Bunny Kisses

by kldgo

Summary:

(acd.sherlock.holmes x f!reader)
You can’t stand Lestrade. The Insepctor was an overall great man, no dispute to that whatsoever. Unfortunately, his arrival often meant your prevention from slugging Holmes with kisses. It was, frankly, very annoying.

Notes:

I should lowkey continue my long fics but they’re slow-burn so can’t write about to kissing him 🙁

YOU WERE sulking. In the corner. On the armchair, your body folded in a way your back was to the room, cheek against the cushion of the chair, and your legs tucked your chest like a particularly peeved lump. And you were. Perfectly, and reasonably so.

It had been a perfect, languid morning on the settee. In a white chemise, your were sideways on his lap, your rump on one thigh and your legs stretched out over the other, ankles dangling. He had worn a dressing gown over his clothes. The purple one he was partial to—the one he wore since you met him first. They were soft under your palms as you laid it on his shoulder, pressing down gently as you pull your weight up, nose tipped towards him, and lips puckered and ready for his kisses.

He had laughed when you give him that look.

Those wide desperate eyes he always thought were a bunny’s furious need, your body trembling with, as Holmes had remarked then, desideratum. You wriggled into a snug spot on his lap, his hand curled out and around your hip to your buttocks, fingers gently round the swell.

Something like pride bloomed in your chest. Not every person he knew was aware of this side of him—the wanting, debauched husband who was partial to the sight of your cleavage. Such as now, as his eyes, burning and intent, were clearly elsewhere, locked on the spot below your neck.

He used to spend a day beguiling his mouth on those peaks, even when you drifted off, drowsy with sleep, you’d wake up to his tongue laving over a perked nipple.

Now, with one of his other large hand curled into your hair on the back of your head, he kissed you. Deeply. Plundering your mouth in a manner that siphoned the breath out of your lungs. He was impatient too, when you drew away for air, swiftly capturing your lips with an inch of part.

You were honestly quite flummoxed at how virtuous of a great kisser he was. Often he declared such intimate notions to be regressive, reducing the pure concept of a man’s heart captured by his beloved, to simple distasteful concupiscence.

And, here he was now, slow and thorough, operating on a fine balance between laving his tongue and scraping his teeth. He preferred the former when you stuck out your own, and he would drag it against the buds for the taste of your mouth and the back of your throat, and the latter when you were particularly impatient, nipping against your lower lip.

Your mouth has now tasted like his own—tobacco and whiskey—but you had no grievances. None at all.

He was, as usual, bemused and also in a way, unadulteratedly pleased. Whether it be his ego, or another invisible kind you hadn’t been aware of—it did not matter. Sherlock Holmes was a man of stimulation. And stimulation, could be of any kind, and a priority examples as such, was as having a pretty woman in his lap currently kissing him senseless.

He then bent his head, purposely missing your lips.

“It is very interesting,” He murmured against your throat, “How the skin moves. Perhaps, when suppose I—“ He scraped his teeth over your the skin of your throat, suckling, “Yes,” He breathed, “it functions just as I had expected it to do so. The human body is quite the design, is it not? Resilient and yet so—“ He gave your throat another nip, “Pliable and soft,”

“Holmes.” You whined and dug your nails hard into his shoulder, inadvertently rolling your hips, “You are being abhorrent. I abhor you.”

His thoughts stuttered. It did just as you had—indirectly—intended, the soft swells of your buttocks dragged from the bottom up, chafing against the prominent bulge of his trousers. He closed his eyes in pleasure, brows furrowed. He steadied his breathing, warm puffs against your throat.

“And yet you need me,” He said, digging his nose deeper into your skin. “And yet here you are, on my person, with no man else to turn to.”

You frowned, that lovely downturn of your lips, he so dearly want to kiss away, “Who else would I turn to?” You said, “If not you then, who? You would not have been pleased if I did choose another.”

After all, he wasn’t the only man interested. You had plenty of suitors, well established from your decent background as the daughter of a bookkeeper. He was persistent, then. In an endearing sort of way that provoked more warmth and exasperation at his ridiculous antics, more did any other loveless man ever could.

