This Is So Unique! I Can't Wait To See How This Story Goes!

This is so unique! I can't wait to see how this story goes! 🖤

Sir Sherlock Holmes & The Indian Princess

शर्लक बाबू और भारतीय राजकुमारी

Chapter 1 || Masterlist || Chapter 2

Chapter Summary: In England, Sherlock Holmes receives an alarm letter from his dear friend Doctor John Watson. In Delhi, You don't mind being a teacher, but with new building plans, you reflect on your circumstances and opportunities.

Pairing: Sherlock Homes x Desi!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Slow burn, generational trauma, colonisation, implied murder, death of a parent, classism & caste.

Word Count: 6k

Author Notes:

★ Everything written in bold is being said in Hindustani

★The Reader character goes by the last name Newalkar and is the daughter of Damodar Rao Newalkar → the adopted son of Rani Laxmibai. I must advise this story is pure fiction but based in the occupation of the British Raj that invaded and Colonised India.

★I am a White European/Australian woman, I apologise for any cultural or historical inaccuracies. I am receiving help from online sources and desi Tumblr mutual @livesinfantasyland and I heavily encourage other Indian/South Asian/Desi readers to share their thoughts, constructive criticism and help as I write this story.

Inspiring Song: "Paint it Black" by Ciara

11:35pm Thursday 26th June 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

This story begins and ends with the sound of rain.

Tink!

The roof had begun a leak. And when this leak came to play it had a habit of landing directly on the head of a disgruntled and lonely fellow.  The greatest detective in London who could not find a friend. Granted I must inform you, Mr Sherlock Holmes did in fact have some friends, but by misfortunes, none were presently in the country.

Tink!

He angrily sighed. Another drop of rain hit his head.

He launched from his arm chair and grumbling moved an empty teapot to sit on the cushion he previously sat. The drops thus made a small tinkling as they landed inside the empty pot.

Plonk!

He rubbed his eyes and checked the time on the mantle piece clock. He had lost weeks of his life. Hours squeezed down to into unknown days or months, he could not tell. It did not help how he consistently drew the curtains closed to design total darkness other than the fireplace and his candles to light up his home.

A light shiver ran up his spine. The weather was dangerously cold today. His fingertips upon inspection grew from pale white to a dark pink.

Plonk!

He wandered if perhaps it was time to have a holiday in sunny Spain.

A knock on his door broke his imagined vacation like a hammer to glass.

His pesky landlady Mrs Hudson intruded on his stuffy dust filled space. She grumbled nonsense about the filth of her apartment she’s rented out to the famous Detective before handing him a thick envelope.

Plonk!

And the moment he could see and recognised the handwriting he snatched the Letter from her wrinkly fingers and banished her with a bellowing shout. The woman fluttered out and muttered her further disgusts of his treatment.

Plonk!

But Sherlock did not care for her opinion or rather anyone’s for that matter, Sherlock only cares about the stamp he tore opened the parchment he eagerly unfolded.

John Watson. Doctor, soldier and dear friend. He was Sherlock’s greatest companion to note. He had never felt such brotherly love until he met the very man seeking a roommate here in baker street.

Doctor and detective used to comb London for clues to solve crimes and very noticeably took an interest at the sports of pleasure. The luxurious brothels of London welcomed him and his friend with open arms and spread legs. Doctor Watson was the easy victim of sex while Sherlock was one to enjoy his opium pipe and watch his friend succumb to the mouths of half-pound harlots.

And among these adventures of interesting women did the doctor find himself in a savage tussle with another jealous male patron...

Sherlock recalled the evening with mirth. His dear friend, brother in arms had been pummelled to a pulp and drunk as a daisy. So when Sherlock escorted him to a hospital, the imbecile had declared that he was doctor of the ward and did not need any stitches. It is a grand thing perhaps Doctor Watson could not fathom the memory of yelling too proudly that his medicine could be only found in the elixir of a woman’s warm cunny.

His nurse, a dirty bird at heart had giggled at this...that nurses name was Mary Mortenson. And she became the very enamoured Mrs Mary Watson.

Sherlock was not fond of his friend becoming so besotted with his bride. He tolerated the woman’s presences at best. Unspokenly, the detective saw competition to gain the doctors attention and it was becoming far too obvious that Mrs Watson would win. Every. Single. Time.

After a month of young love the married pair had decided their honey-moon should be experienced back in John’s birth land...Delhi, a city in India. Mary was to meet the senior Mr and Mrs Watson. Coincidently, the English rose was not averse to the foreign lands…she so happened to have been born in Agra. Happy and married, they boarded and sailed across the sea.

Sherlock had high hopes their ship would run scarce of supplies so they might return quickly. He missed his dear friend and even his annoying wife.

The letter in between if thumbs and fingers were the first words from them he had gotten in nearly three months. The letter read as followed...

“Dear Sherlock,

Mary and I have come to my home I grew up in as a boy. I was blessed with my parents merry welcome. However, unfortunate circumstances have designed two coffins. For merely a week into our visit my beloved parents have passed. I have yet to decide whether to bury them in the English tradition or burn them in the Hindi ritual. My predicted return back to Baker Street may appear futile and non-existent. Please. Come visit us as soon as it is convenient.

13, 25, 27, 16, 1, 18, 5, 14, 20, 19, 27, 8, 23, 5, 27, 2, 5, 5, 14, 27, 13, 21, 18, 4, 5, 18, 5, 4.

Your sincere faithful friend, Doctor John H. Watson.”

Plonk!

Sherlock’s eyes raced over the page, and cupped his mouth staring at the plethora of numbers. They were not any numbers. John was a simple man, he wasn’t the smartest being but Sherlock appreciated his humble attitudes, he liked the doctor admitting he wasn’t a world genius, just a man who knew his medicines.

So when an enigmatic set of numbers was written at random Sherlock thought of the most simplistic cypher.

For every number was a letter. 1 being A and 26 being Z, leaving 27 to be a space between a word.

His brows lifted. The message was clear and alarming.

Plonk!

“My Parents Have Been Murdered.”

He determined his dear doctor had written this cryptic message under the desire of secrecy. His eyes lit up. It meant John needed Sherlock’s help. A case. Something was amiss. John did not know the killers name. If he did, he would’ve written it or not bothered to write asking Sherlock to visit at all.

He couldn’t have run faster to his rooms to start backing as soon as possible.

Plonk!

Sherlock Holmes had know idea what he was going to find in a land he had only heard stories from Watson’s childhood. He was eager to see his friend, to help him and to finally have an adventure.

01:35pm Friday 11th July 1890, Anglo Arabic Secondary School, Desh Bandhu Gupta Rd, Ajmeri Gate, Delhi.

You dragged the piece of white chalk across a black board and sketched a simple phrase in the English language. You smiled to the young faces that filled the room, sitting in long benches and desks. Their eyes wide and curious, eager to learn.

You waved your hands, “Now, clean your chalk slates students, you are going to learn how to spell good afternoon in English.”

They wipe them down with their small damp clothes and tucked them away in the groove at the top of their slanted desk. You waited patiently until they all sat with their hands resting flat on the wooden desks, mouths shut, eyes seeking knowledge.

You underlined each letter of the first word, “Gee, ouw, ouw, dee, this spells ‘Good’ and now ‘Afternoon’ is Aya, eff, tee, Ee, Ara, eynnn, ouw, ouw, eynn.”

The young boys sounded it out with you. Their sweet pubescent voices unionised. You smiled. They were so advanced at such a young age, most of the boys had come from average and wealthy families that could afford them to come to such a fine school. Many were Muslim, others Hindu, it was a good sign of peace. The youth coming together despite their differences. And on odd days you would teach the white children, boys and girls of British and French families who wanted their children to learn Hindi, Arabic and Urdu.

You didn’t mind teaching white children, some of the boys could be very disrespectful but you gathered it was behaviour picked up from their arrogant fathers. It wasn’t the young boys who had pillaged these lands, it was their fathers and grandfathers.

“The gee,” you circled the G, “Remember in English is also pronounced like Guh and,” you tapped the double o’s, “Ouw ouw in english together when two is said ‘oooowa’. Followed by dee being said as Dah. So, let’s say it together?”

You dragged a white line under the word and sounded it out with your students.

“Guh-oooow-dah.”

You smiled.

You repeated, “Good.”

“Now let’s look at the word ‘afternoon’,” you announced.

You cleaned the board and looked back at your students. One of the little boys who sat in the front was rubbing his eyes. You smiled softly. He was only six years old. His older brother, a young man now would most likely be the one to collect his brother from school and carry him sleeping back home. You looked at the bell tower just outside the window. It was nearly time for your students to go home and you to return back to your lodgings.

“Aye and eff is said as AAaff, then tee is a quick Tuh! And what is Ee and Arrra sound together children?”

“Errr,” they all purred.

You sounded out half of the word with them, “Aafftuherrr.”

You rubbed your chalk dust covered fingers together and further explained as you pointed to each important letter, “eynnn makes a Na, sound. And we just practiced double ouw, so sound it out.”

Like a symphony of speech, you all said together, “Guh-oooow-dah Aafftuherrr, Na-ooow-na. Good Afternoon.”

The deep bowing clang of the bells outside rang through the yard and open window shutters. The children looked eager to leave. Their hands were readily holding their slates, ready to put them inside the empty wooden box in the corner of the classroom where they kept all their slates and dusters and the bucket for where they kept their chalk.

“Good afternoon students,” You bided.

“Good afternoon Teacher Madam,” They called back.

“You may go back home now. Practise your English alphabet song.”

