Sarah

A Warm Welcome

- Masterlist

INTRODUCTION: After a long day, you come home to find Benedict Cumberbatch in the kitchen, cooking dinner with an endearing mix of focus and charm. What begins as playful banter quickly ignites into something far more intimate, as Benedict willingly surrenders himself to your control. In a sensual evening filled with vulnerability and passion, the two of you explore trust, desire, and the balance of power, leaving no boundary of connection or devotion untouched.

PAIRING: sub!Benedict Cumberbatch x fem!dom!reader

WARNINGS: SMUT, mdni, oral sex (reader receiving), dirty talk, penetrative sex.

WORD COUNT: 3k

A/N: Hello people! Thanks for all the reblogs and likes! I'm so happy my work is getting recognition. This one was a request from my best friend (thank you Bianca for assigning me this!) Please keep in mind the reader is dominant here and it might not be for everyone. Again thank you so much! Sorry about grammar mistakes if there are any.

The smell of garlic and fresh herbs greeted you the moment you stepped through the door, an immediate comfort after a long day. The familiar warmth of the flat wrapped around you like an embrace, but it was the figure in the kitchen that truly caught your attention. Benedict, clad in a loose gray sweater and dark jeans, stood by the stove, focused entirely on the task before him. His curls were slightly disheveled, and his sleeves were rolled up to reveal strong forearms dusted with flour—a telltale sign he’d been kneading something earlier.

“You’re home,” he said, glancing up with that soft smile that never failed to make your heart flutter. His voice, deep and soothing, held a note of relief, as if the day had been incomplete until you’d walked through the door.

“And you’re cooking,” you replied, shrugging off your coat. “Should I be worried?”

He chuckled, the sound low and rich, and shook his head. “I’ll have you know, I’m quite capable in the kitchen. You might even be impressed.”

You leaned against the doorway, watching him move. There was an ease in the way he handled himself, his gestures deliberate and precise yet unhurried. The sight of him like this—at home, relaxed, and completely unguarded—was one you cherished more than you could put into words.

“What are you making?” you asked, crossing the room to peek over his shoulder.

“Something simple,” he said, gesturing to a pan where butter sizzled and garlic caramelized. “Pasta with a cream sauce, a bit of basil, and, if I don’t burn it, chicken.”

You hummed in approval, standing so close now that you could feel the heat radiating off him. He turned his head slightly, and your eyes met. For a moment, neither of you said anything, the silence thick with unspoken tension. His gaze lingered on your lips before darting back up to meet your eyes, a flush creeping up his neck.

“Something on your mind?” you teased, your voice low and playful.

Benedict swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, but he didn’t look away. “Only that you’re distracting,” he murmured, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

You reached out, running a finger along the edge of his jaw, feeling the faint stubble beneath your touch. “And what are you going to do about it?” you asked, tilting your head.

His breath hitched, but instead of answering, he turned off the stove and set the spoon down. The clatter of metal against the counter seemed louder than it was, a sharp contrast to the electric silence between you. Slowly, deliberately, he faced you, his hands coming to rest lightly on your hips.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your lips curved into a smile as you leaned in, closing the distance between you. The kiss was soft at first, a gentle brush of lips that quickly turned heated. His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. You could feel the rapid thrum of his heartbeat against your chest, matching your own.

“You’ve been thinking about this all day, haven’t you?” you murmured against his lips, your fingers sliding into his hair.

He nodded, his breath warm against your cheek. “Can you blame me?” he asked, his tone somewhere between exasperation and adoration. “You make it impossible to focus.”

“Good,” you said, pushing him gently but firmly until his back hit the counter. 

You pressed against him, the edge of the counter digging into his back as you deepened the kiss. His lips parted beneath yours, and you took full advantage, your tongue brushing against his, eliciting a soft, breathy sound from him. His hands gripped your hips tighter, as if trying to anchor himself to you, but you could feel the way his body softened under your touch, surrendering.

“Turn around,” you whispered, breaking the kiss just enough to speak.

He blinked at you, his expression somewhere between surprise and intrigue, but he complied, twisting to face the counter. His breath hitched as your arms slid around his waist from behind, your palms pressing against his abdomen. Slowly, you ran your hands upward, savoring the feel of his body beneath the soft fabric of his sweater.

“You’re far too tense for someone who’s been cooking dinner,” you murmured, your lips brushing the shell of his ear.

A shiver ran through him, and he let out a shaky laugh. “Well, you’re not exactly helping me relax.”

“Oh, but I plan to,” you said, your voice teasing as your fingers dipped lower, tracing the waistband of his jeans.

His head fell back slightly, exposing the long line of his neck, and you couldn’t resist the temptation. You pressed a kiss to the sensitive spot just below his ear, then another, letting your teeth graze his skin lightly. The quiet groan that escaped him sent a thrill through you, and you felt his grip tighten on the edge of the counter.

“You like that,” you said, not a question but a statement.

“Yes,” he admitted, his voice barely audible. “Too much, maybe.”

You smiled against his skin, then tugged gently on his sweater. “Off.”

He turned his head to glance at you, his eyes dark with anticipation. There was no hesitation as he pulled the sweater over his head, leaving his chest bare. You took a moment to admire him, the defined lines of his shoulders and torso, the way his chest rose and fell with each shallow breath.

“Beautiful,” you said, running your hands over his back. His skin was warm to the touch, and he let out a quiet sigh as your nails lightly scraped down his spine. “You’re so good at following instructions.”

He turned his head slightly, a smirk playing at his lips despite the flush on his cheeks. “So you want to take the lead, huh?”

Your response was immediate and firm. “You’re mine tonight. All of you. Understand?”

His eyes flickered with something that looked like both surrender and excitement. “Yes,” he said softly. Then, louder, “Yes, ma’am.”

You grinned, your dominance only spurring you further. With a gentle but firm push, you turned him back toward you and nudged him toward the center of the kitchen. His movements were fluid but obedient, and it thrilled you to see the normally commanding actor so completely at your mercy.

You guided him backward until his legs hit the dining chair that sat in the corner of the kitchen. With a light push on his shoulders, you eased him down into the seat. Benedict looked up at you, his hair tousled, his lips slightly swollen from your earlier kisses. There was something intoxicating about seeing him like this—composed yet unraveling, his sharp, angular features softened by the heat of the moment.

“Stay there,” you said firmly, your voice low and commanding.

He obeyed, his hands resting on his thighs, his gaze fixed on you as if you were the only thing in the world. You could see the tension in his body, the way his fingers twitched, like he was holding back the urge to reach for you. You stepped closer, slowly, deliberately, letting him feel the weight of your presence.

“You’ve been so good for me,” you murmured, leaning down until your faces were inches apart. Your fingers brushed along his jawline, tracing the sharp angles, then tilted his chin up slightly. “Do you want to keep being good for me, Benedict?”

His breath caught, and he nodded. “Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Whatever you want.”

You smiled, your thumb running over his bottom lip. “Good,” you said.

Your hands slid to his shoulders, and with a gentle but insistent push, you guided him lower, until he was kneeling on the floor in front of you. The sight of him like this—on his knees, looking up at you with such raw desire—made your breath hitch. He rested his hands on your thighs, waiting, watching, his lips slightly parted as if he were ready to speak but unsure of what to say.

“Do you want me?” you asked, your voice softer now but no less commanding.

“Always,” he replied without hesitation, the sincerity in his tone sending a shiver down your spine.

You reached for his hand, guiding it to the waistband of your trousers. “Then show me.”

His fingers worked quickly, yet carefully, undoing the button and sliding the fabric down your legs. He hesitated for a moment, his hands lingering at the edge of your underwear, his eyes flicking up to meet yours, silently asking for permission.

“Go on,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

His hands slipped beneath the fabric, and you let out a quiet sigh as his fingers brushed your skin. He took his time, easing the fabric down and letting it pool around your ankles. You stepped out of them, and he moved closer, his hands settling on your hips.

“Smother me,” he said, his voice low and breathless. “Let me make you feel good.”

The rawness in his tone sent a surge of heat through you, and you obliged, lowering yourself onto the chair and spreading your legs just enough to give him access. His hands slid along your thighs, his touch reverent yet possessive, and then his lips followed, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your skin.

When his mouth finally reached you, you couldn’t hold back the gasp that escaped. He was slow at first, deliberate, his tongue moving in gentle strokes that built a steady rhythm. His hands tightened on your thighs, holding you in place as he worked, and the sounds he made—soft, muffled groans of pleasure—only heightened your own.

“Yes,” you breathed, your fingers tangling in his hair. “Just like that.”

He responded with a hum of approval, the vibrations sending a jolt through you. His tongue dipped lower, exploring, teasing, and you felt your grip on his hair tighten. You rocked your hips against him, chasing the pressure, and he moaned, the sound guttural and desperate.

“You like this, don’t you?” you said, your voice unsteady but laced with authority. “You like being on your knees for me.”

He pulled back just enough to speak, his lips glistening. “I love it,” he said, his voice rough. “I love making you feel this way.”

“Then don’t stop,” you commanded.

Your fingers tightened in Benedict’s hair as his tongue moved with unrelenting precision, each flick and stroke sending waves of pleasure coursing through you. His hands, strong yet trembling slightly with need, gripped your thighs to keep you steady as he worked, his desperation to please you palpable in every movement.

“Yes,” you murmured, your voice breathy and commanding. “Just like that. You’re so good for me, Benedict.”

At your praise, he groaned against you, the vibration pulling another moan from your lips. You could feel the heat rising in you, your body tightening with every expert movement of his tongue. The way he looked up at you—his pupils blown wide with desire, his cheeks flushed—only added to the fire coursing through you.

“You’re mine,” you said, your voice growing steadier as your dominance took over. “Do you understand?”

He nodded against you, his nose brushing your sensitive skin as he mumbled, “Yes. Yours. Always.”

Your hips rolled against his mouth, and his grip on your thighs tightened in response, his enthusiasm only growing. The sounds he made—half-growls, half-muffled whimpers—filled the room, mixing with your own gasps and sighs. You tugged at his hair, guiding him exactly where you wanted, and he obeyed without hesitation, his submission utterly complete.

“That’s it,” you whispered, your thighs beginning to shake as the tension inside you reached its peak. “Don’t stop, Benedict. Don’t you dare stop.”

He didn’t. If anything, he pushed harder, his tongue working you with even more fervor, his hands grounding you as your body tensed. When the climax hit, it was overwhelming, your head falling back, your lips parting as you cried out. Benedict didn’t let up, riding out every wave of your release until you were trembling beneath his touch.

Finally, you tugged at his hair gently, pulling him back. He looked up at you, his lips glistening, his breath coming in short, shallow bursts. The expression on his face was one of pure adoration mixed with raw hunger.

“You’re perfect,” you said, cupping his face in your hands and brushing your thumb along his cheekbone.

He leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment before snapping back to yours. “Anything for you,” he said, his voice hoarse but steady. “Anything you want.”

You smirked, pulling him to his feet. His knees wobbled slightly, and you steadied him, your hands running up his chest.

