Baby Boy, I Think I've Been Too Good Of A Girl.

16th century ring that unfolds into an astronomical sphere

Scarlet Witch! By artist @iminpainrz on Twitter.

Inspired by her Romani Heritage.

Can we talk about how Newborn!Emi was able to hide under Kenji's hands and after 2 months she's now big enough that he can barely hold her in one?

WHAT ARE THEY PUTTING IN THE WATER AGSHSJJJ—

Everybody cannot be this hot. Just casually. Riot I’m getting heatstroke in winter.

I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.

Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals Of Sylvia Plath

(inspired by your latest reblog of loving sherlock’s hands…) could you write something where reader loves his hands and so he uses them to please her ? thank you!

Sublime Dexterity // BBC Sherlock

Summary: Sherlock notices you've been fixated on his hands, so he decides to show you exactly what they're capable of. (Sherlock x Reader)

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: Smut, digital penetration, squirting, mild bad language, readers must be 18+

Part Two

You'd been waiting all day for this moment; the ding of the bell above the door, the sight of your last customer walking out into the dimming London evening. You inhaled a deep, clarifying breath and exhaled through puckered lips, relieved to finally be alone, to once again be able to hear your own thoughts.

But the silence was tainted by a noise; an irritating, electronic melody playing on one of the keyboards at the back of the shop. You sighed as you stepped out from behind the counter and made your way over to them, stopping on your way to straighten out a drum kit and return a box of guitar strings back to its hook.

You stood in front of the wall of keyboards with your hands on your hips, trying to figure out which one the noise was coming from. Your eyes trailed up to the top row and you groaned as you saw the blinking light on the highest one, cursing the group of teenagers who had no doubt done it on purpose before they left. You huffed, rising to your tip toes and reaching to switch it off, your skirt riding up until it was barely skimming the tops of your thighs.

You barely ever wore skirts to work, especially not ones as short as this. It had been a spur of the moment decision as you got ready that morning; the voice on your meditation app telling you to 'do something out of your comfort zone today' as you stood in front of your open wardrobe. But you'd regretted taking the advice since the moment you got to work; having to hold it down by the hem every time you reached up to organise a shelf or leaned over a customer to demonstrate an instrument.

Now the shop was empty, and you could finally move freely without the fear of someone catching a glimpse of your underwear. So you stretched your arms as high as they could go, flicking the switch on the keyboard to turn it off, the silence that followed like a deep, calming breath.

But a familiar sound broke through the quiet; the ding of a bell and creak of a door that made you sigh and roll your eyes.

"Sorry!" you called out as you hurried around the corner. "Sorry, I was just about to close..." Your voice trailed off meekly when you laid eyes on the man standing near the entrance.

Almost everyone in London knew the name Sherlock Holmes; he was the mysterious consulting detective, the maverick, the dark genius. But you knew him as the man who always insisted on visiting the shop right before closing time. If it were anyone else, you would have found it irritating, but there was something about him; something that made you almost excited whenever he came in.

"I know," he replied calmly. "Not a problem, is it?"

"I... I suppose not." You glanced up at the clock on the wall before making your way towards the door. "You can look around while I'm clearing up. But I will have to lock you in, if that's alright? Just stops anyone else trying to come in."

He shrugged. "I've been held hostage by scarier people."

You laughed softly, unable to tell from his tone whether he was joking or not. He probably wasn't.

He watched you for a moment as you flipped the sign on the door to 'closed' before turning the heavy lock and sliding the bolt at the top. You turned around and smiled politely, gesturing for him to go ahead. He nodded in response and made his way to the violin section, as he always did, walking back and forth slowly with his hands behind his back.

"I'm a lot scarier than I look, by the way," you said, immediately scrunching your nose with regret.

He glanced over his shoulder at you, eyebrow raised.

"Y'know, you said- well, just before you said that thing about being held hostage by scarier people..."

He gave a slight smirk, eyeing you up and down. "I'm sure you're terrifying."

"Oh, I am," you replied in a gruff voice, drawing a quiet laugh from his throat.

It never ceased to amaze you how careless customers could be; there were instruments left sitting out, items put back on random shelves, a box of guitar picks knocked over and strewn across the floor. You scoffed in disbelief at the sight of a half-drank coffee cup left sitting on a £100,000 grand piano, picking it up by the edge and throwing it into the bin with a grimace.

