Warnings: This will include dark elements, abuse, trauma, neglect, kidnap, including non/dubcon. Please do not read if these elements or any dark elements make you uncomfortable.
Character: August Walker
Summary: a miserable situation is switched for another. (another wife-buying fiend)
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The smell of fear is pungent, laced into your sweat and that of the bodies around you. Your shoulders ache and your fingers throb. The binding at your wrists cuts into the skin as the blindfold chafes across your brow.
Several of you, you don't know how many, were taken from the larger warehouse to this new space. You don't know what it is. It's not as humid or pungent as before, though you feel just as grimy.
One of the women whimpers. Not for the first time. Footsteps, one set bare, the other thickly soled cross the room and the door slams. You flinch as yet another squeaks.
"Shut up," a man growls.
You keep your head down and twine your fingers together. The most you can do to protect yourself is be silent. You learned that real quick.
When you got there, with a group of maybe three others, one of them refused to be quiet. She screamed and barked at your captors. When the gagged her, she kicked at the walls until they dragged her out and brought her back days later. She didn't make any noise after that. She couldn't eat either. Not anything solid.
Soft sniffles come from one side of you. You haven't cried at all. As scared as you've been, it feels like that would only doom you what good is crying but to give you a headache; or worsen the one you already have from lack of sleep and food.
You sit and wait. That's all you ever do. Every couple of days, you're matched around between men across tarmac you can't see. You never leave the warehouse without your eyes covered and hands tied.
Trapped with you is that old life you don't think about. That quiet existence. You never bothered anyone. Never got in the way. You did all you could to keep to yourself. How could this happen to you?
The door opens again. You can tell the other woman didn't come back. The thick soles stomp around the room. The man whispers to another.
"...not too happy..."
You lock your elbows and close your eyes. You hold your breath as he marches around again. You sense him come close.
"Up," he nudges your leg with his boot.
You don't hesitate, though it isn't easy to get up. You lean forward and get onto your knees. You're dizzy from the suddenly rush of blood.
He grabs your elbow and forces you to your feet. He shoves you ahead. "Walk."
You walk. It's disorienting without your vision. You're pushed and pulled until you're through the door, then angled down the hallway you entered from.
You're stopped again. The man sighs and knocks. He doesn't wait for a response before opening the door. He sneers. "Forward."
You cautiously step ahead, three steps before your escorts grunt tells you to stop. You shiver, the sleep shirt you've been wearing for almost months exposing your thighs and arms. A set of steps approach you and you cower.
There's a noise. The click of a tongue behind teeth. You wince but don't make a sound as someone grabs your chin and turns your head back and forth. The large hand pushes your head up and a hot breath fans over you.
He lets go but grabs you again. Lower down. Two hands grope your chest and you clench your fist around a single finger.
He sniffs and grips your shoulder, spinning you. He clamps down on your waist, then your hips, then gropes your ass. You put your head down in shame. No matter if you want it to end, you can do nothing to stop it.
A rumbling growl makes you gulp. One hand trails up your back to your neck and pinches. The unseen man bends you over, his other hand moving to your hip again. He stands behind you as he squeezes.
There's a hum as he releases you. You stay bent, shaking. You can sense movement but don't react to it.
You're grabbed by your arm and forced uptight. Before you can prepare yourself, your lifted off your feet. You're stomach rests heavy on something thick; a shoulder.
Your accoster turns and your head swims. A hand grips you firmly on one hip, the other on your thigh. You squirm but quickly still yourself. Maybe they're taking you back... Does it matter?
You jostle with the motion of your carrier. Fear courses through you. This is different. You just know it.
You're taken blindly away. You know when you're outside by the warmth of the mid afternoon sunshine. It gives you little comfort.
Finally he stops. There's a click and your body swings of the shoulder. You land on something hard and then you're shut in.
You gasp, the first noise you've made in weeks. Maybe longer. You're great pounds as footsteps hit the tarmac.
The subtle shift then the whir in of an engine confirms your assumptions. You're on the trunk of a car. You bite down on a sob. The last time that happened, you were brought to this horrible place to be caged like cattle.