With one hand, you reached for the waistband of his jeans, undoing the button and sliding the zipper down with practiced ease. His breath hitched as you pushed the denim down his hips, leaving him standing before you in nothing but his boxer briefs. You took a moment to admire him—the way his body seemed to tremble with anticipation, the way he looked at you as if you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

“Off,” you commanded, gesturing to the last remaining barrier between you.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, his cheeks flushing a deeper shade of red, before obeying. As the fabric fell to the floor, you stepped closer, your hands sliding over his bare skin. He shivered beneath your touch, his body responding to every little movement, every brush of your fingertips.

“You’ve been so good for me tonight,” you said, guiding him toward the table. “Now, let me reward you.”

He let out a shaky breath, his eyes locked on yours as you pushed him gently onto his back. His body stretched out beneath you, vulnerable yet undeniably beautiful. You climbed onto the table, straddling him, and leaned down until your lips were a breath away from his.

“Are you ready?” you asked, your voice low and teasing.

“For you?” he said, his hands sliding up your thighs. “Always.”

You lowered yourself over him, capturing his lips in a searing kiss. His hands roamed your body, reverent and desperate, fingers pressing into your skin as though grounding himself in this moment. The table creaked softly beneath you, but neither of you paid it any mind. His breath came in short gasps as you broke the kiss, moving your lips down his jawline and to the sensitive spot just below his ear.

“Benedict,” you whispered, your voice firm but dripping with affection. “Do you trust me?”

“Completely,” he murmured, his voice barely audible, his eyes heavy-lidded with desire.

“Good,” you said, sitting up slightly to remove the last of your clothing. His gaze swept over you, his lips parting as he drank in the sight of you. His fingers twitched against your thighs, and you smirked, leaning down to press your lips to his once more.

“Hands above your head,” you commanded softly but firmly. “I want to see how obedient you can be.”

A flicker of hesitation crossed his face—not reluctance, but anticipation—and then he complied, stretching his arms above him and gripping the edge of the table. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his vulnerability making him all the more enticing.

“You look so beautiful like this,” you said, your hands gliding down his chest, fingers grazing over his taut muscles. His breath hitched as your touch lingered on his stomach before trailing lower. “Do you have any idea how much I love seeing you give in to me?”

He swallowed hard, his voice cracking slightly as he replied, “Tell me. Show me.”

You smiled, shifting your hips until you were poised over him, your body brushing against his in the most tantalizing way. His head tipped back, a soft groan escaping his lips as you rolled your hips slowly, teasing him with just enough pressure to drive him mad but not enough to give him what he craved.

“You want more, don’t you?” you teased, your voice dropping to a sultry whisper.

“Yes,” he breathed, his hands tightening on the table. “Please, I—”

“Patience,” you interrupted, leaning down to kiss his throat, your teeth grazing his skin. “I decide when and how you get what you want.”

His entire body tensed beneath you, and you felt a surge of satisfaction at the way he responded so readily to your control. You shifted again, this time taking him fully, and the sharp intake of breath that followed was music to your ears. His hands twitched against the edge of the table, and you could see the strain in his arms as he fought to keep them in place.

“Good,” you praised, moving slowly, deliberately. “You’re doing so well for me.”

His response was a choked moan, his head falling back against the wood as his body surrendered completely. You set a steady rhythm, your movements calculated to draw out every ounce of pleasure, every sound that escaped his lips. His hips bucked slightly, a silent plea for more, but you held firm, maintaining your control.

“Tell me what you need,” you said, your tone both commanding and affectionate.

“You,” he gasped, his voice raw. “Everything. All of you. Please.”

You leaned down, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, “Then take it.”

The night unfolded in a dance of give and take, your bodies moving together in perfect harmony. You pushed him to his limits, and he gave you everything, his submission a gift that left you both breathless and utterly sated by the time the evening drew to a close. As you lay tangled together afterward, the warmth of his body against yours, you couldn’t help but smile, knowing that moments like this were yours to cherish.

“Still think I’m distracting?” you asked, your voice light with teasing.

Through Shadows and Sorcery

- Masterlist

INTRODUCTION: The Eye of Vortessa was a relic of unimaginable power, sought by a rogue sorcerer threatening reality itself. Doctor Stephen Strange needed your expertise to decode its secrets. What began as a high-stakes pursuit soon blurred the lines between duty and desire, forcing both of you to confront the dangers outside—and within.

PAIRING: Dr. Strange x fem!reader

WARNINGS: SMUT, MDNI, oral sex, vaginal sex, different positions, etc. + fluff and a bit of angst

WORD COUNT: 6k

A/N: Here's the one-shot I was talking about! Thank you for all the likes and reposts of my previous works. Sorry about grammar mistakes (if there are any). Enjoy your reading!

The relic pulsed on the table like a living thing, faint green tendrils of energy swirling within its crystal-clear surface. You could feel its pull from across the room, an eerie hum that resonated deep in your chest. You couldn’t decide if the sensation was alluring or unnerving.

“It’s been centuries since anyone’s seen the Eye of Vortessa in the physical realm,” you said, your fingers itching to examine it more closely. “How did you find it?”

“I didn’t. It found me,” Doctor Stephen Strange replied, his voice carrying that same arrogant tilt you’d come to expect from him. He leaned casually against a chair, his hands folded across his chest, the crimson Cloak of Levitation draped like a king’s mantle over his broad shoulders.

“Cryptic,” you muttered, earning a faint smirk from him.

The two of you were an unlikely pairing. A brilliant, if infuriating, sorcerer who held the title of Sorcerer Supreme, and you—a historian-turned-sorceress from Kamar-Taj, specializing in arcane artifacts. You’d been called to the Sanctum Sanctorum when it became clear that even Strange was struggling to contain the relic’s growing power.

He hadn’t been thrilled to have you there.

“I work alone,” he’d said on the first day, a dismissive flick of his hand emphasizing the point.

“And yet, you called for help,” you’d shot back, meeting his sharp blue gaze with a defiance that clearly surprised him.

Since then, your days had been consumed by long hours of research, deciphering ancient texts, and debating theories with a man who both fascinated and infuriated you.

Over the next few days, you immersed yourself in the Eye’s history. The relic’s carvings hinted at a dark purpose—its ability to amplify emotions and desires was only the beginning. In the wrong hands, it could manipulate entire realities, bending minds to its will.

“It’s a trap,” you concluded one evening, pushing a book across the table toward Strange.

He glanced at the page, his brow furrowing. “How so?”

“It doesn’t just amplify emotions. It feeds on them. The more unstable the wielder, the stronger it becomes.”

Strange’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Then we’ll have to destroy it.”

“Easier said than done,” you replied. “The last recorded attempt ended with three sorcerers dead and the Eye fully intact.”

“Sounds like a challenge,” he said, his tone almost flippant.

You glared at him. “This isn’t a joke, Strange. If we get this wrong—”

“I don’t get things wrong,” he interrupted, his voice sharp.

The tension crackled between you, and for a moment, you forgot the relic, the case, and everything else. His eyes locked onto yours, and you felt your heart skip a beat.

“Fine,” you said, breaking the silence. “But we need more information.”

The answer lay in the rift.

The Eye’s power had created a tear in the fabric of reality, a swirling vortex of chaotic energy that connected to an unknown dimension. You and Strange agreed to investigate, though you couldn’t shake the feeling that the plan was reckless at best.

“It’s like staring into the void,” you murmured as you approached the rift with Strange at your side.

He glanced at you, his expression unusually serious. “Stay close to me.”

You nodded, casting a protective spell as he opened the portal. The sensation was immediate—a rush of power and emotion that made your head spin. It felt like the rift was reaching into your very soul, pulling at your deepest fears and desires.

“Don’t let it control you,” Strange said, his voice cutting through the noise.

Easier said than done. The rift amplified everything—the anger you’d felt during your arguments with Strange, the frustration at his arrogance, and the unsettling attraction you’d been trying to ignore since you’d arrived.

The mission was nearly disastrous. You managed to collect a fragment of the rift’s energy, but the process destabilized the vortex, forcing you and Strange to retreat.

Back in the Sanctum, you collapsed into a chair, your heart racing. “That was insane,” you said, glaring at him.

Strange ran a hand through his hair, his own breathing uneven. “You’re welcome.”

“For what? Dragging me into your reckless plans?”

“For saving your life,” he shot back, stepping closer. “Or did you forget the part where I shielded you from the blast?”

You stood, your frustration bubbling over. “And whose fault was the blast in the first place?”

“You don’t know when to quit, do you?” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

“Neither do you,” you retorted, your pulse quickening as he stepped even closer.

The tension snapped.

Before you could think, his lips were on yours, fierce and demanding. You gasped, your hands instinctively gripping the front of his tunic as he deepened the kiss. His hands were firm on your waist, pulling you against him as the world blurred around you.

The kiss was electric, every pent-up emotion spilling out in a clash of lips and tongues. When he pulled back, his blue eyes were darker than you’d ever seen, his breathing ragged.

“Fuck,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

You were too stunned to speak, your body still tingling from the intensity of the kiss.

“This… complicates things,” he said, his voice strained.

“You think?” you managed, your voice unsteady.

You stood there, your breathing still unsteady, replaying the kiss in your mind. Stephen Strange—the arrogant, insufferable Sorcerer Supreme—had just kissed you. And you had kissed him back.

He was pacing now, running a hand through his hair as though trying to shake off the moment. His eyes flicked to the Eye of Vortessa, still pulsing faintly on the table, as if mocking both of you.

“This is the relic’s influence,” he said finally, his voice strained. “It has to be.”

You crossed your arms, forcing yourself to focus on the case instead of the way his lips had felt against yours. “The Eye may amplify emotions, but it doesn’t create them. If there was nothing there to begin with…”

He froze mid-step, his sharp blue eyes locking onto yours. The silence that followed was suffocating, heavy with unspoken words.

“We can’t afford distractions,” he said at last, his tone colder now, though his gaze lingered on you a moment too long.

“Agreed,” you replied, though your voice wavered.

Still, the moment hung between you, refusing to fade.

Over the next few days, you threw yourself into the research, determined to find a way to neutralize the Eye of Vortessa. But it was harder now, with Strange constantly in your orbit. Every glance, every touch—no matter how innocent—felt charged, as though the relic’s influence was amplifying the growing connection between you.

He was distant, even brusque at times, clearly trying to maintain control. Yet, there were moments when his guard slipped—when his hand would linger on yours during a spell, or when his voice softened as he asked for your input.

The tension came to a head during another late-night study session. The Sanctum was quiet, save for the crackling fire in the corner. You were bent over a text, trying to decipher a particularly cryptic passage, when you felt his presence behind you.

“Find anything?” he asked, his voice close to your ear.

You jumped slightly, his proximity sending a shiver down your spine. “Nothing useful,” you managed, refusing to turn around.

“Let me see,” he said, leaning over your shoulder.

His breath was warm against your neck, and you cursed the way your body reacted. He was too close, and yet you couldn’t bring yourself to move.

“Strange…” you began, but your voice trailed off as his hand brushed yours, the touch searing.

“Stop,” he said suddenly, pulling back.

You turned to face him, startled by the raw emotion in his expression. His jaw was tight, his fists clenched at his sides as though he was holding himself back.