You tidied up the rest of the shop quickly and took a seat behind the counter, resting your chin on your fist as you watched Sherlock from across the room. There was no denying the man was exquisite; tall and lean, his body a mystery beneath the shrouding of his long dark coat, scarf wrapped around the throat that rumbled with a deep, luxurious voice, dark curls and pale eyes, strong yet romantic features, angles and softness, somehow all at once.

But above everything, there was something about his hands.

They were large yet slender, his knuckles prominent beneath smooth, unblemished skin. He moved them with precision, pressing his long, elegant fingers softly to his lips as he stood deep in thought. You found your mind wandering at the sight, tilting your head and almost holding your breath as you pictured them gripping, pulling, stroking, imagined his thumb pushing through your parted lips and pressing flat against your tongue, his nails digging into your thighs.

He reached out to a violin case sitting on a display, and you watched in silence as he dragged the zip open, so slowly and carefully you could almost feel what it would be like to have him undress you. He flipped open the case and ran his palm over the velvet lining, caressing it, sending a shiver down your spine that flourished deep in your core.

You were so transfixed on his hands that you hadn't noticed he'd spoken. It wasn't until he cleared his throat, narrowing his eyes at you suspiciously that you snapped out of it, shaking your head and looking up at him quickly.

"Sorry?" you said.

"You broke up with someone recently..."

It wasn't a question. Even if it was, you weren't sure if you would have managed a reply.

He gestured to your chest. "You keep reaching for a necklace out of habit. I assume you recently stopped wearing one because you're no longer affiliated with the person who gave it to you..."

You stared at him with wide eyes. You'd read about his deductions online, but experiencing it firsthand felt like he was reading your mind, performing some kind of extremely specific, invasive magic trick.

"Y-yes. I did, actually."

He ran a hand through his hair, tugging on it slightly to keep it in place. "What happened?"

You paused. This was the most he'd ever spoken to you in all the times he'd visited, yet still you found the truth spilling out of your mouth, like you'd been dying to get it off your chest.

"I just woke up one morning, looked at him, and asked myself 'what am I doing?'" You threw your head back dramatically before leaning forward and resting your elbows on the counter. "I mean, I was with this guy for a year and couldn't think of a single thing that made it worthwhile; the chemistry was crap, the conversation was crap, don't even get me started on the sex. Let's just say I got very used to arriving by myself once he'd rolled over and gone to sleep-" You paused, stunned by your own brashness. "I'm sorry, that is... way too personal."

He dropped his head slightly, like he was resisting the urge to smile, pausing for a while before speaking quietly, almost to himself. "I've never understood why men find it so difficult to please women sexually."

Your ears pricked as you watched him run his hand along the neck of a Stradivarius, his fingers gliding smoothly over the glossy wood.

"It's not unlike playing one of these," he said. "You just need to find the right placement, pressure, tempo..."

There was a surge in your core that rippled through your stomach. You crossed one leg over the other, pressing your thighs together in an attempt to quell the sudden throb between them.

You cleared your throat. "If only all men had it down to an art form like that."

"Mm," he replied, his voice so low it was barely a rumble.

You couldn't tell if he was flirting or simply thinking out loud. A part of you wondered if he'd noticed the way you'd been looking at him, if he'd observed how you squirmed in your seat as you watched his hands move. After all, he'd deduced your breakup from a missing necklace, and your gawping had been much more obvious than that. But you were still unsure, scared to push him further.

"You come in here a lot," you said. "I would've thought you'd have everything you need by now."

"I like to... browse." His voice dipped, eyes flitting over to you, and in that moment you knew, he wasn't interested in anything that could be sold.

You swallowed hard, putting on your sweetest customer service voice. "We did actually just get this new Rosin..."

You turned to the shelf behind you and climbed on a small stepladder, reaching up and making sure to stretch as far as you could, fully aware of the view you were providing him; skirt ridden up, bare cheeks, only your thin cotton underwear covering your increasingly aching centre.

"Is it any good?" he replied in a steady, calm voice. And though you couldn't see his face, you knew his eyes were on you.