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Hello all!
Just a little sherlock one shot that was cooking up in my head! God I love that man!! I promise We'll get back to the regularly scheduled program soon! I PROMISE!!!
Summary: Sherlock is busy with work, and you try your best to stay out of his way but you can be quite fussy when you want his attention.
Warnings: Cursing. Sex MDNI, P in V sex. Fingering, Multiple Orgasms. Creampie. Unprotected sex. dirty talk. Sherlock being painfully handsome! Soft Dom sherlock
Entranced, yes that was the word. I was fully entranced just watching from the doorway. The bright morning sun streams through the window of the study, casting a warm glow around him as he works. His features are almost angelic, of course; truly, he was anything but. The thought causes a soft giggle to escape my lips.
“If you were trying to be discreet, you’ve blown your cover,” he says, his voice low, smooth, and calm. There’s an ever-present smirk on his face. Throughout the whole interaction, he never once looks up from his desk. Another giggle escaped me, and I took a few steps into the study.Â
“Not sneaking, simply admiring.” I smile. “You’ve been working at this one for quite some time,” I tell him. I walk over to his desk, standing behind him, my hands gently resting on his large shoulders. His smirk grows wider, and he hums softly. I feel myself gasp as the detective captures one of my hands from his shoulders and brings it to his lips, pressing a kiss to my palm.
“Yes,” He says, his voice steady and strong. “And still much more work to do. I don’t want to keep you cooped up in here watching me go mad. It’s a beautiful day, darling. Why don’t you go take in some of that lovely sunshine we’ve been blessed with, and I’ll work on finishing up here.” I bite my lip, my eyebrow raised in question, but I hold back my protest. Sherlock is a busy man. I’ve always known that. He never blatantly tries to ignore me or keep me otherwise occupied. So I nod, giving him a soft smile. I lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek.Â
“Okay, my love, please try not to go too crazy, will you?” I giggle. The request earns me a chuckle, and he looks up briefly to meet my gaze as I move to leave his study.Â
“I shall do my best, my darling.” He says before turning back to his work, leaving me alone again with my thoughts. As much as I hate to admit it, he’s right; as always, I shouldn’t waste away in this flat waiting for him to finish his work.Â
So I do head out to town for a while. I walk the streets of downtown London in the warm spring air, breathing life into me. I stop at the market to see what fresh flowers they’ve got. Baker Street could certainly use a touch of color, and I know Sherlock won’t mind. After picking out a few bunches, my basket full of florals, herbs, and a few baked goods, I make my way back to the flat. It’s late afternoon now. I busy myself arranging the flowers in vases and putting away my other goods.Â
I still haven’t heard a sound from Sherlock. Peeking my head into his study, I see he’s still right where I left him. I sighed and shook my head. With nothing better to do I join him in his study. I scan his shelves for something to read, it’s been one of our favorite ways to spend quiet time together lately. Lying together in the garden, reading our respective stories. I look over at him again; still lost in his work, he’s probably barely even noticed my presence. Finding a story that is a particular favorite of mine I curl up on the chaise and open the book.Â
This may not have been nearly as good an idea as I’d thought. Since I woke this morning, I’ve been craving Sherlock's affections. Sitting so close now, only to be ignored and left unnoticed, has only annoyed me. I let out a huff, sitting up and looking over at his desk… nothing. I sigh and turn back to my book. I lie back, settling in again, struggling to get comfortable. Another hour passes. Or at least it feels like an hour. I suppose I can’t be sure. And I feel as if I’m going to go insane. I let out a groan of frustration.