“This is getting out of hand,” he said, his voice low. “I can’t think straight when I’m around you.”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding. “Maybe it’s the Eye—”

“It’s not just the Eye,” he interrupted, his eyes blazing.

The confession hung in the air, and for a moment, neither of you moved. Then, as if drawn by some unseen force, you closed the distance between you.

The kiss this time was slower, more deliberate. His hands cupped your face, his lips moving against yours with a tenderness that made your chest ache. You melted into him, your arms wrapping around his neck as the tension of the past few days finally gave way.

He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged. “You’re driving me mad,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

You didn’t reply, too caught up in the way his hands slid down to your waist, holding you as though he never wanted to let go.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, his blue eyes searching yours.

“I won’t,” you whispered, pulling him back to you.

The path to his room was a fever dream of heat and tension. Every step was punctuated by the press of his body against yours, the scrape of his teeth along your neck, and the firm grip of his hands on your hips. The Sanctum’s corridors blurred around you, irrelevant in the face of the fire that burned between you both.

By the time you reached his chambers, Stephen spun you around, your back hitting the door with a soft thud. His eyes, dark and wild, searched yours, but no words were exchanged. His lips were on you in an instant, claiming yours with a hunger that made your knees weak. His kiss was demanding, almost bruising, as though he’d been holding back for far too long.

His hands slid up your thighs, his fingertips digging in just enough to leave a ghost of a mark. “You’ve been teasing me all damn day,” he growled against your lips, his voice thick with restrained desire.

You smirked, emboldened by the effect you had on him. “And what are you going to do about it?”

His answering grin was dark, wicked, as his hands moved to the sash of your robe. With one swift motion, he untied it, letting the fabric fall away and leaving you bare before him. His sharp intake of breath was the only sound in the room for a moment, his eyes drinking you in.

“God, you’re stunning,” he murmured, his voice almost reverent.

You reached for his tunic, pulling it up and over his head, revealing the lean, sculpted planes of his chest. His skin was pale, faint scars from battles long past etched into his body like a story written in flesh. You traced one with your fingers, marveling at the strength beneath your touch.

“Like what you see?” he teased, his smirk returning as his hands slid to your waist.

You met his gaze, your lips quirking upward. “I’m not complaining.”

His laugh was low and dark, but it was quickly silenced as he bent to kiss you again, slower this time, as if savoring the moment. His hands explored your body, every curve, every dip, every inch of skin that made you gasp under his touch.

Before you could process his next move, he dropped to his knees, his hands parting your thighs with a firm but gentle insistence. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, his gaze smoldering as his lips pressed to the inside of your thigh.

“Stephen…” You breathed his name, your voice trembling with anticipation.

“Say it again,” he commanded, his tone rough as his lips trailed higher.

You barely managed to repeat his name before his mouth was on you, his tongue drawing slow, deliberate strokes that made you cry out. He groaned against you, the vibration sending another jolt of pleasure through your body. His hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as he worked, alternating between flicks of his tongue and gentle suction that had you trembling.

When he added his fingers—sliding inside you with expert precision—you nearly came undone. He curled them just right, hitting a spot that made stars explode behind your eyes.

“Fuck, Stephen, don’t stop,” you gasped, your hands threading through his dark hair.

He didn’t stop. He doubled down, his tongue and fingers moving in perfect rhythm until you shattered, your cries echoing through the room. Your legs threatened to give out, but his hands held you firm, guiding you through every wave of pleasure until you were left trembling in his arms.

He pulled back, his lips glistening as he smirked up at you. “You taste fucking incredible,” he said, his voice hoarse.

You barely had time to recover before he stood, his hands helping you to your knees.

“My turn,” he said, his voice a low growl.

You reached for him eagerly, your fingers wrapping around him as you stroked, feeling him throb under your touch. His head tilted back, a groan escaping his lips as you leaned forward, your tongue flicking out to tease him before taking him fully into your mouth.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his hand tangling in your hair. “Just like that.”

You hollowed your cheeks, taking him deeper, relishing the way his body tensed under your touch. His hips rocked forward slightly, and you steadied yourself with your hands on his thighs, your nails digging in just enough to leave faint crescent marks.

“God, you’re so fucking good at this,” he groaned, his voice breaking as you worked him with deliberate, steady movements.

Before he could reach his peak, he pulled you away, his breaths ragged as he guided you back to your feet.

“Come here,” he demanded, his voice soft but commanding.

He guided you onto the bed, his body covering yours as he kissed you deeply, the taste of both of you mingling on his lips. His hands slid down your body, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake. When he finally entered you, it was slow, deliberate, as though he wanted you to feel every inch of him.

You gasped, your nails digging into his back as he set a steady rhythm, his movements controlled but intense. “You feel so fucking good,” he murmured, his forehead resting against yours.

The pace quickened, his thrusts deep and deliberate as his name spilled from your lips in a broken cry. He shifted slightly, angling his hips to hit a spot that made your entire body arch into his.

“God, Stephen…” you gasped, your hands clutching at his shoulders.

He flipped you onto your stomach, pulling your hips up as he entered you from behind. His hands gripped your waist, his thrusts rougher now, each one driving you closer to the edge.

“You like this?” he growled, leaning down to kiss the back of your neck.

“Yes,” you cried, your voice trembling. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He reached around to tease you, his fingers working in tandem with his thrusts until you shattered again, your body trembling as you cried out his name.

He pulled you up, your back flush against his chest as he slowed his movements, his lips trailing over your shoulder. “I’m not done with you yet,” he whispered, his voice dark and seductive.

He laid you back on the bed, his hands guiding your legs to wrap around his waist as he moved over you. This time, his movements were slower, more deliberate, as if he wanted to savor every moment.

“Look at me,” he said, his voice soft but commanding.

Your eyes locked onto his, and the intensity of his gaze was enough to make your breath catch. His hands intertwined with yours, pinning them above your head as he moved, his rhythm building again until you were both on the edge.

When you finally fell together, the pleasure was overwhelming, leaving you both trembling and breathless as the world seemed to fall away.

The room was silent save for the sounds of your intertwined breaths slowly evening out. Stephen’s body hovered above yours for a moment longer, as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to pull away. His forehead rested against yours, and his hand brushed a few damp strands of hair from your face.

“You’re… incredible,” he murmured, his voice low and raw. His lips curved into a small, almost shy smile—a rare crack in the confident mask he wore so effortlessly.

You exhaled a breathy laugh, your hand trailing lazily down his back. “I could say the same about you, Doctor.”

Stephen rolled onto his side, pulling you with him so you were tucked against his chest. His arms enveloped you, his hands large and warm as they traced absent patterns along your spine. You could feel his heartbeat still racing against your cheek.

“Did you expect this?” you asked softly, tilting your head up to look at him.

He smirked, his fingers pausing their lazy exploration to brush your jaw. “No,” he admitted, his tone honest. “I’ve spent so long avoiding this kind of… connection. It complicates things.”

“Do you regret it?”

His gaze darkened slightly, not with anger but with something deeper—something unspoken. He tilted your chin up, his thumb brushing across your lower lip. “No,” he said firmly. “Not for a second.”

A comfortable silence fell between you, the weight of what had just happened settling in the air. You traced the faint scars on his chest, following the lines as if they were a map.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, his voice soft.

“That you’ve lived a thousand lives,” you said, your fingers pausing over a particularly deep scar. “And yet you’re still here.”

He caught your hand, bringing it to his lips. “Because I’m too stubborn to quit.”

You laughed, the sound light and genuine, and for a moment, the heaviness of the world outside the room seemed to fade.

But reality began creeping back in. The Sanctum wasn’t just a home—it was a fortress, a place of duty. And outside these walls, a threat still loomed.

As if reading your thoughts, Stephen’s expression sobered. He sat up slightly, propping himself on one arm as he looked down at you. “This isn’t over,” he said, his tone serious. “We still have to decipher the relic.”

You nodded, your mind already shifting back to the danger that had brought you here in the first place. “We definitely do.”

Stephen’s jaw tightened, the sharp angles of his face etched with determination. “We will,” he said, his voice resolute. “But for now…”

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was softer this time, less about urgency and more about grounding the moment. His hand cradled your face, his thumb brushing your cheek as if committing every detail of you to memory.

“For now,” he murmured against your lips, “let’s stay here. Just for a little longer.”

And you did. Wrapped in each other’s arms, the weight of the outside world momentarily held at bay, you allowed yourself to exist in the fleeting serenity of his presence. The fight would come soon enough, but for now, you were exactly where you needed to be.

When you woke, the morning light was streaming through the gaps in the heavy curtains of Stephen’s chambers, golden and warm. For a moment, everything felt blissfully suspended, like the world had paused just for the two of you.

Stephen was still beside you, propped up on one elbow, his bare chest catching the soft light. His sharp features were relaxed but contemplative as his gaze lingered on you. You smiled sleepily, reaching out to brush your fingers along the stubble on his jaw.

“Good morning,” you murmured.

He didn’t return the smile. Instead, his expression darkened, his eyes pulling away from yours. The shift was subtle but immediate, a wall rising where there had been none before.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, sitting up slightly, the sheet slipping down your body.

Stephen hesitated, his mouth opening and closing as though he couldn’t quite find the right words. Finally, he exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “This… was a mistake,” he said, his voice clipped and low.

The words struck like a blow, the warmth of the morning instantly replaced by a chill. “A mistake?” you repeated, incredulous. “You didn’t seem to think it was a mistake last night.”

“That was last night,” he snapped, then winced at his own tone. He rose from the bed, pulling on his pants and tunic with quick, jerky movements. His back was to you, the tension in his shoulders palpable.

You felt the heat of anger rising in your chest, cutting through the sting of his words. “So that’s it? You get what you want, and now you’re done?”

He spun around, his eyes flashing. “Don’t make it sound so simple. You know it’s more complicated than that.”

“Do I?” You stood, wrapping the sheet around you as you faced him. “Because all I see is a man who’s so afraid of letting someone in that he’d rather push them away than deal with his own feelings.”

Stephen’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, he looked as though he might argue. But then he turned away again, his voice quieter this time. “I can’t afford distractions. And you… you deserve more than this.”

Your heart clenched, his words twisting the knife even deeper. “Don’t you dare try to make this sound noble,” you said, your voice trembling with anger. “If you wanted to push me away, just say so. But don’t pretend this is for my benefit.”

He didn’t respond, his silence saying more than words ever could. Frustrated and hurt, you grabbed your clothes, dressing quickly as tears threatened to spill.

“Fine,” you said, your voice icy. “If that’s what you want, then I’ll go. But don’t expect me to come running back when you realize what a mistake you’ve made.”

With that, you stormed out, slamming the door behind you.

The following days at the Sanctum were agonizing. You threw yourself into your research, determined to ignore Stephen’s presence entirely. The tension between you was palpable, the air in the Sanctum heavy with unspoken words and lingering glances.

Stephen avoided you, retreating into his work and barely speaking unless absolutely necessary. You could see the strain on his face, the shadows under his eyes growing darker with each passing day. But you refused to be the one to break the silence.

When Wong asked if something was wrong, you brushed it off with a forced smile. “Just a difference of opinion,” you said, though the words tasted bitter.

