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mykinkyyandere · 2 years

Note

What do you think of Sherlock with a crybaby reader? The reader is very sensitive, anything someone says or any situation that is a little embarrassing, the reader starts to cry a lot. Although Sherlock is always defensive when she starts to cry, he can't deny that he is always turned on with her little eyes filled with tears (Maybe a smut with dacriphilia and size kink. I'm sorry I'm making so many requests about Sherlock, I just love this man too much, and so little dark content about it :C)

Crybaby

AO3

Pairings: Yandere/Dark! Sherlock Holmes X gn!Reader

Summary: His reaction to a crybaby reader.

Warnings: Smut, +18, non-con/dub-con, yandere, dark, obsessive/possessive, kidnapped reader, taking advantage of the naive reader, manipulating, dacryphilia kink (?), praise kink

When Sherlock is busy, his intolerance to the people around him doubles. People are intolerably idiot, blind and sentimental. Their brains can't process obvious evidences, their eyes are blind to facts and their hearts are their biggest weakness. Sherlock is a strong man isolated from all those dangers. He doesn't let anything get in the way of his logic and facts.

John's unnecessary sentimentality towards the victims bothers him. He told John many times that he's being useless, citing crying over patients who were dying in hospitals won't help them. The fact that John sees him as a monster or a robot just proves his logic.

It's a big shock to him that such a sociopathic guy is attracted to a crybaby like you. Although he may try to deny at first, he accepts your sensitive nature over time. His disregard for emotions was the big reason why he didn't want you because he had never felt such intense emotions before and you were scaring him. But his twisted feelings for you overcame his fear and he embraced you with all your disadvantages. Now you're the only person who can be there even when he's busy.

It confuses not just Greg and John, but everyone including Mrs. Hudson that you're the only one who doesn't piss him off. You're supposed to piss him off the most! You start to cry easily because of something you've watched, heard or read, and Sherlock patiently takes you in his arms every time. His voice is kind when he asks you what happened. He knows it's nothing serious and you're just upset over something silly, but he's never spoken down to you. No matter how small it is, he nods, confirm you with his words and comforts you.

He thinks your mind is too sensitive. It's not conducive to rationality and is doomed to remain completely erroneous. You are like that, very sensitive and it's his job to protect you. It's not just because he's obsessed with you that he keeps you by his side all the time. He keeps you by his side as much as possible to make sure you're okay rather than leaving you alone.

When you cry, he caresses your hair and looks straight into your eyes, even if you're not looking at him. All this crying is so nonsensical to him, but he's so exciting to watch you. It's perfect to observe a different situation and it relates to you. Normally he can't stand crying people and finds it so boring, but everything is just so interesting with you.

It's okay for him to stop his work to comfront you. When Greg witnessed this, he frowned and opened his mouth in surprise. Half a minute after Sherlock insulted his intelligence and told him not to distract him, he walked over to your trembling body and asked in a soft voice what was wrong. He took you in his arms, placed multiple kisses on your cheek, then pointed Greg to the door. "Leave. Your presence bothers me."

And one day, of course, Greg would say something to upset you, and Sherlock knew this moment would come. John knows how protective Sherlock is about you, and he learned the hard way not to mess with you a long time ago. Someone like Sherlock gets so possessive over someone like you, of course it leaves questions in their little minds. John knows how much Greg will regret making you cry. Oh, he's going to regret it so much.

Sherlock hides all this cruel and violent side of himself from you. It wouldn't just make you cry, it would also traumatize you. He secretly deals with the situations and people you cry for, and loves to see you waiting for him when he gets back to his flat. It must be a terrible thing to have nowhere to go and be so helpless, luckily you have Sherlock. You may cry because you're being shy when he looks at you while talking to you, or when you see him bleeding for some reason. Sherlock will always smile at you, looking into your eyes as if he can see what's on your mind.

In fact, there are times when your crying gives him some kind of pleasure. If you're crying from pain or serious sadness, he hates it. But if you cry when you're angry or embarrassed, because of something insignificant, he finds it quite... arousing.

At such times, his steps are slower, his voice is deeper, and his breathing is heavier as he comes to you. As he picks you up, his hands roam around your body longer than they should, he brings his face close to your neck while looking at you, and starts kissing your tears from there till he reaches your eyes. He feels his body burning as he asks what happened. He loves to listen to your sobbings so closely. He loves your trembling and high voice as you speak.

He takes you to his bedroom every time, saying he'll make you feel good. You whimper as he takes off your clothes and tell him to stop but he tells you to trust him. He makes you feel so good every time, doesn't he? You're his, don't forget that.

Your reaction when you see his big cock never changes. You gasp and cry more. You remember how he fits into you so hard and you're so scared, perfect. Each time, he leans over your face and places kisses all over to shush you. He knows you'll never stop crying and he doesn't want you to stop anyway. It's just his instinctive reaction based on your own reaction. Nothing makes his cock throbbing so hard but you begging him to stop and sobbing. Your screams as he thrusts himself in and your miserable cries that follow is delightful.

He doesn't know why your cries turn him on so much. He doesn't know why he secretly wishes you not to stop crying while he comforts you. He must hate your crying in every way. It should cause him pain, not pleasure. Well, he doesn't have time to think about that as his cock explores your tight walls again. Why do you have to be so sweet and sensitive?

