drawer. While you were trying to get the door open, I,” you jump as Sherlock grasps your upper arm.

“You unlocked the drawer and took this along with something else, didn’t you?”

You blink, the envelope folded in your bodice the next thing you were going to share with him.

“How did you know I took two items?”

“Three,” he corrects, “you took the golden key that’s currently resting in your corset’s left breast.”

You glance down and just at that moment, a street lamp flashes the shine at you. Sherlock couldn’t have missed it. Not when neither of you have let up on looking at each other fondly on the walk home. At all of each other. You then look to your envelope’s hiding spot and yes, it’s peeking out from under your corset since you attempted to place it between your skirts. All the layering worked both for and against you.

“I didn’t catch the fabric, but I caught the other parts while you were chatting up Mrs. Thomas.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Honestly? I didn’t think they were that important to discuss, separately, of course,” he corrects himself since he saw your face fall for a brief moment, “but altogether? It means something. I… I appreciate it.”

You smile at him, overwhelmed by a feeling to gravitate towards him, but there’s still tension between you two. It’s confusing and you know it’s magnetic for a reason, but there’s still a bridge that links the two of you. Tonight, you met each other halfway, but you also barged into each other’s sides with aggression and hostility intended. Kissing didn’t magically make everything you both said and did okay and that frightened you, what could lay beyond that.

After handing him the key and the envelope, you glance up at him with something new dazzling in your eye. He walks you into the building. “Goodnight,” you kiss his cheek, ending the evening with a pleasant exchange, on a beautiful high note. “Until our next meeting, Shoulders.” Sherlock’s heat warms your mouth and he glances at his coat, opting to let you have that as well since he didn’t want you heading into your flat freezing at any moment. You took it with you and didn’t look back.

Sherlock read the letter again. It’s probably the 50th time since he’s opened it. His game was off today. He couldn’t focus, not with you around. Every time he looked at you, all he could think about was why you regretted staying at his flat. He assumed you were ashamed of your behavior, but did that mean you were ashamed to ask him to join you in bed as well? Did it mean you held an attraction for him or comfort solely under alcohol’s vise?

The worst part about looking at you today, however, is by far how much he enjoyed it. There he was, in his effective functioning and bidding as his occupation demands, tenfold, and then there’s you who always stole his attention away, your honey sweet voice erasing his thoughts and replacing them selfishly with you. He thought about the embrace, he thought about your chemise, he thought about your smile at the library, your sleeping face, your gentle hands on his chest, how his robe wrapped around you, how he couldn’t think of anything but you if he didn’t actively catch himself. You hovered over him and he retaliated to deter you away. He changes when he’s trying to solve a case. He keeps to himself and does it his own way and he knows it’s flawed, that’s why he prefers people staying away when he gets like that.

At the same damn time, he had an urge to get closer, a physical instinct that would lead him to you like a tired horse requiring a drink of water. He acted on both his anger and need back at Mrs. Thomas’s, a combination he’s never felt before you. It’s worse for him now. This is his 56th time reading this letter all because his mind is sailing back to you, you and your lips, you and your arching spine, you and your delectable noises, you who’s just downstairs, a staircase and a few knocks away, you, you, you.

He relaxes his shoulders to regain his focus. This is vital to his case, he can feel it, he knows it. The envelope reads “For Blanche, with love” and the signature on the letter itself reads “Love, Edmund” for Christ’s sake. Everything is interconnected, the pieces showing him what is there, and he cannot for the life of him focus to read this damn letter to make sense of it all. He does enough to catch the line “I will see you at the ball.”

He chastises himself at that and he remembers your comment about the upcoming ball these elites were attending.

“I owe you an apology, Lily,” he says aloud, to no one in the space but himself so he can deliver one first thing in the morning. It makes sense now that he’s contemplating on it, but you were making it difficult to put logical thought together. It’s not your fault. It’s his fault for not sleeping. He can’t read this letter and he acted like an ass today because he’s running on pure fumes. The words are starting to melt together and he tries to blink the sleep out of his eyes only to find that he’s been blinking the sleep out of his eyes for the past hour. Grunting, he folds the letter and decides he will solve this case in the morning, it’s Thursday and the ball isn’t until Saturday.

Sherlock stands and walks towards the corridor when he hears a knock at the door. He wasn’t expecting anyone, especially not at this hour. He turns his head to look at it and he only stutters a second before he rushes to it and brings it open. Just as he suspected, you’re standing there in front of him, in his robe, fluttering your lashes at him in an innocence he cannot believe. As you reach up to kiss him, he catches you by the waist, by your momentum, midair as he directs you into his flat and firmly pushes the door closed with his other hand.

#henry cavill #sherlock holmes #henry!sherlock #sherlock holmes x reader #enola holmes #beyond answers #l4l.writes #henry cavill sherlock

[dontmindme262]

Sherlock Holmes

👉🏽 Other characters/fandoms

A list of fics, imagines, blurbs, and hc’s that I enjoyed and will reread. Enjoy!