Stephen, for his part, seemed to unravel further. He became more irritable, snapping at Wong and pacing the Sanctum’s halls like a caged animal. You caught him watching you once, his gaze soft and almost apologetic, but when your eyes met, he quickly looked away.

The distance between you was unbearable, but your pride wouldn’t let you bridge the gap. If he wanted to fix this, he would have to be the one to make the first move.

It was late one night when the knock came at your door. You hesitated, your heart pounding as you considered ignoring it. But something in the quiet desperation of the sound made you rise.

When you opened the door, Stephen stood there, looking exhausted and vulnerable in a way you’d never seen before. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, he said nothing, as if he didn’t know where to begin.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

You crossed your arms, leaning against the doorframe. “For what, exactly?”

“For being an idiot,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “For pushing you away. For hurting you.”

You raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

He sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I was scared,” he admitted. “Of what this means. Of what you mean to me.”

Your resolve wavered at the raw honesty in his voice, but you weren’t ready to let him off the hook just yet. “And what do I mean to you, Stephen?”

He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to brush yours. “Everything,” he said simply. “You mean everything.”

The anger and hurt you’d been holding onto melted away, replaced by a flood of relief and affection. You stepped aside, letting him in, and the moment the door closed, he pulled you into his arms.

“I’ve missed you,” he murmured, his lips brushing your temple.

“I’ve missed you too,” you admitted, your voice muffled against his chest.

He tilted your chin up, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was slow and tender, a stark contrast to the desperate passion of your first night together. His hands cupped your face as though you were something precious, his thumb brushing your cheek as he deepened the kiss.

Stephen’s lips moved against yours with a tenderness that made your heart ache. Gone was the frantic desperation of before; this kiss was deliberate, like he was trying to memorize every second, every sensation. His hands cradled your face as though you were something fragile, something he was terrified of breaking.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breaths coming in shallow pants. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered again, his voice trembling slightly. “For everything.”

You reached up, your fingers brushing against his jaw, feeling the faint stubble beneath your touch. “I know,” you murmured, your voice soft but steady. “But you can’t keep doing this, Stephen. You can’t keep pushing me away whenever things get hard.”

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, you thought he might argue. But then he nodded, his hands slipping down to rest on your waist. “I won’t,” he said, his tone resolute. “I promise.”

The weight of his words hung in the air between you, heavy with unspoken meaning. Slowly, he guided you backward until the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed. His hands were gentle as he lowered you onto the mattress, his body following yours in one fluid motion.

“I need you to understand something,” he said, his voice low as his fingers traced the curve of your cheek. “You’re not just someone I care about. You’ve become… essential to me. And that terrifies me.”

You reached up, threading your fingers through his dark hair. “You don’t have to be afraid,” you whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His lips found yours again, and this time the kiss deepened, the tenderness giving way to a slow-burning passion. His hands roamed your body with reverence, his touch igniting a fire in your veins.

Stephen’s kisses trailed down your neck, each press of his lips sending shivers through your body. His hands found the hem of your shirt, tugging it upward until you lifted your arms to let him pull it off. His eyes darkened as they roamed over your bare skin, his lips curving into a soft smile.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

You reached for his tunic, your fingers brushing against the fabric as you helped him pull it over his head. The sight of his bare chest—the lean muscles, the faint scars that marked his skin—made your breath hitch. You ran your hands over him, tracing the lines of his body with a mixture of curiosity and admiration.

Stephen’s lips found yours again as he lowered you back onto the bed, his hands moving to the waistband of your pants. He hesitated for a moment, his gaze meeting yours as if asking for permission. When you nodded, he slid them down, leaving you bare beneath him.

He paused, his eyes raking over your body with an intensity that made your cheeks flush. “You’re perfect,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your hands found the waistband of his pants, and he helped you push them down, leaving the two of you completely exposed. The weight of him above you, the warmth of his skin against yours, made your heart race.

Stephen kissed you again, his hands exploring every inch of your body. His touch was gentle, reverent, as though he was rediscovering you for the first time. His lips trailed down your neck, over your collarbone, and lower still, leaving a path of fire in their wake.

When he reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, his eyes meeting yours. “Tell me what you want,” he said, his voice a low growl.

Your breath hitched, your hands gripping the sheets beneath you. “I want you,” you whispered.

Stephen smirked, his lips brushing against your inner thigh. “You’ll have me,” he promised. “But not before I’ve had you.”

His mouth found you, his tongue moving in slow, deliberate strokes that made your back arch off the bed. You cried out his name, your fingers threading through his hair as he worked, his hands holding your hips steady. He teased you relentlessly, alternating between flicks of his tongue and gentle suction that drove you to the edge.

When his fingers joined the fray, sliding inside you with practiced precision, you nearly came undone. He curled them just right, hitting a spot that made your vision blur.

“Stephen, please,” you gasped, your body trembling beneath him.

He pulled back, his lips glistening as he smirked up at you. “Patience,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire.

You didn’t have time to protest before he shifted, pulling you up so that you were straddling his lap. His hands gripped your hips, guiding you as you sank onto him, the sensation overwhelming.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his head falling back as you began to move.

The rhythm started slow, his hands guiding your movements as your bodies found a perfect rhythm. His lips found yours again, the kiss messy and desperate as he whispered your name like a prayer.

The pace quickened, his hands roaming your body as he met each of your movements with a thrust of his own. You cried out his name, your nails digging into his shoulders as he flipped you onto your back.

He moved over you with a precision that spoke to his meticulous nature, his thrusts deep and deliberate. Every movement, every touch, was calculated to bring you as much pleasure as possible.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice rough as his hands gripped your thighs.

Your eyes met his, and the intensity of his gaze was enough to make your breath catch. His hand found yours, intertwining your fingers as he pressed your hands into the mattress above your head.

“You’re mine,” he growled, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he brought you closer and closer to the edge.

When you finally fell, the pleasure was overwhelming, your body trembling as his name spilled from your lips. He followed moments later, his body tensing above yours as he let out a hoarse cry.

The room was quiet now, save for the soft hum of your mingled breaths. Stephen’s body was still pressed against yours, his weight comforting rather than heavy. The warmth of his skin blanketed you, and the faint sheen of sweat on both your bodies caught the dim light filtering through the Sanctum’s heavy drapes.

Stephen’s face was buried in the crook of your neck, his breath tickling your skin. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence heavy with meaning. His arms tightened around you slightly, as though afraid you might slip away if he let go.

Your fingers moved lazily across the broad expanse of his back, tracing the lines of his muscles and the faint scars that marked his skin. “You’re quiet,” you said softly, your voice breaking the stillness.

He lifted his head, his eyes meeting yours. The usual sharpness in his gaze was softened now, replaced by something tender and unguarded. “I’m thinking,” he admitted, his voice hoarse but steady.

“About what?”

He hesitated, his thumb brushing absentmindedly over your hip. “About how close I came to losing this. To losing you.”

Your chest tightened at his words, and you reached up to cup his face, your fingers brushing against the faint stubble on his jaw. “You didn’t lose me, Stephen,” you said firmly. “I’m here.”

“For now,” he murmured, his gaze flickering down. “But I’ve learned the hard way that nothing stays forever. People leave. Or I drive them away.”

You frowned, your heart aching for him. “I’m not going anywhere,” you said, your tone resolute. “And you’re not going to drive me away. Not unless you push me.”

His lips twitched into a faint, self-deprecating smile. “That’s what I’m good at, isn’t it? Pushing people away.”

“Maybe,” you admitted. “But you’re also good at pulling them back when it matters.”

He exhaled a soft laugh, his forehead pressing against yours. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not,” you said, your voice softening. “But nothing worth having ever is.”

For a moment, he said nothing, his eyes searching yours as though trying to find some hidden truth. Then, without a word, he leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that was gentle and unhurried, filled with a quiet intensity that made your heart ache.

When he pulled back, he shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look at you more fully. His fingers trailed absentmindedly over your arm, the touch featherlight.

“What happens now?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled faintly, your hand brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “That’s up to us,” you said simply.

His lips curved into a small smile, and for the first time, you saw a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “Us,” he repeated, as though testing the word.

“Yes, us,” you said firmly.

The days that followed were a delicate balance, but there was a new openness between you and Stephen now. He was still Stephen—brilliant, stubborn, and frustratingly closed-off at times—but he was trying.

You caught him watching you more often, his gaze soft and contemplative, as though he were still trying to process the fact that you were there, that you weren’t going anywhere.

Wong noticed the change too, though he said nothing directly. Instead, he offered you a knowing smile when Stephen’s hand brushed yours during a conversation or when you caught him lingering in a room you were in, his presence silent but steady.

The case with the relic was eventually resolved. It was a reminder of the chaos and danger that would always be a part of your lives, but it was also a reminder of why you’d chosen to stay.

One evening, as you sat together in the Sanctum’s library, poring over a particularly complex text, Stephen reached for your hand. The gesture was subtle, almost hesitant, but when your fingers intertwined, he relaxed slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“You know,” he said, his voice low, “I never imagined myself capable of… this. Of being with someone.”

You looked at him, your heart swelling at the vulnerability in his tone. “You’re better at it than you think,” you said softly.

He chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. “I’ll take your word for it.”

As the firelight flickered across his features, you realized that while the road ahead might not be easy, it would be worth it.

A Case to Die For

- Masterlist

INTRODUCTION: The bones told stories only you could read. As an anthropologist, you were brought in to assist on a chilling case—a serial killer carving intricate patterns into the bones of his victims. It was meant to be about the work, about solving the mystery. But then you met Sherlock Holmes. Brilliant, maddening, and utterly magnetic, he challenged you at every turn. The case pulled you both into the depths of human depravity, but it was the tension between you and the detective that threatened to consume you entirely.

PAIRING: Sherlock x fem!reader

WARNINGS: This story contains SMUT (it's at the end, I put a warning before the scenes), MDNI, oral sex (both receiving), fingering, vaginal sex (different position), cursing, etc.

WORD COUNT: 5.7k

A/N: Hello people! I've had this idea for a while. As you may have guessed I enjoy writing one-shots quite a lot. Don't worry though, I'll update my main story soon. Sorry about grammar mistakes (if there are any). Enjoy your reading!

The knock at the door was brisk, almost impatient.

You glanced at the worn numbers marking the address—221B Baker Street—and adjusted the strap of your bag, the weight of the files inside pulling at your shoulder. The letter from Detective Inspector Lestrade, which had summoned you here, was crumpled in your coat pocket, and you briefly considered turning back. You weren’t sure what unnerved you more: the gruesome details of the case you’d been asked to consult on or the man you were about to meet.

The door swung open before you could knock again.

Sherlock Holmes stood in the doorway, taller than you’d expected, his lean frame emphasized by a dark suit that seemed tailored to the millimeter. His sharp cheekbones caught the light filtering in from the window behind him, and his piercing blue eyes swept over you with clinical detachment.

“Finally,” he said, stepping aside to let you in. “You’re late.”

“I was told noon,” you replied, stepping into the cozy yet cluttered sitting room. The air smelled faintly of tea and books, with an undertone of something more chemical.