He always makes sure you cum too. Makes sure you enjoy it. Even with sobs, you have to cum. Afterwards he kisses your trembling lips and presses your body to himself. You're so tired and too scared to move.

He's so careful and gentle while washing you. He makes sure to be quick. Your cries turn into soft sighs and you hold on to him. He always praises you while he washes you. He tells how brave and a good baby you are for him that he's so proud of you, that you make him feel so good and you're so special. He puts you in his bed and tells you how much he loves you before you fall asleep.

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multific · 2 years

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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

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mybones537 · 5 months

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Time chapter 5 (Moriarty the Patriot x reader)

This has already been posted on wattpad under the same username

London, England 1875

It’s been 3 months now since I’ve been here, it's now October. I’m now working as a doctor for a few nobles, I use half the money I earn for personal stuff and the rest I use for medical care to help the lower classes.

Last month a young girl came up to me and she asked me to come take a look at her big sister. They live in the slums. I ended up spending 2 weeks there helping sick people. After that I realised that there is clearly no proper medical system in this country, but I can’t expect much from 1800s England.

After that day I saved that heart attack victim, I've been popular as a doctor. I was on the front page of the newspaper. One person accused me of being a witch, but they were deemed insane so nothing happened luckily. A lot of other doctors have tried to debunk my way of practice, but each time they failed. I’ve had a hundred percent success rate since I got here. My medical textbooks have helped a lot and the history textbook turned out to be a medical history, which helped a lot. Thanks to my books I have been able to more easily figure out what is most likely wrong with my patients.

Sherlock has come by once or twice asking some medical questions relating to his cases. I’ve managed to help him here and there. Lestrade comes and visits once in a while to see how I’ve been doing. I often see Miss Hudson. We have become good friends.

About a week ago I was on my way to a patient when I started to notice a man following me. I’ve tried to figure out who he is and why he’s following me. After that started, I purchased a gun and bullets for self defence and kept it on me at all times. I’ve been cautious whenever I go out. This is starting to freak me out.

Today I have been extremely careful. I have only gone out to see one or two patients today.

I had just finished with my last patient for today, I was on my way back to my apartment in Baker Street. When I suddenly fell unconscious. I felt my body being lifted up.

3 hours later

I woke up with a pain in my neck and a throbbing headache. It was dark, very dark. I tried to move but felt my arms and legs were bound to the chair I’m sitting in. I tried to untie the restraints but they were too tight.

The door opened and a man walked in, he was holding a lantern. The light from the lantern was dim but it was bright enough for me to see my surroundings, brick walls and an old oak door. The man that walked has short naive blue hair similar to Sherlock. The same eyes as him, he has that same look, he’s trying to read me but almost seems to have a look of confusion. He seemed slightly taller than him, his demeanour was commanding respect. He seemed older than Sherlock, but based on genetics I’m guessing he is Sherlock's older brother.

“You’re Sherlock’s older brother aren’t you? I’ve seen you before, you’re the guy who’s been following me” I asked, he looked surprised but then covered it up with a smirk.

“So you are as good as they say. I usually get the other guys to do it but you intrigue me” He walked up to me, he leaned down and lifted up my chin. He looked me in the eyes, then moved my head from side to side. “My name is Mycroft Holmes… you’re awfully pretty and I have some questions for you”

“And why would I answer any of your questions? The only thing I know about you is that you are Sherlock’s brother, you are practically the British government, you are at least 7 years older than him, he despises you but you still care about him’’ I said to him.

“Well you clearly know more about me than I do you. I’ve done a background search on you but the only thing that came up was from 3 months ago. I even pulled some strings to see if I could find you at all but not a single thing came up. I expected to at least find your medical degree since you’re a doctor, but nothing not a thing” My blood ran cold. He was onto me.

Fuck. What do I do now? I doubt I will be able to fool him. He’s Sherlock’s older brother, he is probably even more observant than Sherlock. I’m done for.

“Don’t know why you couldn’t find anything, maybe there was a mistake.” I said lying through my teeth.

“You see at first I thought so, but after I checked another 2 times I started to suspect something wasn’t right” He let go of my chin but still leaned in close. “Now Dr (last name) you got some explaining to do”

#moriarty the patriot #albert james moriarty #louis james moriarty #william james moriarty #yuukoku no moriarty #james moriarty #sebastian moran #mycroft holmes #yuukuko no moriarty #moriarty #sherlock fanfic

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royalydamned · 3 years

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SOAKED

|Mycroft Holmes x Reader|

|AN|: I haven't written one shot, let alone something x reader in like? two years? maybe? Reader is written as non-specified gender and is only referred to as "you" , so no pronouns for reader. My love for Mycroft suddenly hit me like a truck after years so I had to contribute.

Summary: Bit of rain, whole lot of feelings, and one love confession. Maybe storms aren't that bad, if they show you that you are worthy of love after all. In Mycroft's case for sure.

Mycroft sighed as he rubbed his tired eyes. The clock on the wall in front of him showed early afternoon, yet cold and darkness spread outside of his windows as the sun hid behind heavy clouds early in the morning. Peaceful but gloomy day. Still, the heavy pounding of rain against the glass of widows and road, as well as the rustle of the wet trees in the wind was oddly peaceful and comforting. He had a hard day of work behind him, and another evening of more work ahead, just another weak attempt to distract himself from a foul mood he was put in because of the complications that came with the weather.