"I don't know. I don't play," you replied, turning around and stepping down with a small box in your hands. "Always wanted to but never found a good teacher." You put the Rosin on the counter. "You can have this... in exchange for a lesson?"

He looked down at it then back up to you, the slightest smirk adorning his face, before whipping off his scarf and sliding the coat off his shoulders, revealing the body you'd been so curious about; his tall, firm stature making every other man you'd been with seem like a boy in comparison.

He threw the coat and scarf aside before leaning over and picking up the Stradivarius he'd been admiring. "Come here."

"N-now?"

"Do you have somewhere else to be?"

You looked up at the clock, then back to him, taking a deep breath and picking up the Rosin as you stepped out from behind the counter.

He stood perfectly still as you walked across the shop towards him, his eyes never leaving you until you were close enough to touch.

"You'll need that," he said, gesturing to the bow on the shelf.

You picked it up, watching quietly as he took the Rosin from you and unwrapped it with nimble fingers, before placing it back in your palm and laying his hand over yours.

His grip was soft yet strong as he guided you slowly up and down the length of the bow. "You must never skip this step," he said. "One must take the time to properly lubricate a bow, otherwise the sound won't be as… satisfying."

There was a knot of desire deep in your stomach, a slick forming between your legs as he spoke. He made it sound so innocent, so formal, yet you both knew his words cast a much darker, hungrier shadow.

"Without it, you have to work much, much harder to reach the desired result," he added.

"Sounds pretty important," you replied breathlessly.

"Crucial." He tossed the Rosin aside and placed the bow in your hand. "Turn around."

You did as you were told, like an obedient little girl, pivoting on your heels until you had your back to him. He stepped up behind you, bringing his arm around to place the violin against your shoulder, cocooning you in his scent, just as decadent as he was.

"Chin on the rest," he instructed.

He positioned your fingers on the neck of the violin, bringing your other arm up to sit the bow across the strings.

"Now pull back," he said. "Slow."

You did as he said, wincing as you drew it back, creating a faint, hollow screech.

"Harder."

You exhaled, feeling yourself melting, your core nothing more than a puddle of wet, hot desire.

"Like this?" you asked, repeating the motion, smiling to yourself as a rich, smooth note poured from the strings.

"Perfect."

He moved your fingers again, pressing down on them with his own, much larger digits.

"You have nice hands," you said tentatively. "I... like them."

"I noticed."

Of course he had. You felt your cheeks flush, wondering what you must have looked like when you were practically drooling over him at the counter.

"Now switch between the two notes on every downstroke," he said.

"Yes, teacher," you muttered playfully, feeling him exhale a sigh against the back of your neck.

You moved the bow back and forth, choppily changing notes, trying your best to make it sound pleasant. But your focus was elsewhere; on the feeling of his hand keeping your elbow propped up, the other slipping down to rest gently on your waist.

You pushed your hips back slightly, almost losing your composure when you felt his rigid length against your lower back, your mind flooding with thoughts of him bending you forward and burying it inside you. You listened as he steadied his breath, and you wondered if the same thoughts had seeped into his mind too.

You drew the bow back once more, switching notes before repeating the action again.

"Good," he said, slowly trailing his hand up your side. "Keep going."

Your breathing shallowed when you felt his fingers slip under your jumper, grazing the flesh of your stomach as he moved up to your breast. He began to massage it gently, kneading and pulling, rolling your hard nipple between finger and thumb.

You breathed out a soft moan, your head falling back against his shoulder.

"Keep your chin on the rest," he said sternly, moving his attention to your other breast.

You brought your head forward again, lips parting with heavy breaths as you tried to keep playing through the pleasure. Your entire body pricked with goosebumps as he moved his hand back down over your stomach, nails tickling your skin and sending a shiver up your spine.

"You've never worn anything like this before," he said, slipping his hand beneath the hem of your skirt.

"I didn't think you paid attention to the clothes I wear," you replied, glancing over your shoulder to look up at him.

"Chinrest."

You turned back, obeying his demand and closing your eyes as you felt his fingers slide into the front of your underwear.