🌶 - smut, 🥵 - tension, ❤️‍🩹 - angst, 🧸 - fluff

Exactly What You Need 🌶

Run Away ❤️‍🩹 🧸

Bewitched 🧸

Dangerous Games ❤️‍🩹 🧸

Breeding Kink 🥵 🌶

On the Subject of Hearts ❤️‍🩹 🧸

Letters to a Friend 🧸

To Make a Fool of Myself 🧸

What I Mean ❤️‍🩹 🧸

Jigsaw ❤️‍🩹 🧸

Labyrinth ❤️‍🩹 🧸

Smoke and Mirrors ❤️‍🩹

Letters ❤️‍🩹 🧸

Thursday 4PM 🧸

Flowers 🧸

On Your Knees 🌶

#henry cavill sherlock #sherlock holmes #sherlock imagine #henry cavill #enola holmes #netflix #sherlock fandom

[mzannthropy]

People who are fans/familiar with Enola Holmes books, question: I expect there will be more films, so I just want to ask, is there any (even a tiniest possible) chance that in future instalments, Mycroft gets any sort of character development? (Presuming that there are more films and that Sam Claflin is available for them. I wish he isn't, bc I'd rather not see him in that awful role with that gross moustache again--while Henry Cavill struts around like a catwalk model with his pretty curls--but I just want to brace myself now.) It's just that, I don't know how long can he continue being such a comical one-dimensional figure, I mean it was okay once, but keeping that for longer would make it just too ridiculous and would take away from any quality the films might otherwise have. At least, give him a hobby, like idk, gardening... or chess... or have him do SOMETHING. You know what I mean.

(And I can understand from Sam's POV that he found it fun to play a cartoon villain, I'd probably want to play one too if I was an actress--I'd totally be a stepmother in a traditional fairytale for example (not a dark retelling, something more comedic)--but that doesn't mean I have to like it. Not in this instance anyway.) So I guess what I'm asking is, does he stay the same? Or does he change at all? I'm aware that I might not like the answer...

#enola holmes #henry cavill sherlock #sam claflin #sam claflin mycroft #idk how they explained his absence in the second film #i presume they didn't kill him off #not that i'd mind if they did #but sam answered a q on ig that he'd like to be back again #at least lose the moustache. please #please. like your song #sigh #mypost #samblogging

[st-juliet]

Can I request an nsfw fic sitting on Sherlock Holmes’ lap while he explains a case to reader, she start kissing his neck and he starts stuttering 😩😩 (also, Im literally in LOVE with your works 😫 😭)

Pulse Point

Fandom: Henry Cavill as Sherlock in Enola Holmes

Summary: To help him relax in the midst of a trying case, Reader exploits Sherlock’s only vulnerability.

Content: 18+ for smutty smutty smut, Sherlock’s filthy mouth, unprotected sex, and pure domestic bliss.

Notes: My first prompt! Thank you thank you thank you, Anon; I love this so much. I wrote it quite quickly and unedited, so apologies for any imperfections!

“Come, sit with me, darling girl.”

Standing in the door of your husband’s study, you fall even more in love with Sherlock Holmes. He sits behind his desk in his leather wingback chair, attired in his shirtsleeves, coat discarded, posture tense—it has been hours since you saw him come home, carrying a crate of papers and wearing the expression of determination and passion that lets you know the game is well and truly afoot.

Eager to be of help, you follow his directive at once, crossing the room to his side. He settles you on his lap and places a chaste, gentle kiss to your temple, pausing to breathe in the scent of your hair. A little of his tension seems to melt away with your closeness, and you return his kiss—but on the lips, this time—with a smile. He smiles, too, and whispers, “I love you so.”

“As I love you! Now, tell me the matter of the case,” you prompt, with another light, teasing peck. “Begin at the beginning, and perhaps some new detail will reveal itself in the telling.”

Sherlock smiles, a little wearily, but with a clear relief at your presence and enthusiasm.

“Yes, pray lend me a little of your brilliance, Mrs. Holmes, for I am at my wit’s end.”

“Nonsense; your wit is endless,” you scoff, and at last he laughs, too. You share another kiss, deeper this time, and he settles more comfortably into the chair.

“It is Moriarty,” he sighs, loosening his cravat and tossing it aside. “It is always Moriarty, the spider in the center of the web. But for once, he torments me with leisure, not urgency. There is no captive aristocrat, no explosives planted, no threat of impending murder; and thank god for it. But instead, he spins me an ever-expanding list of riddles, each more obscure and particular than the last. To what end I do not know.”