Important plans, well, to him at least. He was supposed to get to see you.

A busy man he was, that wasn't even up for a question. His schedule tightly packed with meetings, paperwork and more than occasional fixing of his brother's mess, or just simply preventing it, it left a very little time for pleasant distractions such as a quiet time spend with delicious cup of tea and your sweet smile. Today was not the day for distraction it seemed, certainly not as big as your company, that left him flustered and distracted hours after you said your goodbyes.

Your meetings were always a special occasion, even if they were short, brief and unfrequent because of how far you lived, Mycroft always cherished them for weeks following, replaying your lovely laugh and almost sparkling eyes in his head as he woke up and texted you a good morning message, or as he layed down to sleep and wished you sweet dreams.

He might have...cared. For you, your happiness, your well being. Much more than he would ever admit, to others that is. Inside his own mind, he knew far too well how utterly enamored he was with you.

The eldest Holmes wasn't the one to act, God forbid act upon his feelings. He could watch you, with crushing ache in his heart and deep longing as you always talked about your newest acquaintanceship, secretly wishing you held the same sentiments as he did.

You never seemed to have a shortage of suitors at your heels, one better looking that the other, with charming smiles and magnetic personas. Likeable, social, just as you deserved. While he--, well, there was no need to ruin his day further with self-describtions. He knew very well how others percieved him and how he looked. Sherlock never failed to remind him if he occasionally forgot.

Mycroft Holmes was aware, that he was nothing anyone would have ever wanted.

The relationship the two of you had now was more than he could ask for, in all honesty. Time spent together, secrets shared in quiet moments and deep trust you held, it was enough. It was all he needed, if he still could watch over you.

Outside a thunder struck, pulling him from the spiral of thoughts that he always seemed to fall into in the loneliest moments. With a deep sigh he stood up from behind his desk, eyes burning from how long he stared into the bright computer screen, and made his way downstairs into the liquor cabinet. He deserved a small break.

His house was dark, almost like a nighttime had fallen outside, but he didn't bother turning on the lights, instead he carefully climbed down the stairs, gripping the wooden railing at the side for security. By the end of the staircase, he deeply regretted his foolish decision, but before he could make even one step towards the nearest lightswitch, a doorbell stopped him.

Confused, he opened the door, only praying not to see his younger brother and his babysitter standing outside, as he had no intention nor the mood to put up with his obnoxious antics this afternoon, but instead his eyes landed on you.

A soft surpised gasp escaped his mouth as he saw you on his doorstep, shivering with cold, your clothes completely soaked, excess droplets falling on your face and the tiles outside, and arms cluthing yourself for the tiniest bit of warmth.

"|Y/N|?" He asked in quiet disbelief, almost as if he thought he was imagining you.

"We agreed to meet after too long, like hell a bit of rain would stop me," you replied with a victorious grin, lips almost purple from the cold and your whole body visibly trembling.

"Foolish," he muttered pulling you gently inside from the atrocious weather. "You are completely soaked."

"You apparently have that effect on me," you smirked, the witty remark escaping your lips without control, and Mycroft was glad you couldn't see the embarrassed shade his cheeks caught. "No, but really, I walked most of the time. You know the tube is too far away from your place, and I didn't have enough money for a cab, I figured it isn't going to be that bad."

"It was."

"It was," you agreed, rubbing your hands together in quick motions, trying to gain the feeling back into your fingers.

"You should change or else you'll catch cold, come." You let him grab your hand, his skin pleasantly warm against your cold numbed one. He tried to think about anything else rather than the feeling of your connected hands, there were more important things now than such minor distractions. The image of you walking outside in the storm, just to see him. Just to be with him. It sent the most pleasant feeling into his stomach, the idea that maybe, he was almost as important to you as you were to him. But that was nothing but a wishful thinking, a desire of a naive man, and that is not who Mycroft was. There was no need for false hopes and embellished reality.

He lead you into his bedroom, the idea of what it would normally mean coloring his cheeks, but he ignored those intrusive thoughts, focusing on helping you warm up in any way possible. "You have to change into dry clothes. Mine should be sufficient for now."

"Alright." Came your voice from behind him, and he turned around to see your topless form.

His breath hitched as he quickly dropped his gaze onto the floor, trying to keep the image he saw out of his mind, out of respect for you. No matter how badly he wished to remember it. Your skin glistening with water, body hiding under the clothes he strangely found himself craving, too primal and illogical for himself to admit. It was too hard keeping his head clear, with the sight from a few seconds ago burned into his brain, unable to ignore, unablet to forget, twisting his inside it certain ways he rarely felt before.

"I will wait outside," he stated finally, pushing the neatly folded pile of clothing towards you without looking up in the slightest, and left the room.

When he shut the door after him, he finally felt like he could breathe easily again. Leaning against the doorframe, replaying the moment again and again, against his own better judgemnet, without the willpower to stop himself, and gulped heavily, trying to get rid of the strange sensation inside of him.

It was like his feelings weren't enough. Like the fact that he, after all, wasn't too different to others, as he was so deeply affected by the helpless emotions of love and how deeply he was hurting with every moment without you. So depended on your presence bringing him joy. Now he steeped so low as physical attraction, pure desire of your touch and your body. He would mock himself if he could, you were just too much.

