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youvebeenlivingfictional · 2 years

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Kinktober Day 26

Kinktober Masterlist

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+ Only. Any minors interacting with ANY of these Kinktober prompts will be blocked.

Notes: Alexa, play I Could've Danced All Night from My Fair Lady

Also this is a Colombina mask

And these are combinations

Warnings: Flouting of Victorian mores; riding; piv unprotected sex

One night. You tell yourself that you’ll go for a single night. It's dangerous as it is, and there's a chance that you could be caught, and fired. God knows your prospects would be limited then. Everyone in London society knows one another, and certainly an outsider would be caught out immediately—but you can’t resist the temptation.

It's the one night in your life when you can be someone fascinating and mysterious, not an otherwise ignored and nameless ladies maid.

That first night of the masquerade is an absolute thrill. Your dance card is filled by some of the most prominent names in town—dukes, counts, ministers, barristers. The whispers of fascinated, envious women follow you from the dance floor, to the refreshments table, and back to the dance floor again. You keep your distance, offering minimal answers, hiding your coy smiles behind your fan. Before the clock can strike midnight, you hurry away, hailing a hansom and stopping far from the home that you live and work in.

You scurry into the cellar, hurriedly stripping out of your borrowed finery and changing back into your working clothes. You tuck the dress into a pile of your mistress’ laundry, and hurry to finish your chores. When you lay down, you can’t fall asleep. The memories of being twirled around in men’s arms, in drinking fine wine and eating good food, swirled about your head, as if taunting you.

There are another two nights of festivities…But you certainly can’t attend.

This evening had been far too risky, and it would be more difficult to sneak there and back in a borrowed dress and your golden, bejeweled Colombina mask.

It’s all over the society pages the next morning—the masked mystery woman that swept everyone’s attention. It sends excited flutters through your belly, and makes warmth rise in your cheeks. You can hardly meet the eyes of your fellow servants, nor speak, lest you give away your truth and excitement.

The second night of the ball is just as exciting as the first. The whispers increase, and follow you; you flutter through the evening, reveling in the ease of your movement on the dance floor, and the flow of conversation with men that would never give you another look otherwise.

It’s a lark—it’s a laugh—until you’re drawn into the arms of Sherlock Holmes.

It's impossible not to recognize him; he's flouted the masks that the many of you have donned. You know who he is, of course. Everyone knows the detective. Everyone is aware of his sleuthing prowess, his ability to get the things that he needs out of criminals. You're grateful for the gloves on your hands. You’re certain your sweaty palms would give your panic away—but perhaps he finds it in another way, as his eyes skim your face with curious fascination.

“You’ve caused quite a stir,” He comments. His voice takes you by surprise—it’s lower and warmer than you thought it may be.

“Have I?”

“I think you’re well aware that you have.”

“I’m merely dancing.”

He chuckles.

“It is not your dancing that inspires conversation, my lady.”

My lady. The term is one that’s been lobbed in your direction repeatedly, but there’s a certain type of warmth to Mr. Holmes’ voice. You wonder if he’s trying to put you at ease—to work your truth out of you. It raises your hackles.

“Oh no?”

“You may act coy, but you know as well as I that you’ve captured the attention of Mayfair.”

“I hardly pay attention to gossip, and it seems below you, Mr. Holmes.”

“I pay no mind to gossip.”

“Then what has captured your attention?”

“A good mystery.”

Your face heats. As the dance ends, you prepare to part ways, but Mr. Holmes curls his arm around yours, guiding you from the dance floor.

In the few minutes spent in My. Holmes’ company, you find yourself flustered and nervous. He asks questions that seem fairly innocuous to you, but are almost certainly pointed to him.

You’re aware of Mr. Holmes’ focus on you for the remainder of the evening. You can’t help but note the way he watches you, and are certain that he speaks to everyone with whom you’ve spoken. Tonight, you hurry out earlier than that the evening before. You do as you did before, hailing a hansom and having it stop a ways away, skulking through dark alleys and corners to reach home. You’re careful as you disrobe, tucking the dress away and hiding the Colombiana mask in your quarters.

There’s only one more night of festivities. You’re not sure if you dare return, especially now that Sherlock Holmes seems to be interested in you—at least, interested in who you may be behind the mask.

“Will you answer the door!” Your mistress calls irritatedly, forgoing the bell that she would typically use to summon you. You scoff, pushing away from the table, and from your midday meal. The footman must be occupied. You hurry up from the kitchen, rounding to the front hall yanking the door open.