“Not enjoying the story?” He asked, a smirk on his lips. He’s far too smart to believe that is the source of my plight. I pull back from my book far enough for him to see me roll my eyes, and he chuckles. “I do so love watching you squirm.” He says with a dark glint in his eye. And finally, he lays down his pen and slams his book shut. I raise an eyebrow at him, not daring to speak a word, but my eyes are full of challenge.Â
“I was hoping to spend a nice relaxing evening with you, my darling,” he teases. “But seem’s you needs an attitude adjustment.” He’s standing behind me, his breath hot on my ear as he purrs. “Am I going to have to fuck it out of you darling? Or are you going to apologize for being so bratty and impatient?” My mouth goes dry, and my body is suddenly on fire.Â
“S-sherlock.” I gasp. “I- my love, I didn’t intend to … I-” I stutter, trying to find the words, but it seems all competent thoughts have left me. This is just how he wants me. This is exactly what I meant, Sherlock is no angel. He likes to play dirty. Make me flustered and shy and needy. He won’t stop until I’m begging. Nothing gives him more pleasure than making me tell him all the dirty things I’d love him to do to me. All it takes is a look, and he has me melting. And as annoyed with him as I am for turning me into a brainless, incompetent, desperate woman. He knows this is exactly what I’ve been needing all day.Â
He chuckles and steps around the sofa, standing in front of me. He takes the book from my hands, tossing it to the side. He leans over me, a primal look in his eye as his knee gently parts my thighs and he hovers over me on the sofa.Â
“What didn’t you intend to do, my love? Hmm? Did you not intend to huff and pout for my attention? Is that it?” He smirks, nipping playfully at my ear as he chuckles darkly. “You just forgot your words, didn’t you darling, just forgot how to ask properly. It’s alright, my sweet. I’ll remind you.” He purrs his lips trailing down my jaw and neck as his tongue traces my collar bone.Â
“I’m sorry, my love.” I pant, my chest heaving. Instinctively, I tilt my head back to allow him better access. He lets out a feral growl, and his hands squeeze my hips possessively as he starts to explore my body with his touch.Â
“Oh, I know you are my sweet. And I’m going to give you the attention you so badly need.” He smirks, his hands slide under my skirt gripping my thighs, a low growl escaping him as he kisses my neck. I let out a soft needy moan my body arching into his my thighs naturally spreading to make room for him. He chuckles his breath tickling my skin where he’s biting at my collarbone.Â
“Still so impatient; you haven’t learned your lesson, have you my darling?” he cradles my face in his hands, kissing me passionately. His tongue explored my mouth as we kissed. When he pulls back, he grabs my wrist, nearly dragging me off the chaise. Before I can begin to fall, he catches me, holding me against his chest. “Now what should I do with you?” He purrs. I look up at him, my eyes blown wide with lust and desire.Â
“Sherlock, please,” I begged, my voice weak and pathetic. He lets out a low growl that I can feel deep in his chest. He grabs me around the waist, picking me up he holds me tightly with one arm as the other sweeps the papers from his desk. He sets me down and steps between my parted thighs.
“Please what, my love? Hmm? Ask for what you want darling.” He teases his hand, slowly creeping up my thigh again. his fingers graze the fabric of my panties, and my breath hitches.Â
“I-I can’t.” I blush, biting my lip. Sherlock chuckles his other hand gripping my chin to make me look at him.Â
“Yes, you can, sweetheart. You’ve had those filthy little desires playing in your head all day. And I want to hear every detail,” he growls. My breath catches in my throat as I hold his gaze.Â
“T-touch me,” I beg and grab his wrist, pressing his fingers more firmly against my core. “Here, please,” I whine. Sherlock lets out another low growl, capturing my lips in a searing kiss as he starts to slowly rub me through my panties. I whimper and arch into his body.Â
“So wet already. You’re such a needy little thing, aren’t you?” He smirks, and finally, he slips his fingers beneath the fabric of my panties, pushing two inside me, curling them as he starts to pump them in and out. I let out a desperate mewl, my hips moving, grinding on his hand. He moves his thumb to rub circles on my clit. He smirks as he watches my face contort with pleasure. “That’s it, my love. So beautiful when you’re like this. So desprate for my affection. He adds a third finger and pumps them faster, curling them just right so I’m seeing starts. My hands come up to clutch his shirt, my thighs shaking and head falling back, letting out a needy moan. My walls clamp around his fingers gushing on his hand.Â