A soft click of the doorknob caught his attention, and stayed almost staring, asking himself over and over again, why does he love the sight of you in his clothes so much.

You hugged yourself tightly, still trembling significanty, but now at least rid of the wet clothes, and smiled up at him, with warmth only you could muster at such a moment. "This is much better, thank you. Sorry for such complications."

"Nonsense," he huffed almost annoyed, like your health would ever be a complication. To him. Ridiculous. "Come, I think fire and a nice cup of tea will warm you up." Placing a hand on the small of your back, he led you back downstairs, where the big fireplace was. The close proximity the gesture put you in flustered you both, but Mycroft didn't want to let go. And neither did you.

You turned to him, looking up into his face, smiling mischieviously when he caught your eyes. "Don't you have anything stronger?"

The corner of his mouth twitched upwards, strongly liking your idea. "Your wish is my command."

Downstairs, he found the thickest blanket he had, tightly wrapping it around your shoulders, and you snuggled into its comfort immediately, watching him struggle to start a fire.

"I suppose you aren't the one for camping," you mused with a small smile, giggling shortly at his grimace.

"My, how could you possibly deduce that?" A tiny flame sparked inside, dacing across the thick logs of wood before disappearing under them, and growing rapidly. Mycroft stood up from the ground, dusting off the dirt and ashes from his hands and clothes, and looked rather proudly at his work.

"I guess I was wrong. You are full of surprises, Mr. Holmes." A warm light from the fireplace illuminated your features, the growing flames sparkling in your eyes, and Mycroft stayed just to watch. He didn't believe in perfection, that concept was unachievable and he never believed in such terms, but as he watched you in this moment, hair frizzy as they were drying from the water, the messy strands falling into your face, and just then as he watched the orange light color your skin with small smile on your lips , he though you were the only one that came close.

"Well," he inhaled sharply, pulling himself from the love-sick trance, and smiled back at you, the expression coming off more forced than it really was. "I shall go and fetch us something to drink."

Later he came back with two short glasses and bottle of a still unopened liquor bottle, sealed with silver paper and a stamp of the highest quality, almost unnoticable smile playing on his lips as he made his way back to you, where you set cross-legged on the little carpet right in front of the fire. He copied your position, awkardly folding his legs, your knees almost touching, and placed the two glasses into the space between you.

"I'm just," he started unsurely, pouring each of you a glass with impressive precision in the amount, and looked at you again, almost shyly. "I'm very glad we got to spend our evening together after all."

"I'm very glad as well Mycroft," you answered, a fond look in your eyes as you looked at the man in front of you and raised your glass in a silent gesture. He repeated the motion, nodding his head courtly your direction, and took a small sip, watching you in astonishment as you drank it all at once. "Getting warmer already," you laughed, watching the smile on his face widen at your comment and poured you another glass.

You set together for what felt like hours, and maybe it was, in comfortable silence by the melody of the cracking fire beside you, the bottle almost fully drank and the personal space between you long gone. Your feet were tangled together in the middle, knees pressed against each other, both supporting your heads on your hands as you talked, with blissful smiles and faces almost too close.

Mycroft adjusted his posture, resting his chin on his connected hands supported on his thighs as he watched you attentively, noticing and drinking in every detail of your face, your voice your tipsy mannerisms. He could never tear his gaze off you, you were captivating, like a mysterious painting hanging in the gallery, attracting everyone to look, to try to figure it out, and know everything about it. But he knew everything about you, and still he wanted to learn even more. Secrets you never told him, things he simply couldn't just see. Every morning he wanted to see your face, to give him the strenght to go through it, and ever evening he wanted to come back to it, because you felt like home. And Mycroft hated himself for being so melodramatic. This wasn't him, all these thoughts, all these emotions, they were stronger than his healthy judgement, which was already clouded by alcohol.

"Wasn't your partner worried, just going outside in such a storm?" You huffed out a breath, both amusement and annoyance mixing in that display of emotion, and Mycroft quite couldn't place, what it meant.

"We broke up several days ago."

"I am very sorry to hear that," he said genuinely, even though inside he felt selfish joy that he won't have to hear about yet another perfect match for you, another reminder of everything he wasn't. And could never be. Nothing you wanted nor needed.

"Don't be, nobody I met yet was really for me," you mumbled, dropping your eyes into the empty glass in your hands, brows furrowed in deep thought.

"Why is that?" He took the last sip from his glass and carefully set it on the coffee table by his side, his full attention at you again.

"When you meet so many people, good-looking, charming and kind people, but none of them fits you, none of them is right because you set impossible standard, almost unachievable by most people." You set aside your own glass, shifting even closer to him, hearing how he took in a sharp breath, hesitantly straightening his back.

"That must happen when one deserves perfection," he answered looking longinly into your eyes, unable to look away. You were truly hypnotising, the only thing he could look at hours without a break and never get tired. The only person he grew to love so deeply. Truly one of a kind.

"Oh, not perfection, heavens no," you laghed, throwing your head back a little at that, and he still couldn't look away. Why was it so amusing, someone as perfect, as flawless, deserved nothing less than the same. "The thing being, that it's too far from perfection, and in a world where people desire nothing more than to eliminate their flaws, something perfectly imperfect is unachievable."