He tips his head back against the chair, exposing the long line of his throat to your gaze. Though you would find it nigh impossible to select a favorite part of your husband’s body—for truly, it seems that every night as he fills your aching channel so perfectly, so completely, there is some new, glorious detail of his physique thrown into prominence—Sherlock’s neck is especially tempting. It is a singular point of vulnerability in such a massive, muscled man, and one you love to exploit: you know well that so much as a single kiss can bring the man to his knees, or else drive him to bend you over the nearest surface and make you his in the most primal, profound way.

“He boasts of the reach of his accomplices by infiltrating those systems in which we have the greatest trust, so much that the average man may not even notice anything has changed.”

You simply cannot help yourself.

Delicately, you shift upon his lap, wickedly delighted that he has fixed his eyes upon the cluttered wall opposite his desk, where his series of pinned-up schedules, diagrams, and ciphers distract him from your intentions.

“But I first noticed that the regular seven o’clock train from Trafalgar to Charing Cross was delayed on Tuesday—“

With a slow deliberation, you kiss the point where his pulse beats steadily beneath his jaw.

“—initial—initially—by seven—“

You part your lips ever so slightly and kiss him again.

“—by seven—se—“

A large, lissome hand lands heavily on your thigh. You do not let this deter you; no indeed, it only incites you further, and you press your lips more firmly against his neck.

“By seven minutes!” he concludes in a rush, and you take advantage of his pause for breath to trail your kisses lower, pulling aside the collar of his shirt for a better vantage. 

You lightly sink your teeth into his flesh, just at the juncture where his neck and shoulder meet, and he moans.

“Angel—oh, my g—god…”

As you work your way back up to his pulse point, he still stutters out a little more on the subject of the case: “Angel, the—the trains—I am—tr—trying to—explain…“

You raise your head up innocently.

“Shall I stop, sir?”

Sherlock kisses your lips hungrily, squeezing you tighter, and you wriggle in delight, feeling him grow hard at your ministrations. It gratifies you to no end, when this stern, controlled man falls prey to his own lusts, unable to help the way his length strains at his trousers—and all for you.

“No, no—“ he breathes, and you take your cue eagerly, shifting to straddle his thighs, their breadth forcing your legs wide apart. “Don’t stop, my sweet—ah—angel.”

He fumbles with the fastenings of his trousers, but can’t seem to manage the simple motor function, such is his arousal, especially as your lips return to his neck.

“Let me help you,” you offer, murmuring against his throat as you pepper it with more kisses. “Let me please you, please, Sherlock…”

“God, lo—look what you’ve—done to me,” he sighs, throwing up his hands. Laughing breathlessly, you finish the job yourself, a rapturous smile of triumph gracing your lips as your hand wraps around his freed cock, already leaking and flushed with desire. “You…you undo me completely,” he groans, thrusting up into your grasp. “Fuck, please, my darling girl, please, let me feel you—“

“Yes, Sherlock, anything you want!”

This seems to reinvigorate him, and he growls, pushing aside your skirts roughly. He does not allow the time for you to rise and doff your undergarments, but instead simply tears the delicate fabric at the seams to reveal your dripping petals.

“I’ll buy—buy you more,” he promises, as you rock your wet heat against his achingly hard cock. “What do you want, angel? What can I give? All the lace in the world. A dozen gowns, a hundred, anything for you—emeralds or pearls or—oh, Christ, you are so fucking tight I can hardly—“ This as you sink down on him, sheathing him to the hilt with your own a cry of ecstasy. “I’ll give you the world. Oh, my love…”

You continue to besiege his neck as you ride him, finding out each sweet spot that makes him clutch your hips all the harder, with Sherlock babbling out a litany of absolute filth mixed with romantic nonsense:

“That pretty, pretty mouth god your lips—you will be the death of me, angel!”

Sherlock hardly lasts a moment more after your climax causes you to clench around him, holding him tight and deep and perfect, and he gasps your name and a stammering profession of love as he spills himself inside you. You gaze into his eyes as they come back into focus, and you share a little panting laughter, for you are both an absolute mess of half-discarded clothes, dripping seed, and riotously disheveled hair. You have even left a clear mark on his neck, which makes you feel as grand as the empress of the earth, to have laid such an intimate claim upon his otherwise unassailable body. Murmuring quiet, loving little praises, you help one another to undress fully, till you stand before one another fully natural, each drinking in the sight of the other.

“My god. Just look at you, Mrs. Holmes.”

“You are the most beautiful man alive!” you cannot help but exclaim, and he tosses his head in evident pride at the compliment. How you love to make him vain.

“And at last, I am thinking clearly—for the first time all day!” he says, making you laugh again, then he lets out an exultant “Ha!” and strides over towards the gallery of evidence pinned to the wall. “You’ve done it. By Jove, Mrs. Holmes, you have knocked the scales from my eyes. I see the whole design now…”

“Then let me fetch you fresh clothes—and some water to wash, hmm?”

“Yes, give me leave a little while to dole out justice upon Moriarty. And then turnabout’s fair play for you, wife: I think your lovely neck deserves a mark or two of its own…”

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