It’s a mistake.

You recognize the man immediately.

Sherlock Holmes turns to face you, expression bright and expectant. You can’t help but stare for a moment. How has he found you already? How did he know—

“Good morning,” He nods. “I’m looking for—” Oh, Lord above, Saints preserve you— “Mrs. Haskins.”

Haskins. Mrs. Haskins? You are not Mrs. Haskins, and isn’t he looking for—

Holmes’ brows raise as you stare wordlessly at him.

“Is this not the right address?” He plies into your silence. You nod hurriedly, taking a step back and holding the door as he walks past you, into the foyer. You close the door, then take hold of his hat.

“Who is it!” Mrs. Haskins calls in from the drawing room. You plan on leading the way and introducing him, but Mr. Holmes lightly waves you off, heading into the drawing room. You stare after him, breath leaving you as you begin to panic in the front hall. Surely he’s going to tell Mrs. Haskins that you’re the mystery woman from the last two nights of the ball.

When your name is called just a moment later, you’re certain that the jig is up. You walk gravely into the drawing room, as if going to the gallows. But you find the two of in fine fettle, smiling and chuckling.

“Tea,” Mrs. Haskins orders you simply before turning her attention back to Mr. Holmes. You dip a minute curtsy before hurrying to leave.

Mr. Holmes’ visit is a short, but harrowing one. You can’t make out too much of the conversation through the door; what you can catch on isn’t enough to draw any conclusions. You see Mr. Holmes out, passing his hat over to him and hardly meeting his eyes. He doesn’t leave right away. He stops, tipping his head and searching your face. Your eyes flicker nervously to his. He holds your gaze for a long moment, eyes narrowing slightly before he looses a soft, “Hm.”

And then he gives you a short nod, turns, and leaves.

As the door closes behind him, you nearly bow in on yourself, your stomach churning with panic.

There’s no good reason for you to return the third and final night of the masquerade. You’re tempting hubris.

But there you are, in another borrowed dress and your Colombina mask. You find yourself whirling around the dance floor with suitor after suitor. You’re trying to catch and hold every moment of mirth, certain it’ll be your last.

When you find yourself in Mr. Holmes’ arms again, you can’t help but hold yourself with stiff, nervous reserve. He seems to clock your tension, and rather than chat with you as you had the night before, you dance in silence. However, as last night, he takes hold of your arm, leading you from the floor. He steers you around the corner, onto the veranda. He lets go of you, tucking his hands in his pockets and taking slow, meandering steps. Your arms curl around yourself against the night chill, your eyes darting around.

“I’ve worked many a case in my time,” He says, “But in all my years, they’ve never been crime-free.”

“Crime-free?” You frown.

“Mm.” He turns to face you, brow raising. “From what I can tell, you’re not doing anything illegal. You’re attending a ball. You haven’t given anyone a false name–or any name, in fact. Nothing has come up missing from anyone that you’ve danced with, ad there haven’t been any reports of above-average crimes or robberies on the other side of town.”

“You thought I might be a distraction.”

“The principle of the magician’s assistant,” He nods, “Directing the audience to focus on a beautiful woman while the trick is carried out in plain sight.”

You scoff in irritation, turning your face from his.

“I was wrong,” He concedes, taking a few steps closer. “But I will admit, I cannot ascertain your purpose, and it…Concerns me.”

You’re quiet for a moment, lowering your eyes to his chest, your head shaking a little bit.

“Why must every divergent action be deemed malicious?” You ask softly, more to yourself then to him. “Why can’t someone simply want a change? A chance to be someone other than themselves, for just an hour or two?”

You feel Sherlock stop just in front of you, hardly a breath away. He grasps your chin, tipping your head up to meet his eyes. You search his expression as he’s searched yours. You’ve no clue what he may be thinking—what he may know about you, or what he may want to know.

“Is that what you wanted?” He murmurs. You nod a touch, but not enough to pull free from his grasp. Your tongue swipes over over your lips absently. Heat bolts through you as his eyes lower curiously to your lips.

“And at midnight? Will you disappear again?” He murmurs.

You nod.

“I should.”

“And what will you do with your remaining time? Go back in,” He takes a step closer, his chest brushing yours, “Or allow us to take full advantage of your anonymity?”

You’re quiet for a moment, taking in the full meaning of his words.

“Do you take me for a loose woman, Mr. Holmes?”

“Only if you take yourself for one.”