You leaned closer to him, licking your lips, already pink and sweet again, without realizing, and he almost lost his control. Swallowing heavily, he forced himself to look back into your eyes, trying to forget about the questions appearing in his mind. How would your lips possibly taste? How would it feel having you so close? Heating you up with his own body, blanket too long forgotten?

He couldn't think that way. He had to collect himself, but he didn't know how. Subconciously, he leaned in as well, the gap between your faces just inches apart, your breaths almost shared in one, and it felt like he was dreaming. If that was the truth, he never wanted to wake up.

"They all lacked just one thing though," you whispered, placing your hand on his leg for support, making Mycroft to freeze completely, too disturbed by the contact and the overwhelming heat it sent through his body to think about anything else.

"That being?" he forced himself to say, his throat tight and voice quiet, almost as if he had lost his breath.

"They just weren't...you." A simple statement, a plain sentence bearing more meaning than most conversations he had been part of. His gaze abruptly shot back up, cathing he own almost instantly, but no words made their way out. He couldn't talk nor move, shock too obvious on his features, that even a child would know.

His hands moved on his own, the other times brilliant brain, his biggest pride during his whole life now shut off by a few simple words, his body moving without a single though. Your cheek was warm already, burning hot under his skin as he gently caressed it, moving out a fallen strand from your face, tracing your cheekbone with his thumb like you were the most fragile thing in the world.

"May I kiss you?" you breathed out, your eyes looking up at him, sparkling with emotion he thought he would never see in them, and he nodded, fulfilling himself the one wish that seemed too impossible for a realistic man to hold.

Your lips met in the middle, slow and hesitant as you both silently prayed you wouldn't wake u in the middle of the nigh and find out it was yet another dream.

He sighed deeply into the kiss as you moved to sit in his lap and deepened the kiss, pressing your lips against his more roughly, more needily, hands carefully placed on his neck and your whole body so deliciously pressed against his. So hot and soft, an opposite picture to your arrival, sinding the most pleasant shivers through his whole body with every slight movement in his arms. Mycroft's arms ended up wrapped around your waist, tightly cluthing your body to his like he was afraid you would leave. He couldn't let go. He never wanted to let go.

After a short while, seconds, maybe minutes, he didn't know, the best moments of his life, you pulled away, only slightly to cath your breath, and rested your own forehead against his. He could smell the rain in your hair and your unique scent all around him, and he wanted to remember it all. Every single detail, to replay it, to dream it. To live it.

"I love you," he said quietly, too long of a silence from his last words, and finally gather up the courage to open his eyes and look at you again. At your glowing eyes and wide smile, at your messy hair and body tangled in his blanket, in his own gaze, you were the perfect everyone seeked.

"I love you too Mycroft."

And he never wanted to hear a sentence repeated so much as in that moment. Fortunately, you would never get tired of saying it.

#mycroft holmes #mycroft holmes x reader #sherlock #sherlock bbc

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stickyhoney · 4 years

Text

Running Water

Summary: You and Sherlock met months ago at the very same park you sat at now. When Sherlock comes to see you once again, do you let the teasing take a turn?

Word Count: 1.6k

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes (Henry Cavill) x Reader

Warnings: Explicit Language, 18+, smut, public sex, mature themes

“Hello Sherlock.” You sneered. You loved this little game the two of you had going. It was thrilling. You knew you had him on the ropes, probably the only one on this planet that does.

“Hello [y/n]. Looking beautiful as ever.” He pulled his lips into a smirk. Giving your body a slow look over, stopping in all the usual places.

This was the spot you had met some months ago, in a small isolated park. You had been reading next to a small creek, while he had been smoking his pipe under an old oak tree. Every Sunday morning, the two of you followed the same routine. The two of you would sit ten yards away from each other, but never speak. It took a month for him to come speak to you, blabbering on about how bad your taste in books were.

“Would you like to sit beside me, Holmes? The water feels fabulous.” Your feet were bare, drawing figure eights in the running water. Spring had finally come, melting away the ice, leaving the water brisk.

“Do I look like the sort of fellow to put my feet in a creek? Homeless men probably bathe in that water up stream.” The bright sun outlined his silhouette as you peered up at him, creating a foreboding figure.

“Are you always so serious?” Teasing had become somewhat of a sport for you since you had met Sherlock. A sport that was more fun if you had a partner. You ran your left hand through the blades of grass to your side, marking his seat. The other combing through your loose hair.

“Yes. Yes I am.” His fingers began unlooping the laces on his shoes, pulling them off in one go. His socks shortly after. Sitting down beside you, his hands fold out behind him in support. His large feet sank into the cool water, slowly moving in tiny circles.

“Sherlock, I have a question for you.” You rested your chin on your shoulder, gazing at him. “My intuition tells me you will ask me whether I want to hear it or not.” He stares straight ahead into the tall oak trees, seeming unaware of where you were about to take this.

You scoot over quietly, and rest your head on his broad shoulder. The contact making him finally look down on you. His breath hitches, unable to regain composure. You move your hand behind you, slowly moving and caressing his in the grass. His veins are prominent, his fingers somewhat calloused.