The boys were fast as rabbits, leaping from their desks and fleeing the classroom out the hall and down the stairs. But some at least saluted you as they left. It was a habit they’d picked up from the white boys who saluted their male teachers. You smiled to yourself as you waved them out. Each left with beaming smiles and playful chatter among themselves.

As you went about sweeping the floor after wiping the chalk from the board, you wondered if you should go to the temple and pray for your students successful education or if you should consider washing your clothing today. It had been very dry today, any moment and you knew the wet season and humid rain would arrive to flood the streets clean of dust and fill the forests with life of green goodness.

As you put away the English education books on the small shelves by the door, a familiar face came rushing in, flushed and excited

If it wasn’t her jingling anklet and bangle that announced her To your classroom, it was her shrill cry of your name that did.  

“Y/N! Quick!” Miss Anjuli Paraiyars exclaimed, “You need to come with me.”

Her dark ink hair was peaking out from her sun patterned veil. The wispy curls stuck to her sweaty forehead and framed her dazzling walnut eyes. They were flooded with mischief that matched her biting lip. Her brows wriggled lightly.

Placing the last book onto the shelf you turned to acknowledge your dear friend.

“Anjuli,” you happily sighed, “Whatever is the matter?”

She waved her hands about, hoping to quicken you along and out the door, “It is the Watson son, Doctor Watson, he wants to speak with you with important news.”

Your eyes widened. ‘What on earth does that poor soul wish to say to me? After the death of the good Mr and Mrs Watson, I would assume he was still in mourning, why would he call upon me?’

Following your friend outside into the scorching sun, you lifted your saree over your head. She had her family Ox and cart waiting outside the school gates.

“What important news Anjuli?” You said a little standoffishly.

“He’s offering you a job,” She said giddily. She climbed up into the cart and leant down offering her hand to you.  Once in the cart side by side she sighed, “That’s all he would tell me,” She grabbed the reigns and cane and tapped the Ox to start moving out onto the dirt road, “But we all know how very generous he can be like his dear parents.”

Anjuli was right. The late Victoria and Hamish Watson’s were angelic to the local community. Victoria had been the very soul to teach your late mother English and she was the one to encourage you to attain education enough to become one of the very few first female Indian teachers. She was a well known philanthropist, often aiding the sick and homeless and funding the Indian hospitals. Hamish was a local accountant, financial advisor and lawyer. He was known to be good to the children particularly. He would often hand out sweets as he walked down the street with his briefcase bag. He often aided the locals find new homes when the British planned to evict them and replace white families in their place. The English couple had lived in the country for many decades, long before you were even born. They spoke fluently enough and mimicked the culture so well that you could’ve believed they were born here themselves.

You sat back and nodded, “May their souls attain moksha.”

02:45pm Friday 11th July 1890, Willingdon Crescent, Central Ridge Forest, Delhi, India.

The sun baked down on the streets of Dehli. The Ox cart rolled along, it’s tail flicking the flies circling it’s flank every so often.

You pinches your saree scarf and covered your face before a bug could fly into your mouth.

Anjuli had to hold the reigns and cane, she leant closer to you and giggled as she nodded to the khaki covered soldiers. Walking by in many small groups.

Anjuli had a terrible habit, she fell in love too easily. For some ungodly reason Anjuli admired the foreigners that had come so long ago and invaded your beautiful country. Maybe she liked how different they looked. The flaxen hair and ice blue gazes in the faces of pale freaks were so opposite to the raven manes and hairy russet warmth of Indian men. It was erotic for her. You just didn't understand how she could so easily find infatuation with the people you considered an enemy, and so should she.

“Oh look at them,” she giggled girlishly.

You rolled your eyes, “I’m looking.” There was a timid strain in your voice. You had no real interest to entertain Anjuli’s fascination.

When Anjuli noticed how you in fact we’re not looking but rather looking ahead on the road path she playfully smacked your arm.

“Look!” She sucked her teeth and teasingly scolded, “Do you not know delight at the sight of men?” She reached forward and abruptly touched the front of your blouse, squeezing around for the softness of your breasts, “Are you sure you’re a full grown woman?” she smiled wickedly and prodded her finger in between your legs covered by your top petticoat.

You squeaked loudly and batted her hand. She howled with laughter and kept giggling even as you scowled at her beneath your veil.

You turned your head away from her and scoffed, “I am not as easily swayed by British soldiers. They look so sickly as pale as they are,” your nose wrinkled, “How could I righteously take a husband in front of beloved Lakshmi and her Vishnu when they look like they tempt Yama too take them at any moment?”

Your friend rolled her eyes, “Oh nonsense,” she tapped your hand and waved her fingers into a crowd of soldiers, “See there that one, his hair the colour of wheat, he is a handsome man. He would make a fine husband.”

And as the cart rolled passed, you couldn’t help gag at the smell of the same man Anjuli proclaimed would make a fine husband.

‘A fine swine perhaps. Many sow in heat could come trotting to him from miles with such a putrid scent.’

Your head wobbled and your flat palm waved at her, “A husbands good qualities are not to stand on his appearance alone. One day he will grow old, fat, bald and ugly.”

A long dragging sigh came out from the woman beside you. She managed to move both reigns into one hand and playfully tugged your saree away from your face

“You’re no fun, come on,” she jerked her chin out to the same street as the ox was about to pass another group, “Tell me you don’t find any of them a little attractive?”

You stared at the oncoming group and now sucked your teeth. You crudely stated, “They’d be far more attractive if they left. Went back to their lands, leave our villages and the people of Bharat in peace.”

Anjuli stared blankly at you. Before she could pinch and prod you again you relented and noticed one of the men in the crowd so different from the others.

He was tall, his hair a dark chestnut that matched the shade of his suit. His face was bare and clean in comparison to the soldiers who all adorned moustaches and muttonchop beards on their faces. He was carrying a rather large brief case and walking stick.

“Fine...that one,” you nodded, “In the brown English clothes.”

“The one wearing a suit?” Anjuli snickered, “He’s not a soldier though?”

You giggled,“And it is for such a reason I find he is most handsome among them.”

You both gazed at him as the ox fully passed by. Anjuli smiled at you.

“He is rather tall. Strong. What do you think he does?” She asked, “Maybe he is a farmer, or a bricklayer?”

You shook your head. ‘No. He couldn’t be.’

“He dresses too finely. It is not their Christian Sunday Sabbath today. He probably is a rich businessman, with a wife and children.”

You looked back to the path as the dusty road became thicker in trees and travel further away from the street. You thought about that strangers wife, what she might look like, probably some English rose with a house full of servants at her command, surrounded by maids and wet nurses for her children. She would live in a grand house and hold soiree’s, welcoming guests from all around to celebrate life. She would have a massive library and a place of worship. It was the life you should’ve had, the life you were owed and denied merely by the changing events of history and the extinguish of your father’s birthright.

Your soft smile faded; you felt a twinge of repulsion mixed with a hint of anger. You’d think after all these years you would’ve chosen to forget this, ignore this, let go and accept your circumstances in this life.... You didn’t live with your father anymore who would remind you practically daily why not to trust the English or any white man, as if you didn’t witness their subjecting abuse and consistent disrespect.

Your eyes fluttered shut, you reached to your side and touched Anjuli’s wrist. She was your truest friend despite her differences and low status. Anjuli came from a Shudra family, and you? You were the daughter, the descendant of Brahims and Kshatriyas...now lowered to the Shudra caste class…You never knew the lavish life of the Jhansi palace, nor tasted the rich foods served on golden plates and surrounded by pretty creatures of the palace menagerie. You would never know the joys of running through the gardens with other children in the royal family.

Everyone was gone, everything was gone. All that was left was your father who scarcely remembered that life but shared all he remembered so his memories would live on through you and bring you hope that one day it would be yours. It was a cruel false hope…

Eighteen years ago, you had been born inside of a nice house in Indore to the daughter of a prestige painter Vasudeoraobhau Bhatavdekar. As far as you knew, your father loved your mother very much for the incredibly brief time that they were married. A rare jewel in beauty is how he described her often. A marriage of love and choice. Your father said she was softly spoken and obedient, but it was her unconditional love for him and his dreams that held his heart in appreciation.

It was by unfortunate command that she would fall ill to childbed fevers after you were born. After you…a girl...not a son. You were nothing in the eyes of the British raj and had no chance of being installed as an heir for any restoration…you were the last hope and failed before your first breath. And that was something you’d never forget.

For a small time, you were raised in that home and then it was decided by your father that you would learn English. His tutors were not available, so he cut your hair short and shipped you off to Delhi with your young uncle Save to the Anglo Arabic Secondary School…It did not take the teachers and headmaster long to discover you were a girl. Before you were to receive the beating of a lifetime it was Mr Hamish Watson who so happened to be accounting the school costs to save you. He took you to his wife who taught you English and then set you to live with his maid servants, Anjuli’s mother.

Your friend spoke after some time of silence, “Oh, I’m meant to tell you- My cousin Vijay sent word this morning, he’s seeking a wife. My mother wants me to ask if you’d like to meet him, a prospective match.”

Your lips curled into a sneer, “Isn’t he the one that use to tie our braids together in a knot during Diwali and chase us around the street making animal noises?”

You recalled a young teenage boy about five years your senior with a tooth gap and ruffled hair. He was so annoying, calling you names and bullying you by calling you fat and ugly. He was spoilt and rude. He mocked you when you told him you were a princess. He said you were a princess of pimple pox and nothing more. Oh how you remembered the way your blood boiled.

“We were children, he was playing, only a boy,” she smiled, “He’s a man now, studying to be a barrister in Bombay but he will be visiting in a few weeks to help us move.”