The mask stays on—it’s your only stipulation. He concedes, taking pleasure in riding you of your mistress’ finery. It falls into a crumpled mess on the floor of his sitting room. He draws you into his lap, loosening the top few ties of your corset before yanking open the buttons of your combinations. You give his chest a shove, with a spirit and a vigor that you’ve never felt before in your life. He stumbles back against his settee, a laughing huff pushing out of him as his back hits the puffed cushion. You clamber onto his lap, shivering as cool air brushes your cunt through your crotchless combinations.

Sherlock hooks his arm around your middle to steady you, his mouth seeking yours with heated desperation. Your mask knocks into his forehead as you seek and share one another’s kisses. You lean back just a touch, hand lowering to work at his belt and the fastening of his pants. As you do, Sherlock ducks his head, mouthing and sucking at your breasts where they’re exposing. You shiver as he draws one of your nipples into his mouth, lapping and teasing it with a groan. You press up into his lips, hips pushing down against his as your cunt throbs with need.

Sherlock’s hand lowers to between your legs, teasing and swiping at your neglected clit. The feeling punches a sound out of you, your mouth falling open in shock, head tipping back as you savor the waves of pleasure pushing over you. Sherlock releases your tit with a thick slurping noise. He grips your hips, teasing his cock against your tingling pussy. You tip your head down to look at him, nerves clenching in your stomach.

He searches your face for a moment, gaze smoothing from your mask to your eyes to your lips, then up again. You rest your hands on his shoulders, giving them a squeeze and steadying yourself. He nods in turn, curling his arm more tightly around you. Your mouth falls open as he eases his cock up into you. His fingers flex in the fabric of the chemise top as your cunt opens and flutters for him. You see him clench his jaw and hear him draw a deep breath in through his nose.

A grin curls on your lips as you feel a sense of power wash over you. You’ve never made a man still himself like this before—you’ve never made a man need to control himself like this. It’s a feeling that you fear you could grow addicted to.

Sherlock seems to sense your growing pride. He lets out one of those damnable thoughtful hums before he shoves his hips up into you. Your sense of power is lost as easily as it’s gained. You gasp, your grip on Sherlock’s shoulders tightening. He leans up, sucking harsh kisses to your neck between his grunts and harsh pants. The fabric of his clothing brushes roughly against your exposed skin as you writhe together.

Sherlock turns his head, sinking his teeth into your shoulder as his hips drive and screw up against yours. The feeling makes you shudder, a whimper falling from your lips as he takes full control of your pace and movement, shifting and turning you like you’re a rag doll. You gasp as a feeling coils in your belly, and slide your hands up into his hair. He grits out a groan, looking up at you. His lips are flushed and plumped from your kisses; there’s a sweet pink blush rising in his cheeks.

His eyelids flutter as he grinds into you with short, harsh thrusts. You draw in a sharp breath as the coiling feeling springs, sending you over the edge. You tip your head forward, the edge of your mask knocking against Sherlock’s cheek as you curl closer. The two of you go still, and the room is quiet, save for the mingling or your and Sherlock’s breath. You draw away a touch, smiling as Sherlock’s arm tugs you back against his chest. You reach down, patting his cheek gently before you carefully rise to your feet. His arm falls away from you, finally.

You stand on wobbly feet, primly righting your straps, top, and the bottom of your combinations. You walk over to where your dress was discarded, crouching and picking it up to put it back on.

“Best get that back to Mrs. Haskins.”

You freeze at his words. You turn slowly, eyes wide, hands shaking and tightening in the dress' fabric at his comment. Sherlock is watching you knowingly aas he buttons up his pants. You begin to open your mouth, to make your excuses, but he waves you off as he stands.

“I won’t tell,” He swears. Your brow furrows, shaking your head in confusion.

“Why not?”

“What you’ve done hasn’t hurt anyone.”

He reaches up, hands hovering on either side of your mask, waiting. You nod a little bit and close your eyes as he gently unfastens the mask and lifts it from your face. He turns it over in his hand before he meets your eye from beneath his lashes.

“...How did you know?” You ask softly. Sherlock smiles, raising his hand and dragging his knuckle gently along your cheek.

“I'd be a fool to forget those eyes.”

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#Sherlock Holmes x Reader #Sherlock Holmes x You #Sherlock Holmes/Reader #Sherlock Holmes/You #Sherlock Holmes fic #Sherlock Holmes imagine #Kinktober #Kinktober 2022 #Youvebeenlivingfictional Kinktober 2022

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