“Do you ever think of me?” He desperately tries to keep his cool facade intact. “It is difficult to have a conversation with someone if I don’t think of them.” That is not the answer you wanted to hear. Slowly you wade your feet over to his in the water, creating more friction between you. “Do you ever think of me outside this park?” Between every question grazing up his calf further. “Maybe when you are at home?” His breathing had now come erratic, unlike his usual demeanor. “Maybe when you are lying in bed? All alone with no one there to please you.”

Sherlock always welcomed your teasing, but now it had gone too far. You had gone too far. There was no turning back for the two of you now. “You would like that wouldn’t you? Imagining your lips around me while I chase my own pleasure?” Sherlock had never truly figured you out, only what you had let him see. If he knew one thing though, your teasing hid your true desire. To be dominated, controlled, manhandled. Your eyes were practically begging for him to take you right there.

“Oh I have no idea what you are talking about.” The two of you holding eye contact, while you batted your eyelashes like a naive little schoolgirl. The truth was that hearing Sherlock say that made your body react, in many many ways. Your clit was now sensitive enough to feel the friction of your underwear, your folds had slickened, your body was welcoming him in like a long lost friend. Your thighs pressed together to feed into your hunger for more friction, and Sherlock after all notices everything.

He bends down to your ear, his breath hot. “That isn’t what your body is telling me [y/n].” His body moves back from the creek, his arms pulling you onto his lap. His grip on your arms is so firm, you knew you would have to explain away bruises the next day. Your yelp only excites him more, giggling at the growl he makes when he goes in for your lips.

Your lips pressed firmly against his. His curls were being combed by your fingers, slightly tugged and his scalp kneaded. Sherlock’s massive hands now covered your back, pulling you closer onto him. This action perfectly places your already sensitive center on his hardened cock, causing the both of you to swallow the others moans.

He was becoming hungrier with his kisses and hands, desperately wanting more. Mindfully spreading your skirt, you begin grinding against his erection confined by his trousers.

“I am going to take you right here in this park. I don’t care if we are seen.” His voice gravelly and deep, the vibrations went straight to your core. All you could do to respond was nod.

“Unbuckle my trousers.” Your hands complied, his stern tone stoking your fire. His fly comes open and you palm his erection through his underwear, causing his head to fly back until he fights to regain his composure. “Are you gonna be a good girl, and take me in your mouth?” Again, you nodded. Your hands guided his underwear down, and grasped his length.

Twisting, squeezing, and pulling, your hands prepared him for your mouth. His size matched his frame, very large. Beginning at the base, your tongue slowly drew a line up to his time. Sherlock shuddered at the feather light touch of your tongue, his hands landing in your hair. Licking up his precum, you wrap your lips around him. Your mouth sinks down onto him as far as you can go without it hitting the back of your throat, and use your hands for the rest. You gaze up at Sherlock through your lashes, your eyes capturing the most erotic thing you could imagine. His face was so relaxed. His mouth was agape, his eyes peering down at you, they were dark with desire.

“Fuck, you are doing so good. Such a good girl, even with such a sassy mouth.” The hands behind your head lift you off of him and up to his lips. His fingers yank your underwear down sharply by the hips, so sharply you hear them tear. You lift off the ground, pressing up on your knees allowing Sherlock to press into you. His thick cock stretching your walls, your body adjusting to his girth. You both suck in a long breath as you sink lower and lower onto him.

“So tight for me. I am going to make you scream. Let them hear how good I make you feel.” He dips his face into the crook of your shoulder when you start moving up and down his cock, his breath tickling your collarbone. Your skin felt like you had stayed out in the sun for too long, all your lungs could manage was shallow breaths.

“You make me feel so good baby. Just give it all to me, I can handle it.” You had started grinding down on him, letting him bottom out inside you. He was hitting a place, you had previously thought was unreachable. “Are you sure?” “Yes baby.”

Flipping you onto your back, he never exited you. The grass tickled the back of your neck and thighs. With rough motions, he pulled your skirt up to your shirt allowing him a view of your carnal actions. “So pretty for me.” He placed your legs being on top of his shoulders, and thrusted hard. So hard his balls slapped against you, creating a lewd smack. Your eyes screwed shut, and your mouth hung open. You were no longer a person, just a vessel of pleasure for him to fill. He exited slowly, and thrusted again. He did this over and over, gradually becoming faster and even harder.

His hands traveled to your swollen clit, rubbing in harsh circles. Your lungs felt as though they had been filled, making it impossible for you to even let out a squeak. Your legs were tensing. You knew your end was coming, and so was his.

“I-I-”

“Come for me [y/n]. Come on, be a good girl.”

Your entire body tensed, unable to do anything on your own. Waves of heat ripped through your body from your center, even reaching your toes. You felt your walls gripping onto him, like your body never wanted him to leave. Sherlock’s eyes stayed locked on your face as you had come undone beneath him. He let himself go, shooting warm spurts into you. His jaw hung open, the only thing being released was his silent gasps.

Sherlock fell beside you down in the grass. You both lay there shocked at how amazing that felt. He pulled you in close to him, his chest still trying to calm his breathing. Your head laid on his chest, your hands feeling his hard stomach.

“So… you do think of me outside of this park?” Your teasing would never cease, no matter what happened between the both of you. Sherlock released a deep guttural laugh that made your heart smile.