Ah yes, the dilemma you needed to find a solution too soon. It was a month ago that a letter had been nailed to the house door, it was an eviction commandment made by the British military and government. The Paraiyars family and you had to leave the home in Raisina hill, why? Because the British do what they like…building concrete monstrosities over beautiful land and demolishing the history of your people like it was worthless dust. Rumours spread about a grand governors palace was to be built there, but they couldn’t burn the village to ash with people living inside...well....at least not on their "morally good Christian conscious."

“Vijay I believe owns a cottage near the seaside. You could be his bride and live with him instead of moving back to Indore to your father.”

Moving back was not possible...not after his most recent letter.

“Father has…felt it improper for me to move back to Indore. He believes that my existence would cause me more harm than good under his jailers’ eyes…His pension he shares I give mostly to your mother for board. I have saved my wages, I am considering…moving to a boarding workhouse in Jhansi or Agra, but tell your mother I would like to greet Vijay when he arrives…”

You smirked looking down at your fingernails, “Lakshmi forbid I run out of money and need to resort to the ‘charity’ of Christians or to prostitution.”

Anjuli made a face, shaking her head and brushed her shoulder into yours, “You wrinkle your nose at every man, white, black or bronze,” she smiled cheekily, “I doubt you’d make a good prostitute.”

“Anjuli!” You shrieked.

Both you and her erupted into a large happy shrill of giggles enough to gain head turns from passing public. You and her playfully poked your elbows into each other. Anjuli was right, there was no chance that you could make a suitable prostitute…you hadn’t had sex and didn’t know how to please a man, most men you barely liked. They could be selfish. Anjuli on the other hand, she was a frisky thing. She had kissed a hundred men and given her ‘precious flower’ to a boy back when she was thirteen. She had no shame. Anjuli had shared her sordid tales of lust to you many times. You knew her boyfriends that snuck her out at night and returned her by morning. You promised never to tell her mother or father who surely would’ve disowned her if they knew how promiscuous she was. It was best if they believed she made money with her parents in the markets selling dyed clothes and wooden jewellery boxes.

03:04pm Friday 11th July 1890, 5 Bistdari Road, Central Ridge Forest, Delhi, India.

Arriving to the Watson Bungalow was simple enough, the ox cart rolled and bumped over the rock and sandy grooves of the path. Anjuli pulled the reigns of her beast and helped you both down. She tied her ox to the outside gate posts, the precious creature lowered its head and munched on dry grass that still was hinted in green. The ox would be glad as soon the wet season would hit and all the food delight lush and green would return.

You and Anjuli stepped inside and removed your sandals, Anjuli then led you through the house. It had been some time since you had been here. Anjuli’s mother was dismissed as Mrs Victoria Watson’s maid when the new Watson bride had arrived.

Doctor Watson, their son was a short ferrety man. His face was covered in a long mutton mustache like a snake of hair slithering along his face. He was a grown man from the teenager you had met many years ago. His parents had sent him to Europe to school, as far as you were aware he had join the army and fought in some notorious war battles like The of Battle of Abu Klea.

As you entered the bureau office, you found him hunched over some paperwork, his brows scrunched. His eyes lifted up and brightened his face on seeing you both.

“Oh Miss Paraiyars, Anjuli dear,” he said clapping his hands and opening a drawer in his desk, “Thank you so much dear for bringing darling Miss Newalkar here. Here,” he handed Anjuli a small bag and slipped four rupees into her hand, “and take these sweets back to your Mataji, Mrs Paraiyars.”

Anjuli put her hands together and smiled, wobbling her head before leaving you alone to return outside back to her ox cart.

You had your hands pressed together peacefully while the doctor hobbled over to you from around the desk. He was smiling brightly and nodded his head to you, offering you a chair in front of the desk.

“Y/N thankyou for coming on such short notice. I requested your presence in person to offer you a job position.”

Your smile fell, you sheepishly explained to the man, “I am currently employed at the Anglo school Doctor, Babu.”

The doctor nodded, “Yes…Anjuli tells me you are still teaching the children English and Hindi?”

“Yes Doctor Babu,” you confirmed.

“How much are you paid per month?” he asked quickly, touching his lips lightly in thought.

“Twenty five rupees,” you said softly, you didn’t dare try to sound prideful.

The doctor smiled and pulled out a piece paper contract, he then stated, “I will pay you a hundred per month.”

Your eyes widened, and then narrowed. It was too spectacular to be true, it sounded Impossible. Your fathers pension was only a hundred and fifty rupees a year, for the doctor to give you a hundred per month was unfathomable wealth. What on earth was he wanting from you!?

“What is the position,” you swallowed breathlessly, “Doctor Babu?”

“Housekeeper and…a carer,” he sighed, “I need you to live here, and watch over one of my friends. He is from England and I am afraid he might not understand the customs here.”

He leant against the desk cocking his head and looking down at his feet awkwardly. “Please,” he begged, “he is different to other men. He is particular and perhaps rather spoilt. I need you to make sure he doesn’t get lost, harmed or too upset. It is pressing that I should return to my wife in Agra. I would have hired Mrs Paraiyars, in fact I did offer this role to her, but I have been informed she will be moving and her English is not as it once was…and my English friend is rather…particular and impatient with broken speech...”

He wrote a signature across the bottom of the document and held it out for you to read. It was real…your mouth watered. You could save more than your regular wage and easily move back to Indore without burdening your father or mother’s family.  

“If you accept my offer, you may live here as a free lodging, you recall where the servant quarters are I am sure? You will also receive a handsome budget for food. And-” he paused looking up and pocketing the cheque, he gasped, “Sherlock! Dear god man! Did you walk here from the train station?!”

You turned around in the chair and took in the sight of a familiar looking soul.

He was the gentleman from the road. The supposed businessman with his briefcase. He was taller standing here with you then when you sat above in the ox cart. He was standing in the doorway to the office. He stepped inside and lowered his walking stick and briefcase.

“My friend,” the handsome stranger gleefully called, “My dear John Watson, I came the moment I read your message. One of the khaki coated lads pointed me here.”

Up close now you could observe his features on a better judgement. Sherlock Holmes was well known in the British gazette for his distinct physical appearance. With his broad angular frame, sharp hard features, and mighty frame, he exuded a striking and intimidating aura that commanded respect. He reminded you of warriors you imagined before bed in story's of battles your father described at Jhansi Fort.

His face was marked by a strong, sharp pointed nose and intense, deep-set sapphire eyes. His hair was kept combed and short below his ears short and slicked back, revealing his angular eyebrows, and his pink lips that were tightly pursed. He wore a grand brown suit coat with a crisp white shirt, and woolen sweater vest beneath it. And at the base of his throat was a dark burgundy tie. Something about the time reminded you of blood. A cut throat. You felt cold.

His eyes smoothly shifted to you and your presence, his lips parted softly, he glanced back at John, “A patient of yours Doctor?”

The moustached man bristled and shook his head, he stuttered and leant his hand out to you. you carefully chose to take it and rise from the chair as he introduced you.

“Oh- I- Sherlock…um, Sherlock Holmes, I would like you to meet Miss Y/N Newalkar.”

“Miss Newalkar,” the doctor waved his hand over the figure of the giant stock of a man, “This is the very gentleman I was informing you about. This is my friend Detective Sherlock Holmes.”

You pressed your hands together and nodded in greeting. One of Sherlock’s brows raised and his lips hardened in a straight line.

Doctor Watson explained back to the detective, “I was in the middle of discussing whether this dear lady would like to accept a role of housekeeping during your stay here.”

“Whatever for?” Sherlock snickered, “Is your lady wife not up to par with her duties?” he shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked on his leather shoes while his eyes scanned all the way down to your bare feet. It was a crude look of judgement. The westerner seemed to forget not everyone shared the same styles and habits here. You tried not to roll your eyes at him as he scanned your arms and the parts of your belly that the saree did not cover.  Those dark blue orbs crawled up and settled over your faux sweetened smiling face.

“Some…plans have come up unexpectedly. Mary is back in Agra, staying safe with her family,” John stated, his fingers rubbed together, “I need to be with her. And the hospitals are in desire of my services as a surgeon. I ask that you will look around, see if you can find anything here…” he leant in closer and whispered to the man, “I will visit every couple of days, to check up on you and see if there is truth to be founded in my suspicions.”

'Suspicions?'

“John…” the detective pat his friends shoulder, “I am happy to see you. I promise I will do my very best.”

“Thankyou,” said the doctor.

Sherlock jerked his chin to your direction, “How much does the dear girl here know?”

“Well, I…not much,” the doctor blushed and looked back to you, “Miss Newalkar, your thoughts on the job position role?”

You swallowed and nodded slowly, “I accept the conditions, thankyou for your most gracious offering, Doctor Babu.”

The doctor smiled and carefully touched your back, leading you to the exist of his office as he happily stated.

“Splendid! Please, this is the contract. Sign it and return with your belongings later on a few hours while I converse with my friend and guest.”

You looked back at the mysterious Sherlock Holmes and back to the contract. You wobbled your head in goodbye and went on your way. The way you could feel his eyes over your body walking away made you shiver. He was a intimidateding looking man. You left the home and slipped your sandals on.

You thought about how you would now be the housekeeper of a prestigious British family in the community. A wave of relief to your stability washed over you. You didn’t need to crawl to your father and your mother’s family. You started smiling ear to ear. All you needed to do was take care of a house and baby-sit an Englishman who was vulnerable to these new lands.

“Did you see him go in?” Anjuli smirked from the ox cart, waving you over, “The British man you fancied?”

You jerked your chin up proudly exclaiming, “I met him.”

Your friend gasped with a wide smile, “What is he like?”