“It’s five past,” he said, his tone clipped as he gestured toward the couch. “Sit. Let’s get this over with.”

“Charming,” you muttered under your breath, but you complied, placing your bag beside you.

As you settled in, Sherlock was already pacing, his eyes darting over you like a scanner. He tilted his head slightly, as if piecing together a puzzle. “Forensic anthropologist. Academic background, but you’ve spent time in the field—South America, recently, given the faint traces of mosquito bites on your arms. You’re meticulous, perhaps overly so. Single—though not by choice. No pets. Late nights working have left shadows under your eyes. Addicted to caffeine. And—”

You cut him off before he could continue. “I drink tea, not coffee. And I left South America three months ago, not recently.”

Sherlock stopped mid-step, his lips twitching upward into a faint, almost imperceptible smirk.

“Impressive,” came a voice from behind you. Turning, you saw Dr. John Watson standing in the doorway, arms crossed and a warm smile on his face. “Not many people interrupt Sherlock.”

“Someone has to,” you replied, shooting a pointed look at Holmes.

John chuckled. “Well, you’ll fit in just fine here.”

“Enough pleasantries,” Sherlock interrupted, his smirk fading as quickly as it had appeared. He moved to a cluttered desk piled high with books, papers, and vials of indeterminate substances. “Lestrade claims you have insights into the carvings on the bones. Show me.”

You bristled slightly at his abrupt tone but reached into your bag, pulling out the folder containing photographs of the remains. You set it on the table, and Sherlock was on it immediately, his fingers quick and precise as he flipped through the images.

“These carvings,” you began, pointing to one of the photographs, “aren’t just random marks. They’re runic, but not purely historical. Someone’s added their own cipher to them, which is why no one’s been able to decode them yet.”

Sherlock didn’t look at you, but his lips parted slightly, and he let out a low hum of interest.

“They’re not just decorative,” you continued. “They’re instructions—or warnings. And they’re meant to mislead.”

“Fascinating,” Sherlock murmured, finally glancing up. His gaze was intense, the weight of it almost physical. “And you’ve decoded these… instructions?”

“Not yet,” you admitted. “But I’ve narrowed down the language and symbolism to something that originates from Norse mythology. Whoever is behind this knows their history but is using it to obscure their true intent.”

Sherlock straightened, his tall frame towering over you as he considered your words. Then, without warning, he turned to John. “Get the laptop. Now.”

John sighed, muttering something under his breath as he retrieved the requested item. “You could at least say please once in a while, you know.”

Sherlock ignored him, his attention already back on you. “Your methodology. Show me.”

You opened your own notebook, flipping to a page filled with notes, sketches, and translations. As you explained your process, Sherlock’s eyes darted between your notes and the photographs, his brow furrowing in concentration.

“You’re thorough,” he said finally, his voice softer than before. “Almost obsessively so.”

“I have to be,” you replied, meeting his gaze. “Lives depend on it.”

His lips twitched again, as if he were on the verge of another smirk, but he turned away abruptly, the moment passing.

Hours passed as the three of you worked. The initial stiffness between you and Sherlock began to dissolve, replaced by a grudging respect. John chimed in occasionally with practical observations, but most of the time, it was you and Sherlock, your minds sparking off one another as you dissected every detail of the case.

The bones belonged to multiple victims, all of whom had vanished under mysterious circumstances. The carvings on the remains suggested a connection to a cult, one that used ancient rituals as a cover for their crimes.

As the day wore on, the atmosphere in the room grew heavier. The implications of the case were grim, and the pressure to find the killer mounted with every passing moment.

It was well past midnight when John finally stretched and stood. “I’m calling it a night. Some of us need sleep, you know.” He clapped Sherlock on the shoulder, then glanced at you. “Good luck keeping up with him. He’ll be at this all night.”

You smiled faintly as John left, but the tension in the room remained.

“You should go, too,” Sherlock said, not looking up from his laptop.

“I’m staying,” you replied firmly. “This case doesn’t just affect you, Sherlock. I’m involved now, whether I like it or not.”

He glanced at you then, his blue eyes narrowing slightly. “Stubborn.”

You shrugged. “Dedicated.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, unexpectedly, Sherlock’s lips curved into a genuine smile. It was fleeting, but it transformed his sharp features into something softer, more human.

As the hours dragged on, the weight of exhaustion began to set in. You leaned back against the sofa, stretching your legs as Sherlock continued to pace the room, his mind clearly racing.

“Do you ever stop?” you asked, your voice tinged with amusement.

“Rarely,” he replied without missing a beat.

You watched him for a moment, noting the way his dark curls caught the dim light and the way his sharp jawline flexed as he mulled over the case. He was undeniably striking, but there was something more captivating about the way his mind worked—relentless, brilliant, and entirely singular.

“You should sleep,” he said abruptly, breaking the silence.

“So should you.”

He stopped pacing, his piercing gaze locking onto yours. “I can’t.”

The honesty in his voice surprised you. For a moment, you saw beyond the genius and arrogance to the man underneath—a man burdened by the weight of his own mind.

“Sherlock…” you began, but he shook his head.

“Don’t,” he said quietly, almost pleading.

You didn’t press further, but the moment lingered, the air between you charged with unspoken words.

The silence stretched between you and Sherlock, thick with unspoken thoughts. He returned to pacing, the sharp lines of his face etched with concentration.

You rose from the sofa, crossing to the table where the photographs of the bones lay spread out. The weight of the case had settled heavily on your shoulders. The carvings weren’t just the work of a killer—they were the work of someone meticulous, someone who enjoyed leaving a trail, daring others to follow.

“Why bones?” you murmured, half to yourself.

“What?” Sherlock’s voice cut through the room, sharp and sudden.

“Why bones?” you repeated, turning to face him. “The killer could’ve left messages in any number of ways. Why carve them into bones? It’s labor-intensive, messy, and… personal.”

Sherlock’s expression shifted, his eyes narrowing as he considered your words. “Because they want us to see the victims as something more than flesh. Bones are timeless. Eternal. To them, this is art.”

The thought made your stomach churn. “So we’re dealing with an egotist. Someone who wants to be remembered.”

“Exactly.” Sherlock’s lips curved into a grim smile. He stepped closer, his movements fluid and purposeful. “And egotists always leave clues. They want to be found—eventually. It’s a game to them.”

You nodded, your mind already racing ahead. “But the runes—there’s a pattern. I don’t think they’re random.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up, a spark of excitement flickering in their depths. “Show me.”

You reached for your notebook, flipping to the page where you’d sketched out the carvings. As you explained your theory, Sherlock leaned in, his proximity making the air between you hum with tension. You could feel the heat of him, the sharpness of his gaze as he absorbed every word you said.

When you finished, he straightened, a rare look of approval crossing his face. “You’re good,” he said simply.

“Better than you expected?” you shot back, unable to resist the jab.

His lips twitched. “Much.”

Hours later, the two of you stood side by side at the kitchen counter, a map of London spread out before you. You’d identified a pattern in the runes—coordinates, perhaps, or some kind of geographical marker.

“Here,” you said, pointing to a section of the map. “The killer’s movements trace a path through these locations. They’re circling something.”

Sherlock leaned over your shoulder, his hand brushing yours as he followed your line of sight. “They’re closing in on a central point,” he murmured. “A hub. But what?”

Before you could respond, the sound of the door opening interrupted you. John stepped into the room, his expression curious.

“You two still at it?” he asked, his gaze flicking between you and Sherlock.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, not looking up.

John sighed. “Of course you are. Did either of you eat? Sleep? Do anything remotely human?”

“I had tea,” you offered.

John shook his head. “Right. Well, if you need me, I’ll be in my room. Try not to burn the flat down.”

As John left, Sherlock straightened, his attention fully on the map once more. “We’re close,” he said, more to himself than to you. “I can feel it.”

It was well past three in the morning when the breakthrough came. You’d been poring over the map, exhaustion tugging at the edges of your mind, when Sherlock suddenly froze.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“What?”

He grabbed the map, pointing to a section near the Thames. “The carvings aren’t just coordinates. They’re dates. Look—each location corresponds to a disappearance, and the runes indicate the order.”

You stared at the map, your pulse quickening. “So the central point…”

“Is where the killer will strike next.”

The realization sent a jolt of adrenaline through you. But before you could react, Sherlock turned to you, his expression serious. “You’re staying here.”

You blinked, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“It’s too dangerous,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “The killer knows who you are. If you come with me, you’ll be a target.”

“And you won’t?” you shot back. “Sherlock, I’m not staying behind while you run off to confront a murderer alone.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might argue. But then his shoulders slumped slightly, and he sighed. “You’re insufferable,” he muttered.

“And you’re overbearing,” you replied, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

The tension between you remained thick as you prepared to leave for the central location. Sherlock was quiet, his usual sharp remarks absent as he packed a small bag with tools and evidence.

“You’re worried,” you said softly, breaking the silence.

He glanced at you, his blue eyes unreadable. “I’m always worried.”

“About me?”

His gaze lingered on you, and for a moment, the mask he wore slipped. “Yes,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

The admission hung in the air, heavy and charged. You stepped closer, your heart pounding. “Sherlock…”

He didn’t move, his tall frame unnervingly still. Then, slowly, he reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek. “I can’t afford distractions,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“I’m not a distraction,” you said, your voice steady.

His lips curved into a faint smile, and before you could react, he closed the distance between you. His kiss was sudden and consuming, all the tension and frustration of the past days boiling over in a single, electrifying moment.

The kiss lingered for a moment—unspoken emotions breaking through the controlled veneer that Sherlock so carefully maintained. But just as quickly as it began, he pulled back, his sharp features hardening as if he’d remembered himself.

“This is a distraction,” he muttered, turning away abruptly.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “A distraction?” you echoed, your voice edged with disbelief. “You kissed me, Sherlock.”

“And I shouldn’t have,” he said, his tone clipped. He grabbed the map from the table, his long fingers gripping it tightly. “The case comes first.”

You felt a flush of anger rise in your chest. “You don’t get to decide what’s important for both of us. I’m here because I want to be.”

Sherlock turned to you then, his blue eyes flashing with something you couldn’t quite place—anger, perhaps, or something deeper. “And what happens if you get hurt?” he snapped.

“I could say the same to you,” you shot back, stepping closer. “You’re not invincible, Sherlock.”

For a moment, the two of you stood there, the tension between you crackling like static electricity. But before either of you could speak again, Sherlock’s phone buzzed on the table.

He snatched it up, his expression darkening as he read the message. “Lestrade,” he said shortly. “There’s been another body.”

The air was cold and damp as you arrived at the scene, the faint mist of the Thames clinging to your skin. Lestrade met you both at the edge of a cordoned-off area, his face grim.

“Another one,” he said, nodding toward the forensics team working under a floodlight. “Same carvings. Same precision. This one was left out in the open, though—almost like they wanted us to find it.”

Sherlock pushed past him without a word, his long coat billowing behind him. You followed closely, your heart pounding as you approached the body.

The victim was laid out on the ground, their arms folded across their chest in a disturbingly serene pose. The runes were etched deep into their skin, trailing up their arms and across their torso.