#sherlock holmes henry cavill #sherlock x reader #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill #henry cavill fanfic #henrycavill #henrycavillsmut

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dearsherlocked · 5 years

Text

Bloodlust - A Sherlock One Shot

Well hello there!

As you might know - or not - I kind of write in my spare time. I already published a Sherlock smutty fluff a little while back, you can find it here if you wish.

Abstract: Y/N has come back to London after eight long and insufferable years. Banished from the city by Jim Moriarty, she begs the consulting criminal to let her work for him again. But there is something broken between them and there is this odd synergy that keeps them telling each other the truth... What links them? What happened in the past? To be forgiven once and for all, Y/N promises Moriarty that she will get rid of Sherlock Holmes for good. A question remain: how?

Pairing: Sherlock! x reader

Warnings: for now, not much. I can’t say for later.

It was a typical penthouse, more of less, with a clear view on House of Parliament, visible through the big windows as in just like the movies. The Thames was lively, some riverboat ride passed slowly, in which tourists flocked as the tide gradually dropped. The Westminster Bridge was still teeming with people crowded with surge. Some of them would stop to watch a young man perform a magic trick. Some more were photographing the Elizabeth Tower, all imposing under the rays of a sun that was slowly descending on the golden horizon, and if Y/N Y/L/N had not known James Moriarty beforehand, she would not have guessed that he had invited her at this exact hour to add a dramatic touch to the scene.

It had been a long time since she had seen him and wouldn’t dare to admit she missed the man. But she had exhausted all her resources and would soon find herself in the streets, with nothing but the little black baggage she was carrying at all times with her. She looked around. The surroundings were devoid of any personality. She knew very well that this penthouse served only as a meeting point for the criminal consultant. He was prowling all over the United Kingdom, if not around the world. He was a ghost, more or less. James Moriarty was never in the same place. The cold and almost absent decor of the apartment gave it a sanitized appearance. She thought of what Moriarty's house might look like if he were given a place to live somewhere. Jim would probably pick bright colours, as he would flock the corridors of his home with the most eccentric paintings. Or maybe it would be the opposite? Did his impulsive personality fill his life enough to keep his surroundings sober and colourless? She was scared of what he might do to her, now that she was at his mercy. He was supposed to play dead. He took a big risk, setting up this meeting which meant that all wasn’t lost, at least for now. She could have hope.

'Ms Y/L/N' said a voice nearby, interrupting her reverie. She turned around to follow her interlocutor. A man was standing straight in front of her, with an imposing posture. He looked at her harshly, waiting for any reaction from her. But she did not fear him; she had seen others, scarier, bigger men. ‘Is Jim coming or is he going to keep me waiting forever?’ She asked.

'Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet!' Exclaimed a voice behind the guard. This voice, Y/N could have recognized it among a hundred others. James Moriarty’s dark eyes lit up against the creeping sun of the room. This lost look in the infinite abysses, those eyes that said everything and did not say anything simultaneously, reflected the unstable personality of the character in front of Y/N. Because Jim Moriarty was a character indeed. He never allowed any facet of truth to emerge on the surface. He alone knew himself as nobody could. His many characters may have been part of his soul, but Moriarty was not part of any of them. As if he was able to divide his mind into many entities, only punctually suggesting some facets of similarity to his own individuality.

'I heard you were looking for a job,' said Jim, confident. The sketch of a mocking smile was drawn quietly to the corners of his lips. 'I'm flattered.' Y/N remained impassive. 'Tell me, Y/N, given how things ended up on the last job I got you, what makes you think I have something for you now?' Y/N shrugged.

'I guess you love me?' She suggested, without restraint, nonchalantly. She tried to decode the expression of the man in front of her. He beamed at her for a long time and behind those glassy eyes, Y/N felt herself engulfed into these bottomless irises. ‘God help me, I do,’ he replied calmly. He pointed his right hand at his face and squeezed the bridge of his nose. He raised his face and then smiled at the young woman. 'But I made you a promise a long time ago. Do you remember the promise I made you?’

How could she forget?

'Do you, Y/N?' Jim added, his eyes darkening, his voice softening. If looks could kill, Y/N was sure she would be dead by now. 'Yes.' 'And despite this promise I made -' he paused, took a deep breath and closed his eyelids gently. '- You show your face here.' 'Jim-' 'Do not Jim me!’ he burst. ‘You know it doesn’t work’ he added, calmly now. Y/N closed her eyes. Maybe it was a mistake. She had made the promise not to return to London. For years she had stood firm, honoured Moriarty’s order to make herself small in this big world. To be forgotten. Why did she think things had changed?