“I don’t really know,” you shrugged before waving the contract in front of your friends face, “but I am going to be his housekeeper, I need to inform the school of my resignation.”

Anjuli looked at the contract, she couldn't read english but made a light sad sound and sucked her teeth before sighing, “Oh, those children will miss you dearly.”

And that you could both agree. You grabbed the ox reigns and tapped its flank with the cane rolling back to the school again quickly to collect your last wage.

Helplines:

If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline Services

India Helpline Services.

Loved it!!✨️🖤

Based on a prompt:

How about writing something with the phrase "If beauty were a crime..."

Summary: Lost in an ancient ruin, you stumble upon a stranger with a tempting offer...

Pairing: August Walker x Reader (no mentions of body type or ethnicity)

Word count: 2k (somehow)

Warnings: supernatural themes, manipulation, mind control, dubious consent, suggestive, hinted breeding, slightly dark themes but nothing explicit.

A/N: Not beta’d. Many thanks to @the-soot-sprite and @notabronte for their support and advice. Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed 🖤

The Prisoner

A lifetime ago, this abandoned ruin was a beautiful underground temple - a place of worship for a god of some sort. Myths have told that the arched ceilings gleamed with emerald and golden chains, so bright no fire was needed to light its chambers. Now? It was yet another desolate graveyard of a fallen civilisation, a place for thieves and scoundrels to pillage its scraps.  

Scounrdles like you. 

Whatever remained of the once-breathtaking temple was hardly even a ghost of its former structure. Dark tunnels stretched for miles and miles away, dark and slick like the bowels of a beast. Seeking your way out, you ventured through the passages. Your torch burnt faintly, the little blaze threatening to die. 

It was foolish to stay behind. You were a fool. The rest of the clan had already stepped outside, and you had more than plenty of good weighing heavy in your sack, yet you decided to linger, believing there were more hidden chambers to pillage. 

‘Oh, how greed weakens the best of us…’

The flame of your torch whispered its dying breath as you ventured into yet another dead-end. Looking at the glowing ember, you sighed and threw the torch onto the ground, realising you may have to spend the night lost in a dark chasm when a beam of dim light appeared from a hidden crease. 

Was it one of your colleagues who came to collect you? No, surely none of them cared enough to do that. Lured by the light, you followed, gingerly stepping into what appeared to be a rounded chamber filled with empty barred cells. 

Well, not entirely empty. Some of them held cheerful skeletons.  

‘Great,’ you thought. You were soon to join them. Weary, you slumped against the wall and shut your eyes when a low, gravelly voice caused you to jerk. 

“If beauty were a crime, it would be you in this cell rather than me…” 

Behind one of the barred brigs, a face peered. A face that, despite the dirt that tainted it, appeared more beautiful than any other face you had seen before. Long rivers of dark hair framed a fine bewhiskered jawline and cheeks that were so chiselled, so sharp, one could cut a finger just by stroking them. Even the soot and grime that covered his skin couldn’t hinder his good looks and only made those glacial eyes stand out like an oasis amidst the desert. 

A thick moustache decorated his upper lip, raven-black as his wavy hair and the dust of stubble that kissed his cheeks implied that he’d been in this cell for more than a few days though it was hard to tell exactly how long. The man didn’t appear famished or exhausted, which you found strange considering the empty bowl of food next to his bed. 

Patient, he stood, shrouded in ragged clothes. He looked as if he had waited for a while.

The voice in your head urged you to leave and continue looking for the exit or the rest of the crew; to say you had overstayed your welcome in these ruins would be an understatement. Who knew whatever other evils lurked in its depth?

But curiosity whispered in your ears and tingled in your toes, and he was just a man caged in a dungeon cell. Perhaps he could even help you find the way out. 

‘Does he look like he is in any position to help?’ 

Putting down the sack of stolen gems, you took another step to get a better look at him, a frown crinkling your brow. “Smooth,” you mocked his attempt to seduce you, “and you are?”

The man flashed an absurdly white wolfish grin. “I could be a friend, an assistant…a lover,” his timber dropped smoothly, “depends on who you would like me to be.”

His attempt to flirt did nothing but cause you to roll your eyes, yet you couldn’t help but press further. “And what about a foe?”

“Wouldn’t dream of being a foe to such a strong, impressive woman.”

You huffed sardonically and reached for the sack again. Whoever put this man in a cell had their reasons, and besides, you weren’t going to let out someone who just witnessed you desecrate and rob ancient ruins. There were far foolish ways to get caught.

Throwing the sack over your shoulder, you turned to leave when the stranger’s voice snaked behind you once more, “Leroy will betray the group tonight.”

A chill crept up your spine, making your feet freeze in their place. 

How did he know his name? 

‘No. Surely the stranger heard one of the party members speak it.’ 

You sighed in small relief as you tried to convince yourself this was a ploy, but still, your legs refused to move. 

“He purchased poison on your previous stop in Yernya to slip it into your celebratory wine tonight. It was his plan all along," the stranger continued. "To steal all the loot for himself, and he will do it tonight while you and your party choke on your own blood,” he paused and offered a small grin, “that is… if you can even find your way back out.”

The chill in your spine grew colder and pierced through your gut like a shard of ice. You turned back to face the stranger, the sack slipping from your grip and hitting the dusty ground with a loud thud.

“…how did you know we passed through Yernya?!”

The stranger grinned silently, the light of torches cascaded on his glacial gaze like stars upon the ocean. 

Fear seeped between your bones; you tried to snuff it away, yet it had already pitted your confidence into little flakes of ash. Carefully, you crept closer when an abrupt waft of his pungent scent descended around you. It made you woozy; he smelled nothing like you imagined he would; the scent was strongly sweet - a hint of wine and dark succulent roses - romantic yet somehow still distinctly masculine.

It took you a moment to regain your focus. With a sharp inhale, you asked again, “who are you?” 

The stranger licked his bottom lip, the smile on his face still apparent, “a deity to some, a god to others. For you, simply Augustus.”

You couldn’t help the snort that followed; obviously, a madman. However, the tingle in your arms persisted.

“If you are a god, how is it that you are chained and begging for my help?”

The stranger, now known as Augustus, clicked his tongue, and a severe wrinkle appeared on his brow. “Gods get captured all the time. Some of us are even killed.”

“That makes being a god a shitty deal, then.”

He ignored your interruption, raising his hands to his chest as he spoke. They were inked, marked by black runes you couldn’t read. “I have been caged here by a man… a fiend of an evil monk who serves no one and nothing but evil itself.”

“That… sounds like a stretch…” you retorted, not buying into any of what he said. 

He nodded knowingly, lacing his inked fingers together, “I don’t judge you for not trusting me, but it is the truth. This monk plans to bring darkness to this world, and knowing that I can stop him, he summoned me into this cage. These bars you see…” he unclasped his hands and waved them over the rusty iron bars without touching them, “they are enchanted, I cannot touch them, I cannot break free.”

Curious, you reached for the bars, your gloved fingers toying with the rust. Little reddish specks of dust shorn from the metal and coated the leather on your hands. 

“Seems normal to me,” you mumbled, but then you couldn’t ignore the heat that radiated from the bars, nor could you deny the strange sensation that suffused you as you stood close to Augustus. It felt…ethereal;  it surrounded you as opaline mist around a mountain, and your mind became uncommonly lax as if it was soothed by Augustus’ presence. 

Perhaps this strange, attractive prisoner wasn’t lying. You reached for the lock, your leather-clad fingers sensing its weight. It was an old model, rust ate into the cylinder, so much that the slot was too gritty to pick. Luckily in this state, all it would take was a hit by something solid to break it open. 

“If I free you…”

“I will seek for the monk who caged me and put a stop to his reign of terror.”

“And…”

He paused, bemused for a moment when a slanted grin lit his face. “What is it that you wish for, my dear beauty? Riches? Wisdom? Love? The way out, perhaps?”

Heat coiled in your cheeks at the sound of his compliment, but you kept stoic while your hand reached to feel the dagger in your back pocket. If the stranger were a fraud, you would bleed him dry. But if he were indeed a god or a deity, asking for something worthwhile would have been wise. Riches would dissolve eventually. Love faded, and wisdom didn’t seem to get you far... 

As for the way out… it seemed like a waste when you could have had more. 

You needed something that could guarantee everything. all. at once. 

“Power,” you answered, “I want unlimited power.”

A burst of flames soared in the stranger's eyes as he heard your wish. Slyly, his lips twisted into a fanged grin. 

“Consider it a done deal.”

You spent another moment staring, hesitant about whether you had made the right decision. Reaching behind, you felt the dagger in your pocket again, just to make sure it still sat in a place where you could easily withdraw it before you finally began looking for something heavy to use on the lock. A task that turned out to be easier than you expected as a pile of bricks that fell from an old piler conveniently laid on the ground next to the exit.

You offered Augustus one last glance before breaking the lock, carefully observing the silent anticipation that burnt on his gaze. His chicks twitched lightly, unable to hide the excitement wrought on his face. 

‘You can still end him with the brick if he tried anything.’ You reminded yourself as you lifted your arm.

Thwack! thwack! Two hits, and the lock fell to the ground.   

A hoarse whine rang in the room as the barred door swung open, followed by an abrupt gust of wind that blew from the cage. With the brick latched between your dust-sprinkled fingers, you paced back and watched in awe at the unnatural spectacle.

Black rose petals circled the stranger, floating in the air; they clung to him and surrounded him until they formed a long dark cloak that flowed from his shoulders to the dusty floor. His face was no longer grimy but pure and pale as a pile of snow, and his beard had shed from it, leaving only a thick whisker above his succulent lips.