“Oh sherlock!” I whimper, panting as I come down from my orgasm.Â
“That was beautiful sweetheart,” He smiles, kissing me tenderly. “We’re far from done. You know that, don’t you?” he teases. I giggle, nodding shyly. Without further preamble, he tears open my blouse, his eyes raking over me hungrily. He tears off his own shirt, tossing it aside, and cups my face, kissing me passionately. He gently pushes me back, laying me back on the desk, his lips trailing down my body. He stops when he gets to my breasts squeezing them softly and leaning down to capture my nipple in his mouth sucking and flicking with his tongue. I moan loudly, my back arching, pushing my breast further against his mouth.Â
He groans sucking soflty and then swithing to give attention to the other breasts. He shoves up my skirt, bunching it around my waist, and then fumbles with his zipper.Â
“I can’t wait be inside you,” He moans. I gasp as I feel the thick head of his cock brush through my folds
“My love, please, I need to feel you filling me. Make me whole.” I beg. With a feral growl, he surges forward, sheathing himself inside my tight heat. He lets out a groan, giving me only a moment to adjust before he sets a punishing pace.Â
“Fuck,” He moans. “You’re so tight, so perfect, darling. Is this what you needed, my sweet? To be filled and taken. Reminded who you belong to?” I nod and let out a breathy moan. He pulls my leg up around his hip and drives into me deeper. The angle allows him to hit that perfect spot deep within me. My eyes roll back, and I feel myself climbing to my high.Â
“My perfect girl,” sherlock praises his as he brings his thumb between us to rub my clit. My body shakes beneath him as he captures my lips in another searing kiss.” Thats it, my love. Let go,” he coos. “Let me feel all your pent up desire and love as you cum for me.” he encourages. I feel my pussy spasming on his cock and he growls “Good girl,” With those words I tumble over the edge my toes curling my head falling back gushing on his cock as my body trembles with pleasure.Â
“Sherlock!” I cry out as my orgasm crashes over me and he fucks me through it. I feel his hips start to falter and he takes my hand pinning my wrists to the desk as he fucks me, his breathing ragged as he lets out a string of incoheart praises.Â
“Yes,.. fuck.. You’re perfect, my love. Gonna fill you with my seed… such a good girl for me. Take it all, darling.” He growls in my ear, his body going stiff as he releases inside me. His hips jerk softly as he works himself through his orgasm.Â
We stayed like that for a moment, our bodies connected and whole. With a soft groan, Sherlock stands and slowly pulls out of me. He takes my hand, helping me sit up on the desk. He cups my face and peppers it with kisses, pulling back and searching my face for any sign of discomfort. “Are you alright, my love?” He asked, his voice soft and tender. I nod a satisfied smile on my lips.
“Yes darling, I’m perfect.” I giggle. “I am sorry for being such a brat when I’m being needy.” I blush, ducking my head to tuck myself against his chest. Sherlock chuckles.Â
“I know you are, my sweet. the truth is.” He says with a slight smirk in his voice. “I quite enjoy it, I was finished with my work hours ago. But I do so enjoy watching you squirm.” He winks.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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The rain in London didn’t fall so much as it drifted, a miserable grey mist that clung to your eyelashes and ruined the expensive blowout you’d treated yourself to after finishing the final proofs for the upcoming book thriller.
Your feet were screaming. Those pointed-toe stilettos had seemed like a power move at nine in the morning, but now, at seven in the evening, they felt like medieval torture devices. You shifted the heavy leather tote on your shoulder, the weight of a dozen manuscripts and a half-eaten salad pressing into your collarbone.
As an editor at a small, boutique publishing house, your life was usually measured in word counts, dangling modifiers, and the polite neuroses of eccentric authors. You were smart, you were kind to a fault, and you had a sense of humor that usually acted as a shield against the drudgery of the corporate grind. You were also, by all accounts, beautiful, cause confidence baby, though in this moment, with your hair frizzing and your feet throbbing, you felt more like a drowned rat.
You were only two blocks from your flat, just about to take the sharp turn into the narrow cobblestone alley that served as a shortcut, when the world decided to break its own rules.