“Another message,” Sherlock murmured, crouching beside the body. His fingers hovered over the carvings, his sharp eyes scanning every detail.

You knelt beside him, your stomach twisting at the sight. “It’s different,” you said, pointing to a series of symbols near the victim’s collarbone. “These weren’t on the last body.”

Sherlock tilted his head, his expression sharp. “A variation in the pattern,” he said softly. “Why?”

“Because they’re escalating,” you replied. “The killer’s becoming bolder, more confident. They’re taunting us.”

Sherlock’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Or they’re telling us exactly where to find them.”

Lestrade approached, his hands shoved into his pockets. “Anything?”

Sherlock stood, his tall frame casting a long shadow over the scene. “Yes. The killer is leaving breadcrumbs—and we’re about to follow them.”

Back at 221B, the two of you worked furiously to decipher the new symbols. The atmosphere in the flat was charged, the earlier tension between you and Sherlock now overshadowed by the urgency of the case.

“These markings,” Sherlock muttered, pacing the room. “They’re not just coordinates. They’re a challenge—a riddle.”

You stared at the notes spread out before you, your mind racing. “It’s a location,” you said suddenly, the pieces clicking into place. “The symbols form a map—a rough one, but it’s there.”

Sherlock stopped pacing, his piercing gaze locking onto yours. “Show me.”

You grabbed a pen, sketching out the pattern of the runes and overlaying them onto the map of London. It was crude, but the alignment was unmistakable.

“Here,” you said, pointing to a spot near the outskirts of the city. “An abandoned warehouse. It’s isolated, easy to control. If I were them, that’s where I’d be.”

Sherlock’s lips curved into a rare smile—one that sent a jolt of electricity through you. “Brilliant,” he said, his voice low and almost reverent.

Your breath caught, but you quickly pushed the moment aside. “So, what’s the plan?”

“We go,” Sherlock said simply. “And we end this.”

The warehouse loomed before you, its broken windows and rusted exterior shrouded in darkness. You could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on you as you and Sherlock stepped inside, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the empty space.

“Stay close,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

You nodded, your heart pounding as you followed him deeper into the building. The air was thick with the scent of damp and decay, and every creak of the floorboards set your nerves on edge.

Then, you saw it—a figure standing in the shadows, their face obscured.

“Mr. Holmes,” the figure said, their voice smooth and cold. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Sherlock stepped forward, his posture rigid. “And here I thought you’d try harder to hide.”

The figure chuckled, a low, unsettling sound. “Why would I hide? This is my masterpiece, Mr. Holmes. And you’re the final audience.”

You felt Sherlock’s hand brush against yours—a silent reassurance. Your pulse quickened, but you held your ground, ready for whatever came next.

Sherlock’s hand brushed against yours again, a fleeting touch, but it steadied you. His blue eyes flicked toward you for the briefest of moments, and you nodded, understanding his unspoken command to stay close.

The figure stepped forward, their face finally illuminated by the dim light filtering through the broken windows. A man, tall and gaunt, with sharp cheekbones and a glint of madness in his eyes. His hands were clasped in front of him, as if he were a host welcoming guests to a party.

“You’re braver than I expected,” the man said, his voice eerily calm. “I didn’t think you’d come here so willingly.”

Sherlock tilted his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “You’ve been practically begging for my attention. Did you think I wouldn’t come?”

The man’s smile faltered, his eyes narrowing. “And you’ve brought company,” he said, his gaze shifting to you. “How… quaint.”

You stiffened under his scrutiny, but Sherlock stepped slightly in front of you, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “She’s not your concern.”

“Oh, but she is,” the man said, his smile returning. “She’s part of this now. Part of my design.”

Sherlock’s expression darkened, his hands clenching at his sides. “Your design is flawed,” he said coldly. “You think yourself a mastermind, but you’re nothing more than a petty narcissist playing with symbols you barely understand.”

The man’s smile vanished, replaced by a flicker of anger. “You don’t know me, Holmes. You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

“I know enough,” Sherlock replied, his voice like ice. “You carve your messages into bones because you crave permanence. You want the world to remember you, but you don’t understand what true brilliance looks like. You’re a coward hiding behind theatrics.”

The man lunged forward, his face twisted with rage. But Sherlock was faster. He moved with a precision that took your breath away, sidestepping the attack and pinning the man against the wall in one swift motion.

“You’ve made your last mistake,” Sherlock hissed, his voice low and dangerous. “This game is over.”

The man struggled, but Sherlock held him firm, his tall frame towering over the killer. You felt a surge of relief mixed with admiration as you watched him work, his sharp mind and physical prowess in perfect sync.

It wasn’t until the police arrived that the weight of the confrontation truly hit you. The man was dragged away in handcuffs, his defiance replaced by a sullen silence. Lestrade patted Sherlock on the shoulder, muttering something about a job well done, but Sherlock barely acknowledged him.

Instead, his attention was on you.

“You’re shaking,” he said quietly, his piercing gaze softening as he stepped closer.

You hadn’t even noticed until he pointed it out. The adrenaline that had carried you through the night was fading, leaving behind a hollow ache in your chest.

“I’m fine,” you said, though your voice wavered.

“No, you’re not.”

Sherlock’s hands were on your shoulders before you could protest, his touch firm but gentle. He guided you away from the chaos, into the quiet corner of the warehouse where the shadows offered a semblance of privacy.

“You shouldn’t have been here,” he said, his voice low. “I shouldn’t have let you come.”

“I had to be here,” you replied, meeting his gaze. “You needed me.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, you thought he might argue. But then his hands tightened on your shoulders, and something in his expression shifted—something raw and vulnerable.

“I did need you,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

The confession hung in the air, heavy with meaning. You felt your breath catch as he stepped closer, his blue eyes locked onto yours.

The first kiss had been a crack in the wall. This one was the collapse.

The warehouse was silent save for the echo of your hurried breaths. The tension in the air had reached a breaking point, and when Sherlock’s lips crashed into yours, it was like a dam breaking.

The kiss was urgent, heated, his hands coming up to cup your face with an uncharacteristic lack of control. His body pressed into yours, pinning you against the cold, dusty wall. His lips were surprisingly soft, but his movements were anything but gentle. His teeth grazed your lower lip, his tongue slipping past as he deepened the kiss, leaving no doubt about the desperation behind it.

Your hands found their way into his hair, tangling in the dark curls you’d wanted to touch far longer than you cared to admit. A low groan escaped him as you pulled him closer, the sound vibrating through you.

But just as quickly as it started, he pulled back, his breath ragged, his blue eyes dark with something primal.

“This isn’t the place,” he said, his voice strained, but his hands remained on you, his thumb brushing over your jaw as if he couldn’t quite let go.

You nodded, your chest heaving, unable to form words.

He stepped back reluctantly, running a hand through his hair as he tried to collect himself. “Come to Baker Street.”

It wasn’t a request.

You followed him outside, the cold night air doing little to cool the fire raging beneath your skin. The drive to 221B was a blur—Sherlock barely spoke, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, the tension between you palpable.

By the time you arrived, the front door was barely closed before he had you pressed against it, his lips on yours once more. This time, there was no hesitation, no restraint. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him, and you could feel just how affected he was.

“Upstairs,” he murmured against your lips, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down your spine.

You didn’t argue, letting him guide you up the narrow staircase to his flat, every step building the anticipation to a breaking point.

Sherlock’s lips were everywhere—your neck, your jaw, your collarbone. His hands roamed with purpose, as if memorizing every curve of your body. But it wasn’t hurried. There was an uncharacteristic tenderness in his movements, a contrast to the raw hunger in his kisses.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and strained, as if he couldn’t believe the words were leaving his mouth.

The sound of him—usually so controlled and precise—undone in this moment sent a jolt of heat through you.

You let your hands roam over his chest, marveling at the lean muscle beneath his pale skin, the way his body seemed almost sculpted, yet undeniably real. He was all sharp lines and ridges, a perfect contradiction of strength and vulnerability.

“Sherlock,” you breathed, his name tumbling from your lips without thought.

He paused at the sound, his head lifting to meet your gaze. His blue eyes were blown wide with desire, yet there was something else in them too—something softer.

“I’ve thought about this,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “More than I care to admit.”

Your breath caught. “And?”

His lips quirked into a small, almost shy smile—so unlike him it made your heart ache. “And now that I have you, I’m not sure I’ll ever let you go.”

The vulnerability in his words stole your breath, but before you could respond, he was on you again—his lips searing against yours as if he couldn’t stand the distance for another second.

He guided you to the bed in the corner of the flat, his hands never leaving your body. When the back of your knees hit the edge, you sank down, pulling him with you.

“Lie back,” he commanded softly, his voice like velvet.

You obeyed, your pulse racing as you reclined against the pillows. Sherlock followed, his tall frame looming over you as his hands trailed down your sides.

“You deserve to be worshiped,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your stomach. “Let me show you.”

His hands slid to your hips, and with a fluid motion, he rid you of the last barriers between you. The cool air against your skin was a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his body, but any nervousness you felt dissolved the moment his mouth replaced his hands.

The first touch of his lips against you sent a shockwave through your body. He worked slowly at first, his tongue tracing deliberate patterns, his hands gripping your thighs to keep you steady.

“Fuck, Sherlock,” you gasped, your fingers tangling in his dark curls.

He hummed in response, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure through you. He was meticulous, as if solving a puzzle—reading every gasp, every shiver, adjusting his movements until he had you unraveling beneath him.

His tongue pressed harder, his pace quickening, and you couldn’t stop the moans that spilled from your lips.

“Don’t stop,” you begged, your voice breaking.

He didn’t. If anything, he doubled down, his hands tightening on your thighs as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge. When his fingers joined the fray, slipping inside you with a skill that left you breathless, it was too much.

Your release hit you like a tidal wave, your back arching off the bed as his name tore from your lips. 

But Sherlock didn’t stop—not until you were trembling, every nerve in your body alight.

When he finally pulled back, his lips glistened, and the smug look on his face would’ve annoyed you if you weren’t still recovering.

“Impressive,” he said, his voice laced with amusement.

You managed a weak laugh, your chest heaving. “Cocky bastard.”

He smirked, leaning down to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his lips.

As the haze of pleasure began to fade, you found yourself wanting more—needing more. You pushed against Sherlock’s chest, flipping him onto his back with a boldness that seemed to catch him off guard.

“Your turn,” you said, your voice low and teasing.

His eyes darkened, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Be my guest.”

You moved down his body, taking your time exploring every inch of him. His sharp collarbones, the defined lines of his chest, the faint trail of hair leading lower—it was all intoxicating. When you reached the waistband of his trousers, you paused, glancing up to meet his gaze.

“Off,” you demanded.

His smirk widened, but he complied, lifting his hips to help you. When he was fully exposed, your breath hitched.

“You’re staring,” he teased, echoing your earlier words.

“Shut up,” you shot back, leaning down to kiss him in a way that wiped the smirk off his face.

You started slow, letting your tongue trace along him, savoring the way his body tensed beneath you. His hands fisted in the sheets, a low groan escaping his lips.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, his voice rough.