Far more handsome than ever before, you couldn’t help but gawk. Outside his cage, the man appeared taller, and the breadth of his shoulders made the chamber appear smaller. 

He smacked them together and groaned while sliding his hands down the velvety garment that covered his chest. “Freedom… at last.”

It seemed he was telling the truth. As Augustus basked in the glory of his newly found freedom, you cleared your throat and reminded him about the bargain you had struck. 

“As for my reward?”

Augustus inhaled deeply, releasing a guttural hum. Silent, you watched his adam's apple bobbing up and down before he turned toward you. After a brief inspection, he licked his lips once more.

“Oh, of course, one must always respect their deal.”

Eyes tinted orange by the flames of the torches, he began to saunter toward you. 

Something was amiss - the room became duskier, and a sense of fright abruptly pinched your heart. You stepped away, your back hitting the brick wall behind you while Augustus continued to inch closer.  

“Funny how fortune works.” His voice dropped lower, sensual like a kiss of velvet on your bare skin. “A hundred or centuries imprisoned, and you are the first one to free me. A woman, beautiful, fertile.”

“F… fer…”

He ignored you, slowly closing the distance between the two of you. “We have much work to do, my love.”

It was as if invisible vines grew from the wall and held you to it. You wanted to reach for your dagger but found that you couldn’t move a muscle while the stranger stood before you, his shadow darkening your sight.

Grunting in effort, you turned your face away, but he reached a hand to your chin and caressed it before tilting it up to his gaze. 

“Do not fear me,” he demanded.

“No. I released you!” You called out in meek protest, “please, I…” 

“Shush…” he hushed you and clicked his tongue, “there is much work to do, but first, your soul…”

Your last pleas were swallowed by his kiss. Lips bruising, he forced your mouth to open, his tongue rudely penetrating your mouth and stealing your breath. His taste was an instant addiction, sweeter than honey and finer than wine, and even though you vehemently wanted to fight him, you felt your will wane as he deepened the kiss. 

Tendrils of black smoke clouded your mind until, finally, you kissed him back. 

Sensing your surrender, Augustus smile, and, ever-so-tenderly, broke the kiss with a final soft nibble on your lips. 

“My bride?” His glare speared into you, the voice reverberating inside your head as if he was speaking from within it. Deep in the bowels of your mind, you could hear yourself screaming, but the murky tendrils that ensnared you hauled you into the abyss.

“Yes, my Lord,” your lips moved faintly. A voice that resembled yours came from them, but it wasn’t what you wanted to say. 

The demon’s face blazed with joy. Stepping away, he offered a hand which you took without question, allowing him to guide you down the stairs of the dungeon.

Step by step, you heard the screams deafening in your mind, but the only sound that echoed through the cold hallways was the squeaking of rats and your soft footsteps following a demon toward your demise. 

🔥🔥🔥

Shades of Green

Summary: On the paper, Syverson made for the perfect roommate, mostly due to the fact he was never home and even though he was hotter than hell you doubted anything could ever happen between you. Until one night changes everything...

Pairing: Captain Syverson x female reader (no description of body type or ethnicity)

Words: 6.6k

Warnings: +18, fluff, romance and graphic smut. Jealousy, roommates to lovers, angry sex, vaginal fingering, dirty language, breeding kink, risky creampie, hyperspermia, bodily fluids, machoism.

A/N: This is dedicated to my lovely @wolvesandhoundshowltogether a very belated gift, long-anticipated 🖤. It's been a while since I last wrote an actual story so excuse me now hiding from the world in anxiety. Many thanks to my dear friend @agniavateira for beta'ing.

Shades of green

Two years have passed since you moved into the cosy little apartment in the bowels of the city centre - a humble sun-showered pad with a small terrace where you nourished timid house plants back to life.

Indeed, it was a rare find for a reasonable price. The fact that you had to share it with a boorish military grunt didn’t bother you even by the slightest.

Quite the contrary, Captain Logan Syverson was the ideal flatmate; due to long deployments, he was hardly ever at home. Once returned from active duty, he tended to keep the place clean, fixed whatever broke, and made the kitchen drift of the most delicious aromas.

The only real problem that arose from sharing a flat with the Captain was that despite the buzzcut, scars, and bristly ‘roadkill’ that decorated his jawline, he was otherworldly attractive. Sporting the body of a viking warlord and the confidence of a well-endowed man, Syverson was the type of handsome that made grown men stop on their heels and stare and for teenage girls to cover their mouths in a muffle of shy giggles.

Silly little you were anything but immune to his spell, of course. One glimpse of his sapphire-lustred eyes brought fervid heat to your cheeks, and your knees turned into cotton.

However, the relationship between the two of you remained lukewarm, on terms of nothing other than flatmates. Syverson was a man of a few words and grunts, who mostly kept to himself and spent the nights at the local neighbourhood pub where he would drink with his buddies until the moon itself fell asleep.

Admittedly, you preferred to keep a healthy distance, knowing very well that a man like Syverson would never fall for a woman such as yourself. The ladies Sy brought home were nothing like the timid ocean breeze you were, he only ever bothered speaking to you when it was time to discuss whose turn it was to do the next round of grocery shopping.

October snuck right beneath the nose, carrying amber-tinted leaves on its chill wind along with Captain, who was now back from Iraq for a much longer leave and strolled around the house like a bored house cat in search of trouble.

The more you kept bumping into him around the pad, the thicker the air felt in your apartment despite the temperatures outside dropping lower with each day.

“Whatever,” you sighed, brushing your hair in front of the shower mirror and more so, hoping to brush away any thoughts of Sy as you prepared for your date. It has been years since you've been on one of those.

The man you were supposed to meet, Robert, nagged you for aeons and a day until eventually, you caved in and accepted his courtship. Truth be told, you had scant interest in actually seeing him tonight but a part of you hoped that this would help in making you feel less pathetic for crushing over your roommate who never gave a fuck.

Fumes seeped around you as you stepped out of the shower, wearing nothing but a short towel. With your thoughts as hazy as the mist that engulfed the corridor, you made way toward the bedroom when something hard and sturdy blocked your path, causing you to bounce back with a breathless shriek.

‘Oh no, oh, fuck, no!’

“Careful there, spitfire, you’ll hurt yourself.”

The low, gravelly drawl of his voice sent a spiralling tingle to your pebbled nipples: fully erect, they brushed against the wet cloth barely guarding your virtue as if crying for the attention of that burly bull of a man.

Gawking, Sy stood before you, sipping from a bottle of beer, blocking the corridor in ways that offered no escape.

Instantly, your hand tightened on the towel around your chest, assuming that for whatever reason, the Captain was in a mood to vex you, though it wasn’t just mischief that gleamed upon his pale sapphires—but a feral, shameless intent. Unapologetic, his eyes trailed down your half-naked figure, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Headin’ out tonight, roomie?” Sy questioned with another sip while his eyes stabbed at your chest.

Knuckles stiff around the edge of the towel, you cleared your throat in a failed attempt to prevent your voice from trembling.

“I...yeah, I am.”

“Hot date?” His smirk slanted.

“Actually, yeah.”

Sy remained stoic, tiny specks of foam graced his bushy beard and with the flick of his tongue, he licked his lips and suckled them dry. “Pity,” he grumbled, baritone dropping smoothly low, “thought maybe we can decorate the livin’ room together, ya know?… for Halloween. But I guess I’ll make the webs... by myself.”

Your belly sank and fluttered with the unease one has when shamefully exhilarated by something forbidden, yet not a single twitch appeared below the Captain’s frigid stare, which did nothing but furthermore vex your seething mind.

Embarrassed and bemused, you hoped to hell he didn’t mean what you thought he meant. A small frown formed on your brow; if this was a provocation of some sort, you didn’t have time for it. Harrumphing, you shrugged, almost making the towel slip off your chest, much to Syverson’s silent delight.

“Not much into decorating tonight,” you spat coldly and shot him a sardonic grin.

“Yeah, I bet,” he scoffed.

An awkward stillness crept into the narrow space between you. Gingerly, his glare lingered, the sapphire-coloured shine sparkling as it trailed the little beads of water that loosely hung from your hair and glided down your skin. For a brief moment, he grazed his sharp fangs upon his bottom lip but then shrugged and turned back toward the living room.

Never in your life have you sighed with such intense relief.

By the time you reached the bedroom, your heart was threatening to crush through your bones and escape your ribcage. Typically, the Captain had a certain effect on you - a quiver in your belly, a kiss of heat to crest your cheek. But in that very moment, you couldn’t stop the throbbing in your chest and all of a sudden you were a teenager - pitifully infatuated with the hottest guy in school, heart-singing and every glimpse his sapphires offered filled you with the hope that maybe he liked you too.

Though you had Syverson figured out a long, long while ago, knowing very well he was like one of these boys — sick for attention with no real intention.

“Fuck these guys,” you muttered under your breath as you slipped in the tight little red dress you purchased especially for your date.

The thought that Sy might find you attractive wearing it struck your mind nonetheless; but quickly, you stuffed any notion of him to a dusty nook in the back of your brain and finished prepping for your date.

Sy was still sprawled on the sofa once you emerged from your room; lounging about, watching some dumb horror movie on Netflix while a bottle of cold beer sat loose in his fist. There was no ignoring the weird atmosphere that unfurled through the apartment. The air tensed with every click your heels made upon the cheap parquet flooring, each step soaking you with an unexplained sense of guilt as if going on this date was an act of infidelity.

Sending a brief glimpse at the burly man, you felt an urge to say something but realised you had no reason to make excuses to Sy. Instead, you reached for your black sequin purse and just as your hand touched the door handle...

“Who’s the lucky guy?”