It happened in a blur of wet fabric and heavy footfalls. A man, wiry and wild-eyed, bolted around the corner, nearly knocking you off your feet. He smelled of old sweat and panic. Before you could even offer a choice piece of your mind, his hands were on you. He spun you around, his fingers digging into the fabric of your trench coat with a bruising grip.
Then came the cold, unmistakable press of metal against your temple.
“Don't move! Don't you fucking move!” the man screamed into your ear, his voice cracking with desperation.
You froze, the breath hitching in your throat. Your editor’s brain, usually so quick to find the right word, suddenly went blank. All you could focus on was the rhythmic thumping of footsteps approaching from the shadows of the alley.
Out of the mist emerged a mountain.
That was the only way to describe him. He was massive, his broad shoulders filling the width of the narrow passage. He wore a dark, perfectly tailored suit that looked entirely too expensive for a man engaged in a foot chase. His hair was neat, despite the rain, but it was his face that commanded the space. He had a thick, dark chevron moustache that gave him an air of rigid, old-world authority. His eyes were like chips of flint, cold, analytical, and entirely devoid of empathy.
“Let her go.” the man said. His voice was a deep, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate in your very marrow. It wasn't a plea, it was a cold statement of fact.
“Stay back! I'll blow her head off, I swear to God!” your captor shrieked, pressing the gun harder against your skin.
You felt a spark of indignant heat flare through your terror. You weren't a character in one of your thrillers, you were a real person with a pile of laundry waiting and a very expensive pair of shoes that were currently being scuffed.
“Look, honey…” you said, your voice trembling but sharp, “you’re shaking so hard you’re going to give me a migraine before you even pull the trigger. Why don’t you put the gun down and talk to the… to the mysterious moustache man over there? He looks like he’s actually in charge of whatever mess you’ve made.”
The massive man in the suit, shifted his weight. His gaze flicked to you for a fraction of a second. It was a glare so intense it felt like a physical blow. He clearly didn't appreciate your commentary.
“Shut up!” August snapped, his eyes returning to the gunman.
“Don't tell me to shut up!” you shot back, the adrenaline finally overriding your common sense. “I'm the one with a barrel in my ear! And you! You’re getting your grimy fingerprints all over my coat. Just let me go so you two can have your little testosterone-fueled standoff in peace!”
The gunman was losing it. He looked between you and the wall of a man standing ten feet away. The pressure in the alley was mounting, the air thick with the smell of wet pavement and impending violence.
“I can't... I'm not going back!” the gunman yelled. He was overwhelmed, his mind snapping under the weight of August’s predatory stare.
In a fit of panicked, jagged movement, the man reached into his pocket with his free hand. He pulled out a pair of heavy-duty, blackened steel handcuffs, something that looked far more advanced than anything a standard beat cop would carry.
“Get over here!” the gunman barked at August. “Drop the weapon and get over here or she dies!”
August didn't drop his gun. He didn't even blink. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his presence so imposing it felt like he was sucking the oxygen out of the alley.
“You're not going to shoot her…” August said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Because the second you do, I will pull your spine out through your throat.”
The gunman lost his mind. He let out a strangled cry, pointed his gun toward the sky, and fired a deafening shot that echoed off the brick walls. You flinched, your hands flying up to cover your ears. In the chaos of the noise and the smoke, the man lunged.
He didn't shoot you. Instead, he grabbed your left wrist with a strength born of pure hysteria. With a sickening clack-hiss, one side of the cuffs snapped shut around your wrist.
Before you could scream, August was on him. It was like watching a freight train hit a car. August didn't move like a normal man, he moved with a brutal, economic violence. He slammed into the gunman, his fist connecting with the man's jaw in a sound like a breaking branch.
But as the gunman fell back, he managed one last act of spiteful desperation. He grabbed August’s right hand and, with a final, frantic shove, snapped the other end of the cuffs onto August’s wrist.
The gunman scrambled away, disappearing into the darkness of the main street, leaving his gun behind in the puddle. August started to give chase, his body coiling to spring, but he was jerked back with a violent snap.