You smiled against him, taking him deeper. His reaction was immediate—his head falling back, a string of curses spilling from his lips as you worked him with a combination of precision and fervor.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he groaned, his voice strained. “If you keep that up, I won’t—”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. “Good,” you said, your voice laced with mischief.

He growled, his hands tangling in your hair as he pulled you back up to him.

Sherlock’s hands tightened on your hips as he hovered above you, his breathing ragged, his dark curls falling into his face. The weight of his body pinned you beneath him, his lean frame pressing into yours in a way that made your pulse race.

He slid into you in one fluid, deliberate motion, the stretch and fullness stealing your breath. A guttural moan escaped his lips, his forehead pressing against yours as he stilled, letting you adjust.

“Christ,” he muttered, his voice hoarse and strained. “You’re… incredible.”

You dug your nails into his back, urging him to move. “Sherlock, please,” you whispered, your voice trembling with need.

He didn’t make you wait. His hips began to move, a slow, torturous rhythm that left you gasping.

Each thrust was measured, precise—just enough to leave you wanting more. His lips brushed against your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he murmured, “Tell me how it feels.”

“So good,” you gasped, your hands gripping his shoulders as you arched into him.

His pace quickened, each thrust deeper, harder. You could feel every inch of him, the way his body fit perfectly against yours. The sounds of skin against skin, of his low groans and your cries, filled the room.

“You’re driving me fucking insane,” he growled, his voice raw with desire.

You couldn’t respond, too lost in the sensation of him. His hand slid down your thigh, hooking your leg over his hip to pull you closer. The new angle sent a shockwave of pleasure through you, and you cried out, your nails raking down his back.

“More,” you begged, your voice breaking.

He obliged, shifting again, this time pulling your legs over his shoulders. The depth was overwhelming, every thrust hitting a spot that left you trembling.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice low and authoritative.

You opened your eyes to find his piercing blue gaze locked onto yours. The intensity of his stare was almost too much, but you couldn’t look away.

“You’re stunning like this,” he said, his tone reverent. “Completely mine.”

The possessiveness in his voice sent a shiver through you, and you tightened around him, pulling a sharp gasp from his lips.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his control slipping.

He slowed suddenly, his movements deliberate as he leaned down to kiss you. The change in pace was almost maddening, but there was something intimate in the way he took his time, as if savoring every moment.

“I want to see all of you,” he murmured, his lips brushing against yours.

Before you could respond, he pulled out, leaving you aching and empty. He flipped you onto your stomach with ease, his hands guiding your hips into the air.

“Stay like this,” he commanded, his voice dark with lust.

You shivered as his hand trailed down your back, pausing to squeeze your hips. When he entered you again, the angle was deeper, more intense, and you couldn’t stop the moan that escaped your lips.

“So good for me,” he praised, his hands gripping your hips as he set a relentless pace.

You braced yourself against the bed, each thrust sending you closer to the edge. His fingers dug into your skin, leaving marks you knew you’d feel tomorrow, but the pain only heightened the pleasure.

“Sherlock,” you moaned, your voice muffled by the pillow.

He leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back as he murmured in your ear, “You feel fucking incredible. Do you know that?”

You could only whimper in response, the words lost as he hit a spot that made your vision blur.

“I need to see your face,” he said suddenly, his voice softer but no less commanding.

He pulled out again, guiding you onto your side. He lay behind you, one hand lifting your leg as he slid back inside. The position was intimate, his chest flush against your back, his lips brushing against your shoulder.

“Touch yourself,” he murmured, his hand trailing down to guide yours.

You obeyed, your fingers finding the spot that had you spiraling. His thrusts grew slower but deeper, his lips never leaving your skin as he whispered filthy praise into your ear.

“You’re perfect,” he said, his voice a mix of reverence and need. “So fucking perfect for me.”

The intensity built again, the pace quickening as he turned you onto your back once more. His body covered yours, his weight grounding you as he drove into you with a ferocity that left you breathless.

“You’re close,” he said, his tone confident.

You nodded, unable to form coherent words.

“Let go,” he commanded, his hand slipping between your bodies to push you over the edge.

The orgasm tore through you, your body arching as you cried out his name. The waves of pleasure were overwhelming, leaving you trembling beneath him.

Sherlock followed moments later, a guttural moan escaping him as he buried himself deep inside you. 

His body tensed, his grip on your hips almost bruising as he found his release.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the room filled only with the sound of your ragged breathing.

Sherlock collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms as he buried his face in your hair. His body was warm against yours, his breath still uneven.

“You’re remarkable,” he murmured, his voice soft but sincere.

You smiled, your head resting against his chest. “So are you.”

He chuckled, the sound low and soothing. “I suppose we make a good team, then.”

“You think?” you teased, looking up at him.

His blue eyes softened, a rare, genuine smile gracing his lips. “I know.”

The Code

- Masterlist

INTRODUCTION: In a world of intellect and intrigue, no one challenges the brilliance of Sherlock Holmes—except you. A case steeped in mystery brings the two of you into a tense standoff, your playful defiance the one puzzle he can’t easily solve. As desire and wit collide, the line between hunter and hunted blurs, leaving Sherlock caught in a web he never saw coming. This is more than a battle of minds—it’s a test of will, passion, and surrender.

PAIRING: dom!Sherlock x sub!fem!reader

WARNINGS: SMUT, MDNI, unprotected sex, vaginal sex, oral sex (reader receiving), degradation kink, eventual cursing etc.

WORD COUNT: 2k

A/N: Hello people, I've been thinking about writing something smut for a while and I had this idea since I started writing about Benedict. Sorry if there are any grammar mistakes! Enjoy your reading.

The dim light of the room cast long shadows across the walls as Sherlock Holmes paced back and forth, his sharp mind racing through possibilities. The case was maddening, a labyrinth of encrypted messages and dead ends. And then there were you. The one person who had the solution but refused to hand it over.

You lounged on the edge of the bed, your legs crossed, a smirk playing on your lips. 

“You’re going to burn a hole in the carpet if you keep pacing like that.”

Sherlock stopped, turning his piercing gaze on you. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Your smile widened. “I am. It’s not every day the great Sherlock Holmes is at someone else’s mercy.”

He stepped closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over you. “You said you have the code.”

“I do,” you replied, tilting your head. “And I’ll give it to you—on one condition.”

His jaw tightened. “Name it.”

You stood, closing the distance between you until you were mere inches apart. Your voice dropped to a whisper, your words a taunting caress. “I want you to make love to me. Here. Now.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you thought he might laugh, dismiss you outright. Instead, his lips curved into a smirk. “That’s your price?”

“Yes.” You held his gaze, your pulse quickening under his scrutiny. “Take it or leave it.”

He studied you for a long moment, his sharp mind calculating, analysing. Then, without warning, he reached out, his fingers gripping your chin firmly but not unkindly. “You think you can manipulate me,” he said softly, his voice like silk over steel. “But I’m going to enjoy proving you wrong.”

Before you could respond, his lips crashed against yours, stealing the breath from your lungs. His kiss was demanding, dominating, leaving no room for hesitation. You melted into him, your hands fisting in his shirt as he backed you toward the bed.

Sherlock broke the kiss abruptly, his eyes blazing. “You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?”

Your cheeks flushed, but you met his gaze boldly. “Yes.”

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest as he pushed you onto the bed. He followed you down, his hands already working at the buttons of your blouse. “Then let me show you how foolish you were to think you could control this.”

His hands were everywhere—firm, confident, as they stripped you of your clothing. Each touch sent shivers racing through you, a mixture of anticipation and vulnerability. When you were bare beneath him, he paused, his gaze sweeping over you.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, almost to himself. Then, leaning down, his lips brushed the shell of your ear. “And you’re going to beg for me by the time I’m done with you.”

His mouth trailed down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you gasp. He moved lower, his lips closing around your nipple, his tongue flicking over the sensitive peak. You arched into him, your breath hitching as his hands gripped your hips, pinning you in place.

“You’re so responsive,” he said, his voice laced with amusement. “I wonder—how much more can you take?”

His lips continued their descent, leaving a trail of heat down your stomach. Sherlock settled between your legs, his broad hands firm on your thighs, spreading them wider with a deliberate, almost commanding motion. The air in the room felt heavy with anticipation, and you found yourself holding your breath as his blue eyes roved over you, taking in every exposed inch of you with an intensity that made your heart race.

“Do you even know how tempting you look right now?” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, sending shivers through you. “I don’t think you do. But I’m about to show you.”

Without waiting for your reply, he leaned forward, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. The first touch was light, a soft press of his mouth that made your hips twitch. He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against your skin. “Eager already? We’ve only just begun.”

His kisses grew firmer, trailing higher until his breath ghosted over your centre. You squirmed beneath him, a soft moan escaping your lips as he lingered there, his warm breath a tantalising tease. Then, with an excruciating slowness, his tongue flicked out, tracing a single, deliberate stroke along your folds.

The sensation was electric, sending a jolt of pleasure through you that made your hands clutch at the sheets. Sherlock hummed against you, his hands sliding to your hips to hold you steady. “Mmm,” he murmured, his voice rich with satisfaction. “You taste exquisite. Like you were made for this.”

He licked you again, this time slower, more intentional, as if savouring every reaction he drew from you. His tongue explored you with an almost scientific precision, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention on your most sensitive spot. Your breath hitched, and you let out a shaky moan, your fingers tangling in his dark curls to ground yourself.

“Such a good response,” Sherlock muttered, his lips curling into a smirk as he pressed a kiss to your swollen flesh. “So sensitive. I can feel you trembling.”

You gasped as he sucked gently, his mouth sealing around you in a way that sent heat pooling low in your belly. “Sherlock,” you whimpered, your voice barely above a whisper, but it was enough to spur him on. His tongue moved faster now, alternating between teasing flicks and firm, deliberate strokes that had you writhing beneath him.

Your hips bucked against his mouth, but his hands tightened their grip on your hips, holding you still. “Patience,” he said, his voice muffled but commanding. “Let me finish what I’ve started.”

The vibrations of his voice against you sent another wave of pleasure rolling through you, and you cried out, your back arching off the bed. Sherlock glanced up briefly, his eyes dark and hungry as he took in the sight of you unravelling beneath him. “You like this, don’t you?” he said, his lips glistening. “You like it when I suck on your clit? Knowing how much I enjoy it.”

“Yes,” you gasped, your head falling back as his tongue circled your most sensitive spot, the pressure just enough to drive you closer to the edge. Your body trembled, your thighs tightening around his head as the tension coiled tighter and tighter within you.

Sherlock’s pace quickened, his mouth working you with a relentless focus that left you breathless. Every flick of his tongue, every soft, wet sound, sent you spiralling closer to your breaking point. Your moans grew louder, your fingers gripping his hair as your body tensed. “Sherlock, I’m—” you tried to warn him, but your words dissolved into a cry as the wave of release crashed over you.

He didn’t stop. He held you through it, his tongue gentler now but no less attentive, drawing out every last shudder and gasp until you collapsed against the bed, utterly spent. Only then did he pull back, his lips trailing soft kisses along your inner thighs as your breathing began to steady.