The thunder of his voice shot right through your nerves. Clenching your teeth, you bit back your ire and turned to stare at him.

Sy’s eyes were still glued to the screen.

“Robert, from accounting in my firm, but you don’t know him…”

“Robert… accounting,” Sy repeated the name, the gears in his brain twisting and turning when suddenly, he let out a loud snort and burst into a peal of roaring laughter. Throwing his head over his shoulder, he finally offered you a gander, his joyful eyes briefly running up and down the curves of your body.

“Bobbie? Little Bobbie McPee?”

“Robert McBride,” you corrected with a sulk, your fingers anxiously toying with the metal handle. Had you the nerve, you would have smacked that irritating smile right off his big. stupid. face.

Shaking his head, Sy suddenly shot himself from the sofa, his imposing body flexing beneath the worn black t-shirt that looked as if it was about to surrender and rip under the size of his bulging muscles. Any tendril of rage that wove in your gut briskly dissolved, replaced with a prickling chill that crept between your bones and held you paralysed.

Wide-eyed, you watched Syverson as he sauntered forward, your head chaotic with an onslaught of rapid irrational thoughts.

‘Why the hell is he coming closer? Is he going to...’

“We went to high school together,” he retorted and paused mere inches away from you, entrapping you between the white wooden door and his impossibly large frame. His breath blew hot on your face, while the scent of his spicy beard oil, beer and virile musk caged you in hazy mindlessness.

Suddenly you were weak, your knees shaking at the glint of his sapphire gaze. Up and down he scrutinised you, the tip of his serpentine tongue darting at his upper lip in what seemed like a taunt.

“Well,” he drawled, taking a small pause as he examined your dress, “tell little Bobbie: Logan Syverson says hi.”

You meant to reply with a snide remark, but the flare sparking his eyes had you speechless. Once the words returned to your mind, Sy already turned his back and made his way to the living room while chuckling to himself.

To say that your hatred toward Captain Logan F. Syverson burnt with the fury of thousand blazing suns would have been an understatement. Every passing minute you spent thinking about him during your date made you seeth. Not that Robert was anything other than an atrociously dull human being, but everything would have been peachy if you could stop imagining that the man in front of you was Syverson instead.

‘Motherf…’ you fumed, wondering what did you ever do to Sy to have him mess with your head like that.

Nothing! You did nothing to win such treatment. The provoking, the blunt mockery—Syverson knew exactly what he was doing dancing around you, exhuming his big-dick-energy to toy with you the way a cat toys with a helpless little mouse.

Even when you attempted to give Robert a grain of respect and concentrate on the tedious conversation he was leading, Sy found new ways to bother you by sending an onslaught of random text messages:

“Where do we keep the laundry detergent again?”

“Did we run out of Mayo?”

“Is the iRobot broken again?”

“Do you know if KFC is still open this time of the evening?”

“Why are you looking for detergents?! You have three t-shirts you cycle between! No, no and no, Google it!”

Having zero intentions of seeing Robert again, you decided to finish the night early.

Frail as he might have been, at least by comparison to beastly Syverson, he still insisted on walking you all the way back to your front door which you kindly agreed to.

No matter how ‘safe’ people declared this neighbourhood, walking alone in the dark wasn’t a worthy risk.

“So this is me...” You forced a grin at the lean man, politely trying to hint that there would never be a second date.

A hint that went obliviously unnoticed. Offering you a hazy gaze, he provided what you think he believed to be a seductive smile. His hand then reached to your wrist, and with a light squeeze, opened his mouth. “I had the loveliest evening.”

Hardly able to mask your disdainful flinching, you tried to pull free from his grip.

“Umm, Robert, I…”

Ignoring the apparent awkwardness and your lack of participation, he gingerly began caressing your hand. “Is this it or?...”

“Or?...” You drew more firmly, your back pressing into the door.

“Or maybe you can invite me in? Just to talk.”

“Ah no…” you started saying, but the words died on your tongue as Robert leaned closer in an attempt to steal an undesired kiss.

A loud whoosh reverberated through the dim corridor as the door behind you suddenly flung open, nearly sending you down to the floor.

“Hey, Bobbie.”

Shirtless and covered by a sheer layer of sweat, Sy stood at the door, one arm casually hanging over the door frame, making his bicep appear far more pumped than usual. You hated him still, yet at that very moment, relief struck you, along with the misty lure of Syverson’s musky scent that roped around you like dark silken knots.

'To hell with him!'

Seeing the beast of the man demonstrating his physical assets, Robert’s hand immediately withdrew.

“Logan,” He cleared his throat.

“It’s Captain Syverson,” Sy corrected before flashing you a quick glare. Why did he make you feel like you were in some trouble again? You frowned.

“We were just having a small chat,” Robert explained, to which Sy replied with a sardonic stare and briefly chewed on the inside of his cheek.

“I heard. The lady doesn’t want you in.”

Despite the bewilderment written all over your face, Syverson kept a fierce, warning glare at the other man and tilted his head in a gesture for you to get inside the house.

Almost instantly, you folded your tail between your legs and, with a clenched jaw, snuck below his spread-out arm straight into the apartment.

“Night,” Sy spat and slammed the door shut before Robert had a chance to react.

The walls still trembled with the might of Syverson’s brutal manoeuvre; the little tremors made their way into your bones and stabbed at your muscles until your entire body visibly shook. Sy turned to you with barely veiled anger sparking his blue eyes.

At that point, the heat in your blood peaked to new records.

‘He is pissed?!’

There were so many things you wanted to say to your barbaric jarhead of a roommate right now, none of which would lead to any positive consequences. Swallowing a frustrated growl, you stormed into the kitchen and threw the fridge open in the purpose of occupying one of Sy’s cold bottles of beer - hardly a worthy payment to his obnoxious behaviour, but at least, in that very moment, it held you from a furious outburst.

Right on your steps, Sy followed, silent as he blocked the entire space of the kitchen’s arched pathway. His massive arms rose to fold across his bare chest, his lips smacking together at the sight of you uncorking the bottle before drenching your throat.

All it took was one glance at him, and your anger surged again.

“Logan, what the actual fuck?!”

Sy’s face fell into a frown, appearing just as vexed, if not more.

“Thank you for getting rid of that Schmock, Big Sy,” He answered in a dull falsetto in an attempt to mimic your voice the way a child would taunt.

Instinctively, you rolled your eyes at him, taking another large sip. “I don’t know what has gotten into you tonight, but this is the last time you meddle with my affairs and ruin my dates.”

“Oh please, sugarbutt….”

“Don’t call me sugarbutt!”

“Sweetlin’,” Sy corrected with a sneer and stretched his shoulder even wider, his breadth dwarfing everything within the kitchen, including yourself.

“You are bein’ all ungrateful; that’s what you are. Both you and I here know you weren’t about to sleep with Bobbie McPee. That man is way below your league, and I didn’t like how he was nagging you to let him in, so I went ahead and did you a solid because I believe in a woman’s right to say no, and that guy was downright coercing you.”

Sy did his best to appear calm and indifferent, but his eyes were almost erratic in their scrutiny, promenading across your frame back and forth, like a wild animal preparing for a hunt. The same energy infected you as well; the more you tried to contain yourself, your chest heaved - as if it was a game to play or a competition.

“So you are a feminist now 'big Sy?'” You began to mock, “I saw the skanks you brought over here before and heard the shit that comes out of their mouths.” Pausing, you lifted one arm across the fridge's door and squirmed your hips theatrically.

“How did that go? ‘Ah, yes, yes, yes! Captain, sir, give me that big fat cock, yes, use my body like a fuck hole', are you sure those ladies are not paid actresses? If you know what I mean...”

Beneath his thick beard, his jaw clenched. Unfolding one arm, Syerson pointed a warning finger at you. “First thing first, those were some lovely ladies you speak of, so show ‘em some respect, sugarbutt, and keep that internalised misogyny bullshit out of our apartment. Secondly…”

A wild gust of wind wafted over you with Syverson’s abrupt agile movement, who, in less than a second, stood an inch away from your face, rudely reminding you that this humanoid beast was not a simple man but a trained, glorified military warrior.

It took everything in your power to remain steady on both feet and keep that quivering moan locked deep in your chest. Gaze shredding, he peered down on you, his nostrils flaring with every loud and sharp inhale.

“You’d scream the same thing had I given you my cock…” his voice dropped dangerously low, overtaken by a lustful taunt.

Your eyes flicked to his mouth in time to see his lips part open, making scorching fire rise your throat. Absentmindedly, you slammed the bottle onto the counter, the beer unable to cool nor quench your thirst anymore.

“At least I was always kind to your ‘ladies’ and never got in their way to get your cock!” you snarled.

Sy watched the foam climb up the bottle’s neck, his eyes narrowing as if you violated some military code. Chewing on his lips for a lingering moment, he rummaged in his head for a response, but all that came from him was an irritated mumble, “Too bad, babe, I wish you had...’

Your chest fell, uncertain if the words you heard were correct, you tilted your head and asked sternly, “What did you say?”

Sy’s lips stretched into a thin line, providing no answer, though his gaze now felt like sharp shards of ice.

“What did you say???” you asked again, more urgently this time. “Answer me!”

A frustrated growl boomed between the country-printed kitchen tiles, followed by the sharp gasp that escaped you the moment his hands snapped around your forearm and hauled you so close that his furred chest nearly brushed against your breasts with each puff.

But nothing made your heart sink more than the fierceness of his direct stare.

“I said: I wish you had. At least then I’d know you felt something for me.”

Whether it was the heat of his palms or the scent of sweat that got you light-headed, you couldn't tell, all you knew is that the words fled from your mouth like sneaky little mice.

“What makes you think I don’t?”