You were yanked off your feet, stumbling into his side. It was like hitting a brick wall made of muscle and expensive wool.
“Ow! Dammit!” you yelled, clutching your arm.
August stopped. He looked down at his right wrist, then followed the dark, high-tech chain to your left wrist. He tried to pull away, testing the strength of the bond. The chain between the cuffs began to hum softly, extending from its housing in the cuff itself. It grew longer about three to four feet of reinforced, shimmering wire but as soon as August stopped pulling, it retracted slightly, keeping the tension firm.
He reached into his pockets, his movements stiff and furious. He searched the ground where the gunman had been. Nothing.
“He doesn't have the key!” August growled, the words sounding like they were being ground between stones.
“The key? Use your own! Aren't you a cop? A spy? A giant, angry lumberjack in a suit?” You were panting, your heart hammering against your ribs. “Get this thing off me!”
August turned his full attention to you. Up close, he was even more terrifying. His face was inches from yours, and you could see the fine lines of irritation around his eyes. “These aren't standard issue. They're magnetic-lock prototypes. There is no keyhole, Y/n.”
You blinked, caught off guard. “How do you know my name?”
He reached into the open flap of your tote bag, which was still dangling from your shoulder, and pulled out your ID badge from the publishing house. He glanced at it and shoved it back in. “I know everything I need to know. And right now, what I know is that you’re an anchor I don't fucking need.”
“An anchor?” You let out a sharp, hysterical laugh. “You're the one who let the guy cuff us! You're the professional! I was just trying to go home and eat some mediocre pasta!”
“Shut your mouth and move!” he commanded, giving the chain a sharp tug. It didn't hurt, thanks to the extension mechanism, but the sheer force of his movement forced you to follow.
“Where are we going? We need to find a locksmith! Or a welder! Or a priest!”
August didn't slow down. He began walking toward the mouth of the alley, his stride long and relentless. You had to practically jog to keep up, your heels clicking unevenly on the wet stones.
“We're going to my extraction point.” he said, not looking back. “And if you say one more word about my moustache or a locksmith, I’m going to make you regret having a tongue.”
“Oh, we are well past the point of me being intimidated, Moustache Man!” you snapped, though your voice lacked its usual bite. You were exhausted, cold, and tethered to a man who looked like he could kill a person with a stern look. “You've got a gun, a very expensive suit, and zero people skills. I’ve spent ten years editing the egos of narcissistic novelists. You don’t scare me.”
August stopped so abruptly you ran into his back again. He turned, his towering frame casting a shadow over you. He grabbed the chain between you, winding it around his hand until you were pulled flush against his chest. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the scent of rain, gun oil, and something distinctly masculine and sharp.
“Listen to me, darling…” he whispered, his voice low and dangerous, his face inches from yours. “I am in the middle of a high-level retrieval. The man who just ran off has information that could burn half of Europe. I don’t have time for your 'smart' commentary, and I certainly don't have time to be 'kind.' You are going to keep your head down, you are going to walk where I tell you to walk, and you are going to stay out of my way. If you don't, I will carry you like a sack of flour. Am I clear?”
You stared up at him, your breath hitching. He was brutal, he was arrogant, and he was undeniably the most imposing man you had ever encountered. But you weren't going to let him see you crumble.
“Crystal,” you whispered back, your eyes defiant. “But if I lose a shoe because you’re walking too fast, you’re buying me a new pair. And they’re Louboutins.”
August stared at you for a long beat, his jaw tightening. For a second, you thought he might actually crack a smile, or break your neck. Instead, he just let out a sharp exhaling grunt of annoyance and turned back toward the street.
“Fine.” he muttered. “Keep moving.”
“Listen you didn't ask me if I want to come with you!”
“ We are past that and now not word!”
As you stepped out into the neon-lit street, tethered to a man who was a different species of human altogether, you realized your quiet life of manuscripts and coffee was officially over. You were chained to a storm, and there was no way out but through.
The rain continued to fall, the silver chain between your wrists shimmering under the streetlights, a constant, unbreakable reminder that your worlds had not just collided, they were now inextricably fused.