When he finally rose to meet you, his lips brushed yours in a kiss that was both tender and possessive. You tasted yourself on him, and the realisation sent a fresh wave of heat through you.

“You like tasting yourself on my lips, don’t you?” he said, his voice low and teasing.

You nodded, unable to form words.

“Say it,” he demanded, his hand gripping your thigh.

“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes, I love it.”

“You’re remarkable,” Sherlock whispered, his voice soft but laced with a dark satisfaction.

“Your turn,” you whispered, your hands tugging at his belt.

He allowed you to undress him, his body taut and powerful as he settled between your thighs. “Look at me,” he said, his voice softer now. You did, and the vulnerability in his eyes took your breath away.

Sherlock moved above you, his body strong and sure as he positioned himself between your thighs. The intimacy of the moment hung thick in the air, your breaths mingling as you stared at each other. His hand cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over your flushed skin, a rare tenderness softening his usually sharp expression.

“Are you ready for me?” he asked, his voice low and raw, the confidence in his tone undercut by a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice trembling with anticipation. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your heels pressing into the small of his back, urging him closer.

Sherlock adjusted his hips, one hand guiding himself to your entrance. He paused there, his tip pressing against your warmth, teasing you in a way that made your toes curl. Your breath hitched, and your fingers dug into his shoulders, your body straining toward him.

“Don’t rush,” he murmured, his lips curving into a smirk. “I want you to feel every inch of me.”

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he began to push into you. The stretch was exquisite, your body yielding to him as he sank deeper, inch by inch. You gasped, your head falling back against the pillow as the sensation consumed you—a delicious mix of fullness and heat that left you trembling.

“God, you’re tight,” Sherlock muttered, his voice a guttural rasp. His hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as he buried himself to the hilt. He stilled for a moment, his body taut and trembling, as though he were barely holding himself back. “You feel incredible,” he said, his voice thick with awe.

You could barely form words, your body adjusting to the fullness of him, every nerve ending alive with sensation. “You… you’re perfect,” you managed, your voice breathless.

A flicker of pride crossed his face, and he leaned down to capture your lips in a searing kiss. His hips shifted, pulling back slightly before pressing forward again, the slow, deliberate movement sending a shockwave of pleasure through you.

He set a rhythm, each thrust deep and controlled, his body moving with a precision that spoke to both his intelligence and his intensity. Your hands roamed over his back, your nails raking lightly down his skin as he filled you again and again, each stroke igniting a fresh wave of heat between you.

“You’re taking me so well,” Sherlock murmured against your lips, his voice low and dark. “Every inch of you wrapped around me. It’s maddening.”

Your legs tightened around him, drawing him even deeper, and he groaned, the sound vibrating through you as his rhythm faltered for a moment. “Do you feel that?” he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper. “How perfectly we fit together?”

“Yes,” you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. “I feel it. I feel you.”

His pace quickened, the restraint slipping as your bodies moved together in perfect sync. The wet, rhythmic sounds of your joining filled the room, mingling with your soft cries and his quiet groans. Sherlock’s head dropped to the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as his thrusts grew more urgent.

“You’re mine,” he growled, his voice rough with possession. “Every part of you—mine.”

“Yes,” you moaned, your hands sliding into his hair, holding him close. “I’m yours, Sherlock. Always.”

Your words seemed to ignite something in him, and he drove into you harder, the force of his movements pushing you closer and closer to the edge. The pleasure built to an almost unbearable intensity, your body arching beneath him as you clung to him, your gasps turning into cries of his name.

“Look at me,” Sherlock demanded, his hand gripping your chin as he thrust into you again, deeper than before. You obeyed, your eyes meeting his, and the raw emotion in his gaze stole what little breath you had left.

“I want to watch you fall apart,” he said, his voice low and commanding.

With one final thrust, he pushed you over the edge, your release crashing over you in a tidal wave of sensation. You cried out, your body trembling violently as the pleasure consumed you, and Sherlock followed you a heartbeat later, his own release shuddering through him as he buried himself deep inside you.

For a moment, you stayed locked together, your bodies entwined, your breathing ragged. Sherlock’s forehead rested against yours, his eyes closed as he tried to steady himself.

“You’re remarkable,” he murmured, his voice softer now, the rough edges smoothed away by the intimacy of the moment.

“So are you,” you whispered, your hands tracing the lines of his face as a soft smile curved your lips.

“Ready for the code?” a satisfied smirk on your lips.

He raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued.

You leaned in, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered, “Sherlock.”

He froze, then pulled back to look at you, his expression a mix of exasperation and amusement. “You’re insufferable,” he said, but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“And you’re mine,” you replied, pulling him down for another kiss.

how are you all doing?

I missed writing here on Tumbrl, and I’m happy to announce that I’ve made another account. I’ll be posting from this one ( @duvetfawn ), and it will be mainly about Benedict Cumberbatch.

Thank you for reading this, just wanted to give an update.

Lots of love xx.

(Patrick Bateman X Fem! Reader)

TW!! Angst, crying, manipulation, abandonment, murder, kissing.

You look down at your watch, you picked out a necklace for you and Patrick’s hundredth date he assured you, you both should go on.

He ushered you to go and pick out a necklace for he didn’t want to pick the wrong one.

And unexpectedly you found the one you wanted in an instant, it was being showcased and you purchased it, early than Patrick expected.

You walked up to the register, your black heels tapped the marble tills as you strutted toward the counter.

Pulling cash out, and asking how much would it cost, a feisty bill of 230. You paid it off and hurriedly ushered over a taxi.

Awkwardly saying hello and then telling the man your destination, surprisingly he drove fast, after he saw the money in your purse.

You thanked him whilst digging your key out the purse and stepping on the sidewalk.

You pressed your key code and walked up the steps, taking a left to the elevator. As you got in you dialed your floor number. Key in hand.

As it opened, you heels tapped the carpet, sounding more muffled than before. You took a two-step jog towards your door. Pulling your dress down and putting the necklace on.

Sliding the key into the key hole, you turned it with a *click!* stepping instead on the porcelain floor.

“Patrick?”

You coughed, only to hear shuffling. And music, you giggled to yourself wondering what he had in store.

You took of your heels, and walked onto the carpet side, your feet being rested and comforted by the new position and footing. You tip-toed towards the shuffling trying to be sneaky.

Opening the door with a slight creak.

You snatch the door open a wide smile on your face as you yelled “Patrick!” In happiness.

You saw him crouched down in a suit, plastic around his body. His head snapped towards you by the sound of your yelping voice. He stood hurriedly, almost in a panic. Trying to cover water he was hiding with his posture.

“Patrick?”

Your voice coed into his ears, you tilted your head over and he watched as your jaw dropped from what you had seen.

You took two steps back, eyes still wide from shock.

“Dear, honey-”

He spoke, a welcoming head stretched forward.

You let out a petrifying scream, he immediately rushed forward and grabbed your hand pulling you into his chest. A hand over your mouth but slightly tilted so you could breath from your nose.

He whispered

“Calm down,”

Repeatedly whilst giving harsh pressuring kisses on your forehead. His other hand over your chest, monitoring your heartbeat.

He waited until your heartbeat cooled down before he let you go carefully whilst locking the door.

“Listen to me.”

He commanded. Kicking whoever’s body over flat. You gulped in response nodding your head repeatedly.

“You trust me right, you know I would never hurt you?”

You nodded again, lips cracked and dry. From paranoia. You backed yourself into a corner. Eyes full of water threatening to fall. And when they did Patrick let out a sigh.

“Listen, don’t cry. I did this for us. You know I would never do this to hurt you, right?”

You gathered the courage to speak, anger filled in your veins.

“For us, that’s ridiculous! You did this for yourself, you did this for your own nasty desire Patrick. Your cold blooded, your a murderer!”

He, let out another sigh pressing his finger to his lips in a hushing motion, he kicked the body again in annoyance accidentally giving you a glance of the persons face.

“You killed- My only friend Patrick. My God!”

You yelled running towards the body, knees to your chest and hands on theirs.

They were obviously dead though still you put your head on their lifeless chest empathizing.

“See? Look at that. Your all over him my love, how could I resist?! This isn’t my fault, it’s yours.”

You looked up at him in disbelief of him blaming you. And you were overly fed up, you had kept his little secret of killing his coworker.

“My fault, God your heartless Patrick. Your so un-perfect than what you pretend to be.”

He paused. Frozen in his footsteps.

“Un-perfect?”

You hurriedly nodded once again, placing your head on the lifeless corpse chest, muffled cries leaving your lips.

He gripped your by your neck and threw you back, grabbing the body and pushing you out the way. Locking the door and taking the key leaving you there alone.

You shook in the corner of your room. Wondering how much did he lie about? Did he lie about his love? His obsession with you? Did he lie about his vowels at your wedding?

Stuck in shock, and absurd disgrace.

You heard the clicking of the door and your head snapped in it’s direction. He came inside not locking the door behind himself.

Getting on one knee before placing a hand on your face and giving your forehead a little kiss.

“I love you. You know that right?”

Lies, lies, lies, you thought you fist clenched and jaw tightened, you quickly turned your lips away when he went in for a kiss.

“I don’t love you.”

He froze as you let out those words letting out a chuckle.

“Don’t lie to yourself, we love eachother.”

You were done, you were sick and tired of this facade he was strung to put up.

“I don’t love you anymore, I’m tired of these fucking lies Patrick. Go ahead, do it, go ahead and kill me like you did the others. Be the fucking killer you are.”

His jaw clenched in anger, he tightened his grip on your hand. Giving it a soft kiss before saying that he’d be right back unknowingly dropping the key out his pocket. He left the room, and immediately you took notice of the key.

You heard the bathroom door close and you rushed out. Locking the bathroom door, and running outside of the apartment hallways. You heard Patrick thrust and bang at the bathroom door before finally breaking it down.

Yelling and roaring your name, though you were already on the bottom floor barefooted, bout time you heard his thumping footsteps. You made it outside and you ran to a far away pay phone calling the police to the apartment.

You ran to some nearby woman, and told them about your situation. They also called the cops and the police picked you up and let you stay the night at the department.

You were utterly shocked when they came back and said they saw no one there, and Patrick Bateman was no where to be found.

-

Patrick had ran away somewhere, he already planned to start a new life. But whilst he was running from the apartment you struck his mind.

“My wife.”

He mumbled to himself choking on his tears, as he ran at full speed growing lightheaded.

He nibbled on his bottom lip holding back his cries, sure he might’ve lied to you about where he went and what he did. But never, was he love for you wasn’t true. The flashbacks of his vowels flashed his mind.

Do you like Lana Del Rey? Her early work was the perfect balance of flirty and wild for my taste. But when Ultravoilence came out in '14, I think she really came into her own, individually and artistically. The whole album has an ethereal, dreamy sound, and a new sheen of moody ambiance that really gives the songs an intriguing melody. She's been compared to Taylor Swift, but I think Lana has a far more elegant and otherworldly sense of aesthetic.

❝ I like to dissect girls. Did you know I'm utterly insane? ❞

DAILYFLICKS 30K EVENT: FAVORITE 90s FILM PER MEMBER ↳ GIRL, INTERRUPTED (1999) — Xénia (@alexcabotgf)