Eyeing your mouth, he considered his next steps, the chaotic war inside his head evident through fine cracks of emerald that embellished his blue gaze. One by one, the creases deepened, shattering his iron will, proving that even the strongest of men couldn’t stand in the face of the woman he wanted most.

In a completely lost battle, his hand cradled your jaw.

“Syver….”

The rest of his name was muffled by the passionate kiss that claimed you. With his fingers pressed into your cheeks, he forced your lips to unwrap for an ardent exploration; just like honey, golden and sweet, his silky serpent pervaded your maw and imbuing you with bliss. His growls of prolonged desire delved into your chest until you felt fire ignited within its dark pit, and the blazes spilt molten-hot into your veins.

If this was a joke, a game, or a dream, you hoped to never find out; in unveiled desperation, your arms wrapped around his thick neck and hung onto him, wary that he would change his mind. But Sy had no intentions of doing so; amid the symphony of ecstatic groans, his arms brought you to crash into his broad, hairy chest. Soon the coat of sweat that clung to his skin slapped against your body, defiling the red fabric of your dress and sticking on the bare parts of your flesh.

You wanted to drown in it.

He wanted to drown in you.

Reluctantly though, Sy broke the kiss, halting for a brief gasp of fresh air; the rounded tip of his nose bumped against yours while his mouth ghosted warmly upon your swollen lips.

“Yeah?” he asked amid his laboured breath, desperately seeking sincerity in your bewildered glance, “do you want this, darlin’? Do you want me?”

Unable to speak coherently, you nodded in response, which won you a soft squeeze around the chin. Directing you to stare into his gleaming sapphires, he demanded again, now pressing his wide, muscle-hard thigh between your legs, and dangerously close to your groin.

“Say it, tell me what you want me to do,” Sy urged by pushing his leg higher, the fabric of his jeans brushing over your panties.

Drawn by natural wills, you undulated your hips and shamefully started to ride his thigh whimpering, astonished at the paradox of relief and further yearning swept over your engorged core.

You were stranded south of heaven, helpless, desperate for friction—you needed it, harder, faster, more.

‘Please!’

“I want you!” you managed a pitiful mewl and gave him an equally vulnerable glance, “I want you, Sy, I need you to take me like the animal that you are.”

Per your demand, his kiss was even rougher than before; violent and possessive, he bruised your lips and chin, the sounds emitting from his throat barely human. Feral in his entirety, his kiss and his touch made you feel the air in your lungs replaced with fire.

Unceremoniously, his hands smacked across your rear, fingers squeezing your cheeks in raspy frustration as if his own wanton brought pain. There was a time when you found this treatment degrading—now it made your desperate little slit crave attention.

Sy granted it without you having to beg.

Wandering below your dress, his curious fingers scoured the wet path that tainted the silk of your panties; though you saw him as a savage, his touch was shockingly tender: that of a man well-taught in the secret whims of a woman.

If only his mouth was this eloquent...

“My God, you’re a wet little thing, aren’t you, babygirl?” Slow and sensual, he outlined your entrance, spreading dampness across your petals, pressing into the hollow that twitched for his touch.

“You want ‘big Sy’ inside you, darlin’?” Sy’s lips curled into a triumphant grin, his fingertips provoking the edge of your panty line in featherlike strokes, inching close but not close enough.

“I’d gladly give you all of me, darlin’ but I don’t think you can take it just yet. I think it’s been ages since you took a proper dick in that tight little hole of yours,” his digit lightly shoved into the hot dent in your panties, “I better be a gentleman and stretch you for me so it won’t hurt too much.”

Never in your life had you felt such a needful desire to connect with another person. Your skin seared both from his touch or the lack thereof once his hands slid from one spot to the other. In your despair, you whined and writhed and crashed your body against the wall of his chest.

“I need you inside me.”

Not denying your request, his finger slipped below your panties merely to further taunt and bring you across the edge of your patience. Gingerly, he stroked between your petals, relishing in the dew that dripped all over his knuckle before sliding into your heat.

Too afraid that the nosey neighbour next door will hear the ruckus, you slapped a hand across your mouth and muffled the loud moans that tore from your throat; but Sy had none of your silence. Pushing another finger, he slowly began to pump your drenched cove: in and out, deeper, harder —every tidal sink he made into you pushed you further down a phantasmic spiral.

“Tsk, tsk,” he ticked his tongue, “I want those cries, darlin’, better not deny me of them now, or I’ll find ways to make you scream so loud, Mrs Parker will call the police…”

With that, he brushed a thumb over your clit and curled his digits within your depth, causing your muscles to shudder around his thick fingers. Another smile of arrogant victory cascaded brightly on his eyes, ravelling in the sweet symphony that spurred from your mouth, of the way you danced for him, faster and faster in search of the elysian fields.

Incoherent and irrational, you truly believed the pleasure would kill you.

“Look at you,” Sy gave a hoarse whisper and leaned in to nibble at the shell of your ear. Urgently, you pushed against his hand, trying to steal what was rightfully yours—control—though it was an absurdity for every shift you made against one another only made you lose the grasp over your wits.

“I can feel you getting wetter and tighter, darlin’, and we hardly even began, which makes me wonder…” he paused, preserving you in his glare as if you were a rare sight, “did anyone make you come around his fingers before?”

With whatever scant remnants of wit, you shook your head. Your vulturous slit choked around the girth of his fingers, suckling them until it felt as if there’s no more space within you to fill, and all it took was one slippery strike to throw you across the edge. Snapping your palms at his broad shoulder, you held tight and screamed for all the demons and devils to hear your ascension.

Tears of pleasure beaded your lashes, lightly obscuring your sight, the image of Sy standing before now tad blurry. And yet, you could see how his fingers dove into his mouth.

He licked them one by one, tasting your sugary dew, savouring the taste with vocal approval before he suckled his lips and murmured, “tasty little peach, aren’t you?”

Still trembling from your climax, you bit your lip in response and offered a tender stare, suddenly reduced to a vulnerable little thing. At the same time, Sy took harbour between your wobbly legs, massaging a sore erection with a ravenous storm in his glare.

It’s been so long since someone looked at you that way. Or maybe, you figured, no one looked at you like this before—as if you were desert, a meal for a famished man.

“What’s wrong, babygirl?”

Sy gave a questioning look and knelt between your legs. His hands smoothed upon your knees, gathering sweat in their ascension to your thighs.

“I… oh...” you tried to speak, but words were too tough as the pillowy tips of his fingers left trails of fire across your flesh.

“Words, darlin’, I won’t give you what you want if you don’t say it properly…” A wide, cocky smirk painted his face, beaming at you from below, almost distracting you from the fact that this massive man was peeling your silky panties away and breathing against your cunt.

“I never thought that…oh my god...”

Sy’s bearded kiss teased your inner thigh, the sense of his thick beard brought tingles and burns, while higher and higher, his mouth climbed, licking, tasting, driving you insane.

“You thought that what, darlin’? Hmm?” He kissed across your other thigh, his fist wrapping around the flimsy strap of your panties that now rested around your knees.

“I thought guys like you don’t like girls like me…”

“Oh, darlin’...” He chuckled softly, but then his fist made a sudden snap and tore your panties away.

You hardly had a moment to jolt, let alone realise what the Captain was doing and he already raked your ass into his grip and swept you off the counter. A strong, firm hand carried you in a wild whirlpool and then—thud!—your ass smacked on the dinner table with such might that the pans hanging from the cupboard rattled in shock.

“Don’t really care about guys like me, darlin’. Truth is I wanted you from the moment I first saw you,” Sy breathed, squeezing your rear with one hand while the other urgently fumbled with his belt. Every muscle in your body twitched at the metallic echo of his buckle snapping, your gaze swiftly dropped to his groin, and your spine stiffened with a feverish chill.

His chest puffed as he fisted his cock, sheer pride adorning his face. His thumb was rolling back and forth over the glistening crown, smearing the opaline drops all over his glistening flesh.

“See how badly I want you?” He offered an arrogant smirk and leaned closer to graze his shaft between your drenched petals. Astonished, you wailed for him, anguished by the way he teased your slit, brushing no more than the edge of his girth against your opening but refraining from going inside.

“I want you too!” you piously whined, absentmindedly digging your nails into his nape.

Low growls escaped his hot mouth, while his breath shuddered, a clear signal that he could also neither stall for another moment. Eagerly, he pressed his lips to your temple and panted, ”Forgive me, babygirl. This round I won’t be the southern gentleman I usually am. I promise I’ll eat that sweet juicy peach until you scream, but not before I’ll pump it full of cream.”

Unable to hold much more, he gripped both your thighs and hauled you toward him with the might of a furious bull shredding through silk.

A crescendo of breathless cries soared within the cosy room, vulgar and rough - the Captain filled you, sparing no moment to let you adjust to his impossible size. Deeper he forced through your cavern until you ached and clung to him with a sharp yelp of disbelief. How could he even fit you?

Astonishment painted both your faces as he began to move, prying your mouths agape in a shared breath. Lost but finally found, you felt whole by this union, by him fulfilling the lonely space within you like a puzzle piece falling into place.

“You are just like I imagined." His voice was almost a desperate howl, his eyes veiled with a dream-like haze of pleasure once he pushed into you again. “You feel so good.”

You wished to respond, to say how long you wanted it too, feeling sad and envious every night you heard him taking another girl. But Syverson pounded the air right out of your lungs with every collision his body made into you.

The only thing that spurred from your open maw was the husky wail that rose higher and louder while your womb dutifully squeezed with the pressure of his intrusion; your narrow canal stretched to further welcome him until you felt you will never belong to another man.