'How's being dead going for you?' She asked, changing the subject. Jim looked confused, a fraction of a second away. 'So good’, he replied with confidence, expiring at once, as he was relieved. She nodded. ‘I can do so much more now.’ ‘Any plan for a resurrection soon?’ He was certainly not going to reveal his plans. Not to her, nor to anyone. He just stood there, speechless, observing her. Studying her. 'You took a big risk, you know?’ She added. He raised his eyebrows, confused. 'Hiring her. She could have messed up on that rooftop.’ 'I had complete faith she would not miss.' 'She hated you.' 'Yes.' Y/N sighed. The conversation was going nowhere. She had to argue her case quickly, otherwise the giant behind Jim would not have any trouble taking her somewhere where she would be forgotten forever. 'I need the work.' Jim scoffed. 'What work?' 'Anything. Give me a kill list, anything will do. Just give me something.' She paused. ‘Please’ she begged. ‘You're not worth my time, I'm afraid,’ Jim replied, looking at his watch. He turned his back. ‘I always was your best shot! Let me get rid of Holmes!’ Jim stopped. Even from behind, Y/N could guess his surprise. 'I can burn him, for once and for all. I’ll do it, Jim. You know I’ll do it for you.' He turned, slowly, letting each muscle move his body almost in slow motion. He put his hands in his pockets and walked towards her. 'Put me back in the field. Let me get near him. And if I succeed, just let me come back home.’ He looked surprised, but amused. Did she just dare her life to him? ‘And if you don’t?’ he asked. Y/N paused and stared at him. ‘Then you'll keep your promise. You get rid of me.’ Jim looked at the young woman. He put his face close to hers, watched her intensely. It had been a long time since he had looked at her like that. Ages. This feeling of closeness was lacking, she had to admit. With Jim in her life, she felt powerful, safe from everything. Protected from any threats. Moriarty finally took her head in his hands. The two beings looked at each other tenderly. Finally, he approached his lips and kissed her forehead. ‘I envy you, you know.’ Still staring deeply into her eyes, he kept talking, almost whispering, with a soft voice. ‘I admire your confidence. You think you’re the girl for this job. I’m moved. You’re so naive. Always has been.’ ‘Jim…’ He pressed his forehead against hers. ‘But I guess we can try. I have to admit, it’s a win-win for me. You succeed, I am thriving. You fail, I’m getting rid of you! It’s settled then,’ he laughed. He undid his grip and started to walk away. ‘What’s settled? Jim! What is settled?’ she repeatedly shouted at the man. He stopped by the door and smiled.

‘John Watson works at the Royal Hospital now.’

Y/N sighed. ‘Does he?’

‘You’ll hear from me soon, Y/N.’

#sherlock #sherlock bbc #shelrock BBC #john watson #sherlock x reader #sherlock fanfiction #sherlock fanfic #sherlock imagine #Sherlock Holmes #moriarty #jim moriarty #james moriarty #bbc sherlock fanfiction #sherlock holmes fanfiction #sherlock holmes x reader

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darcylindbergh · 6 years

Text

sherlock holmes would be a boring character if he weren’t flawed, if he didn’t make mistakes, if he didn’t ache, if he didn’t have impish delight or irreverent timing or dark regrets, if he weren’t sometimes a pain in the arse or sometimes painfully naive, but I think the brilliance of acd is that when you’re reading the canon, you are supposed to fill in those gaps. much of the canon is written in dialogue, and all of it is from a step-removed perspective, a memory explicitly discussed as such, making the narrator a dual character (mostly watson, but holmes too once or twice): themselves as they behave in the story, and themselves as they recount it later, and the former is utterly dependent on the latter—just as the former’s counterpart is too. we do not know holmes—we know the holmes that watson gives us, and watson can be a little coy in his description. he’ll write holmes laughing with genuine joy, and the turn around as give him only a chuckle as the nearest thing to a laugh.

the text itself confuses the character, but you’re not meant to take it at point blank range. you’re meant to do the work and fill in the gaps. and many of us do! naturally! our reading brains imagine expressions, tones, pitches, glances, touches. watson gives us a word or a phrase, and we fill in the rest—with ourselves. how we would think a person saying that would say it. how we might look, how our voices might break. how our weaknesses are revealed at recounting the moment of watching a dear friend suffer our loss; how we might rage at the moment of nearly suffering theirs. how our history—I know when I saw/heard/did, I knew/felt/realized—informs our present—if it were me, I would.

in that sense sherlock holmes becomes us, and we love to see our own flaws in other people. it makes us feel human. it makes us feel understood. relieved even—oh god, you too? I was worried I was the only one. we are able to shape him into our own image in the most intimate way.

ironic that watson’s narrative style allows that. he keeps holmes’ most intimate details—his expressions, his tones, his emotions—for himself.

so maybe there are really four characters: holmes the detective, watson the assisting doctor, watson the narrator, and holmes the narrated.

plus the fifth, the wild card, the intimacy in the room, the power of the declaration and the delicacy of a touch: us. the reader.

The Game has always been about discovering the truth, but it’s not an answer we’re ever going to pinpoint like an x on a treasure map. it’s about exploring the characters-as-ourselves, and ourselves-as-characters, and feeling the power of the connection between holmes and watson as a visceral thing living underneath your own breastbone: devotion, adoration, admiration. annoyance sometimes, and sometimes betrayal, sometimes anger or fear, made thick and bold through the sheer importance of it. acd wrote a character you had to identify with to fully understand, and you had to work at it to do it, to give yourself into it. he wrote it so you could fall in love with him if you did—if you dared to give that of yourself. and people did; they have done for more than a century.

that he did it through watson’s eyes is not a feature. it’s the whole point. you can only view holmes through watson the narrator. you can only identify with him so intimately and completely because watson the narrator creates the gaps for you to slip through even as he’s trying to hold something back. we could not experience holmes in this way without viewing him through the eyes of the narrator.

in short: we can love sherlock holmes now, as readers, only because john watson, as the writer, loved him first.

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