A sudden wave of shyness overcame you, like you were embarrassed for him to feel how wet you'd become, how utterly desperate you were for his touch. But as his fingers glided between the folds of your soaking centre, you heard a deep groan escape his lips; all the confirmation you needed to know this was exactly what he wanted.

He pressed his fingertips to your clit, rubbing circles against the aching bud and setting your nerves alight, as if it were a switch he knew exactly how to turn on.

"As I said earlier, playing a violin comes down to three things," he said. "Placement." He slid his long fingers through your wet folds and plunged two of them into you. "Pressure." He curled them, pressing against the spot that sent a shockwave through your belly. "And tempo." He began to move them back and forth, setting a sublime, steady pace.

You gasped at the overwhelming pleasure, losing function of your limbs and dropping the violin. He reached out his other hand and caught it midair, setting it down beside you without stopping.

"And when done right," he continued. "You can get it to make almost any sound you want."

You moaned desperately, right on cue, as he stroked your inner walls, his other hand splayed out flat on your lower stomach, pressing firmly against it. You had no idea what it was he did, or where on earth he'd learned it, but it was unlike anything anyone had ever done to you before. You brought one of your hands up to cup the back of his neck, gripping his arm with the other as he worked your needy centre, like putty in his large, agile hands.

You arched your back, grinding into the firm bulge beneath his trousers and eliciting a growl from his throat, making him buck his hips, the outline of his cock pressing hard against the curve of your backside.

You were not exaggerating when you said you'd spent the past year having crap sex. You'd lost count of the amount of times you faked an orgasm only to finish yourself off afterwards, or lay there frustrated and unsatisfied after your ex came inside you - too quickly and without warning. You'd almost forgotten what it was like to not pretend; to make real moans, to be so slick and needy that you couldn't stop squirming, to have someone's full, undivided attention be on you and your pleasure.

It hadn't even been five minutes and you could already see your climax looming, like the sun rising over the horizon, flooding you with warmth and light with every second that went by. You wanted to stay in this moment forever; to savour the feeling of his fingers filling you, stretching you, the heel of his hand thudding against your clit with every deep stroke. You were a violin, and he was a virtuoso, playing you with ease, pulling every moan and whimper out of your throat like a symphony.

He leaned forward, bringing his lips close to your ear. "You're going to come for me," he said quietly. "All over these fingers you love so much."

You shuddered, feeling the pleasure swell from your core, rising into your stomach until it was washing over you in heavy, intense waves.

"And you're going to do it..." he paused, before sinking his fingers to the knuckle and curling them with perfect precision. "Now."

You felt a gush of warmth as your orgasm ripped through you, and the shop filled with the sound of your desperate, mewling cries. He kept his hand firmly against your stomach, holding you up as your knees buckled, his other hand continuing to massage your throbbing walls, drawing every last drop of pleasure out of you.

How the hell did he do that? You wondered as the mind fog began to clear; he made you come on demand, left you a whimpering mess in his arms. It was only when your breathing began to steady that you noticed something else new; the warm, wet liquid dripping down your inner thighs. He'd made you squirt. You gasped softly in the realisation, turning your head to look up at him beneath heavy lids.

But as you opened your mouth to speak, the phone rang behind the counter.

"Can you give me a second?" you asked breathlessly.

He nodded, releasing you from his grasp.

You stumbled like a newborn deer across the shop, clutching the edge of the counter for balance as you picked the phone up and cleared your throat. "Stein's Music."

"Oh, you're still there?" your boss replied.

"I am." You turned your back on Sherlock and wiped your brow with the back of your hand.

"Ah okay. It's just because it's nearly 7pm and the security system says the alarms for the shop haven't been activated. I was worried you forgot to do it... again."

You rolled your eyes. "No, no I just... got caught up with some stuff. I'm leaving now, I'll set them on my way-"

You were interrupted by a sound; the bell you usually loved to hear. You turned around quickly to see the shop was empty, the door unlocked and left slightly ajar. And suddenly, it was as if it hadn't happened. If it wasn't for the mess between your thighs, the orgasm still echoing through you, you might have thought you imagined it.

You wondered if you should follow him, or maybe visit him at the address on Baker Street you'd read about in the papers. Or maybe you were better simply waiting for the next closing time, quietly hoping the tall, dark stranger would walk in to browse the violins again.

Part Two