A great part of you was thankful you couldn’t articulate a word, afraid you might say something horribly embarrassing and absurd.

Though words weren’t needed. Sy felt it with every inch of him submerged in you. Thumbs dug deep into your muscles to hold you in place, he drove into you further, taking you in a brutal rhythm, yet not without style.

“Don’t! Don’t stop! Fuck me!” You managed to scream. Mrs Parker surely heard you by now and knew exactly what you were doing, but you were far from caring at that point.

There, in the tepid penumbra of the kitchen, surrounded by the storm of your reverent moans, cries, and lustful sweat, you cared nothing of the consequences as your roommate ploughed you on the old wooden table like the obedient soldier he was with no barrier used to protect you.

All you wanted was the width of that ventured through you, the fiery heat that poured into your pit, and the warmth of his chest and shoulders pressing into your body.

Syverson must have needed it just as much, for he snapped one hand to the cleavage of your dress and with an unmannered tug, forced it down to your torso along with your bra.

Taken by your beauty, his eyes briefly drank in the sight of your body before they returned to meet your glare again. It was at that moment when the thick layer of ice that always covered his stare completely dissolved.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful!” Sy rasped and squeezed your breasts, “And all mine. I want you to be mine, darlin’!”

His words riddled you with wild shivers, a sudden whirlpool of sensations assailing your chest. Devout as sea nymph succumbing to the ocean's might, you fell to your elbows and allowed Syverson to take whatever he needed from you.

“Tell me what you want, darlin’.” You heard him utter.

Shrouded in illogical despair that clouded your mind, you squirmed your hips in fervour to meet his thrusts. All could think of was him unloading inside you, the thought of his seed - hot and fertile in your womb - bringing a sequence of quakes and tremors so intense you erupted with ecstasy.

“Logan,” Your voice broke, body tingling as waves of white-hot pleasure submerged you, “I want you to come, I want you to come inside me!”

All hell broke loose. With your walls still clamped around him, Sy snapped with an onslaught of savage ruts, fucking you with such might that the entire table creaked and scratched the floor; the little fruit bowl that sat in the middle tipped over and crashed on the floor, sending apples and peaches to roll freely on the floor.

Still too tight, too pressured, you wailed. The edge of his cock slammed into your cervix, spawning tendrils of both pain and pleasure to weave together. A little more of this pleasure and you would die, you fretted.

But your fear was undone along with your sweet senses, euphoria flowing hot within your tendons once again.

Bathed by golden bliss, you encompassed Sy, embracing him tightly, both legs, arms and your silken walls that suckled around his thickening cock.

Reduced to nothing but carnal need, Sy let out a peal of hoarse moans. No thoughts ran through his head other than the need to paint your womb with his seed. Unrelenting, he grabbed onto your rear and charged with selfish, ruthless intent.

“I’m going to come, oh god.”

One last powerful slam and he came into you in an abundance; hot and rich it pooled inside you, overflowing until no space remained and the milky elixir seeped out of your seams. Still grounding you, Sy’s pace gradually slowed and his eyes fell to stare at his cock as it throbbed and twitched with the final gush of his cum.

“That was amazing… you were amazing,” he panted and swallowed to wet his parched throat.

A dark glint sparked his gaze as he carefully pulled from between your walls and glanced at the generous pond of white cream that dripped from your gaping hole.

For a brief moment, any trace of civility in him faded, leaving nothing but an unwitted caveman who was undoubtedly proud of his handiwork. Peering down at the mess between your thighs, the blood suddenly rushed to your head and the hairs on the back of your neck bristled.

‘Fuck…fuck fuck!’

What have you done?

To say that dozen different thoughts ran in clattering chaos within your head would have been an understatement - every possible ‘what if?’ scenario tormented you at once, while the possibility that you just let your very active-military-duty-roommate knock you up - was the loudest of them all.

And there he was, still buried inside you, a gentle thrum stirring where the two of you remained connected and you didn’t even know what he was to you right now.

‘Future father of my child?’ You jested bitterly while berating yourself over and over again.

'Stupid, stupid, stupid! so fucking stupid. What if this was just him letting off some steam?'

Licking his upper lip, Sy sharply inhaled. As if to quiet your nerves or comfort you, he planted a chaste kiss on your forehead before departing from your cove with a low growl rumbling on his throat.

“Towel… towel…”

It seemed that his mannerism abruptly returned, or perhaps it was the guilt. Scratching the back of his head, he rummaged about the kitchen while motioning you to stay put.

“Over… over... there,” you motioned toward the checkered towel that hung loosely from the oven’s handle.

Sy reached for it, hastily cleaning his semi-hard shaft before moving to stand between your thighs once more. His eyes grew focused and silent as a drowsy summer lake, while he wiped you clean in the tenderness of a long-time lover.

You couldn’t help but stare, you wished you could share his stillness - raw and already sore, you attempted to loosen your clenching throat and heaving chest, abashed by the hiss of your breath and by the visible quake in your bucking arms.

Whatever remaining energy you have in you waned at every passing second.

“Are you okay?”

You flinched at his question, trembling even more.

Noticing your distress, he placed on hand on your leg and caressed you gently, trying to reassure you with a grin and another chaste kiss on the base of your knee.

“Did I fuck the words right outta’ your brain?”

If you hadn’t felt so guilty, ashamed and incredibly stupid, you would have snorted at his poor joke, instead, you swatted a hand over your forehead and shrugged. “I think so…” you lied.

The fear in your voice was not absent to Syverson, whose face fell to unmistakable dread. Discarding the towel, he chewed onto his inner cheeks in what you could only interpret as his nervous habit. With his warm palm wrapped across your knee, he gave a light squeeze.

“Hey, look at me.”

Blue shimmering kindness met your gaze, attempting to disperse over your anxiety.

“I meant what I said, I…” he halted, swallowing a deep gulp of courage.

You meant to open your mouth and retort when Syverson shook his head and sighed as if this was a scene he had already witnessed numerous times before, “you don’t see me this way, do you?”

Within seconds you realised - behind Syverson’s arrogant facade hid a vulnerable schoolboy, standing in front of the girl and waiting for her to say yes.

“Don’t be an idiot, sugarbutt,” you half-whispered and stroked a hand over his furry cheek.

Though he avoided smiling, a glint of joy lit his eyes. He made a quick attempt in fixing your dress, which felt like someone trying to tape together a broken vase and after a short struggle, finally gave up and with a mumbled apology let you off the table and wrapped his hands around your wrists.

Your once-lovely kitchen had seen better days, though you suspected you looked far worse. No matter how many times you tried to keep your dress together, the red straps of your dress continued to slip down your forearms.

'You owe me a dress, Logan...'

"We will clean up this mess, tomorrow?" Sy suggested, surveying the kitchen with a sigh. His eyes met with the shame that stained the table and you both cleared your throat but said nothing more.

Nearly an hour passed. Spent on the couch you munched on hot popcorn and watched a film you could only describe as the most horrendous piece of cinematic trash ever made. But your heart was hardly in it, anyway. Pressed into his chest, your fingers clutched onto his pectoral, trying to force away from the concern that swam heavily in your gut and on occasion gnawed at it like a pesky little fish.

‘What if? What if? What if?’ Your mind screamed along with the actress in the movie who was running toward her doom.

As if sensing your dread, Sy squeezed his hand around your shoulder and nuzzled your cheek, silencing each one of your doubts and fears, at least until sunrise.

Extra credits:

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

I don't own Sand Castle or Captain Syverson

Is this fic underrated? If the stalker is august walker, I need one, too! 😭✨️🖤

Stalker Walker - Masterlist

Synopsis:  A voyage to Paris in order to escape your mundane life leaves you with more than what you’ve bargained for.

Pairing: August Walker x Reader

Status: ongoing.

Rating: 18+ (future smut, stalking).

Chapter 1: Bewitched Chapter 2: La vie en rose Chapter 3: Every breath you take Chapter 4: Non, je ne regrette rien Chapter 5: Last night in Paris

More to come…

Take me, sir! 😭✨️🖤

The Big Bad Wolf

Summary: If there is anything August enjoys it’s breaking those who resist him. Now trapped in his little cage, the little bird has no where to fly to.

Prompt:

I always found the idea funny of August breaking a strong girl. similar to Ingvild. but like she is one of his strongest Apostels and fights by his side. She’s unstoppable but August just looks at her and is like ‘yep this girl definitely got some issues lets tell her she’s our good girl and make her kneel’

Pairing: August Walker x Original Female Character (3rd person pov)

Word count: 1.7K

Warnings: 18+, abuse of power, rough cage fucking, hatesex, unprotected sex, hinted breeding, risky creampie, possessive behaviour. On the safe side it’s borderline dub-con.

A/N: Got inspired by the prompt and by watching Mi6 for the 700th time. That scene gave me ideas and look where we are today. Many thanks to my love @agniavateira​ for beating my work.

Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed. Your feedback is my fuel. 🖤

Title: The Big Bad Wolf

Keep reading

Cause of death? Hammer walker! 💀

Nice day for a White Wedding

Summary:  Even on your wedding day, there is no getting away from August. His grip over you has no boundaries.

Pairing: August Walker x Reader (you)

Word count: 3.3K

Warning: Explicit smutty smut, MaleDom/FemSub, stripping, spanking (rather hardcore this time), slight fingering, bondage, rough sex. Wheeeeee

A/N: So my amazing @agniavateira​ who is also my editor(!) challenged me to a request a while ago and it turned out Ummm more explicit than I thought. So I hope you guys don’t unfollow me after this but not blaming you if you will. Also the name, yes, I am a Billy Idol fan. 

Title: Nice Day for a white wedding

Keep reading