Your father, obviously was resistant at first. That was until he saw the detective through your eyes that he agreed. Holmes had pulled most of his weight to get you into his arms. And then, the second priority, he pulled most of his weight to get you under the sheets in his bed.

He was quite blunt about it too.

He smiled against your throat, and with cynicism, replied, “No, I would not.”

Then, both hands slid up to your hips to grip the plush fat of your waist. His fingers wrapped around them perfectly. He spun you around until your thighs bracketed his hips, and your clothed sensitive, drooling cunt, was grinding against his rigid arousal.

You shuddered, curling your toes. Perhaps, you were stewing with too much, you felt no longer the strength to hold yourself up, and so your forehead fell, without vigor to his shoulder.

“That’s a lovely girl,” He murmured against your ear, “Have you waited long enough?”

“Plenty,” You whined, giving a helpless hump, “Too long—ah—I need—”

“What do you need?”

“I—you—” You babbled incoherently and he all but did was patted your back.

“Now, now. Slow down, darling. You’ll choke on your kippers,” You could imagine that smug grin against your temple.

Irritated, and too dumbstruck to vocalize any pique, you bit down into his shoulder, irritated, “Holmes!”

He threw his head back against the armchair and laughed, shoulders shaking, “By jove! A creature of animosity!”

“I will!—claw you—” The threat in your words were lost when he bucked his hips up, his rigid erection crushing against your swollen nub and you keened, the words eluding your mind entirely.

He rocked up, hard, for several times, and you gasped with every thrust. “I have heard more threats less desiring than this kind.”

You were now limp in his arms, drooling from all punctures in your body, soft whimpers against his neck. The sounds he made spurred you on, his low groans, and his hands gripping your buttocks that were trembling.

“I have been too cruel with you,” He kissed your temple.

You only whined in reply as he lifted your hips inches up from his pelvis. He parted with one hole of your drawers to the side, baring your wet swollen cunt to the cold air.

“Ah,” He crooned, smearing a thumb over the hooded numb, “Your friend here seems very pleased.”

You humped against his hand, “Yes—she’s—she misses you, Holmes—it’s been—”

“You should have told me,” While his thumb swiped frictionless against the slick hood, his other hand fumbled with the buckle of his belt.

“She has been a patient girl, wasn’t she?” He panted, “Waiting, prim and proper on the bench at the—ah, Charing cross—” He was growing impatient by the looks of it—you knew, because the first symptom was always his hands trembling, similar to the symptoms of his seven-percent-withdrawal. Crabby, restless and agitated. All three. And soon, with all three, you would be sobbing his name.

“I know what she needs, a good stretch will do—a quick—” He had been pulling down the zipper, and you saw, with your mouth watering Pavlovian-like, the tip of his slit, his ruddy cock emerging when—

Three loud knocks sounded the door

---

“Can’t for the life of me, Mr Holmes,” Now, Lestrade was ensconced in the armchair before Holmes. He mopped his florid, sweaty face with a napkin, looking all the more puzzled, “Can’t for the life of me figure out where the bloke went. Disappeared quick like he was a kite in the skies. No footprints too.”

“No footprints, you say.”

“Not a prick of his blood, I tell you.”

Holmes hummed, steepling his fingers against his upper lip, “It is not difficult,” He began. “to deduce his whereabouts from the particulars.”

Lestrade leaned forward, engaged, “Have you a theory, Holmes?”

“A concept, perhaps, at the moment. This requires ground work and as you can see—” He gestured around the room, “My armchair reasoning can do but less for your mind. However, what I have conceptualized from this particular problem is that the daughter is certainly peculiar with her timeline.”

“I have thought so too,” Lestrade remarked, “Lass confessed saw the cook, Jenkins, left during supper. Then, when I said Jenkins was gone without a trace—she changed up the facts and instead enabled about some other cook she must have seen, and what have you.”

“It is curious if she had been in love with him.” Holmes said.

“Why? Becuase she changed up her statement?”

“No, it is the very fact of her protecting him that says so.”

“Why, now that you’ve said it, “The other day, you see, I was—” Lestrade had straightened up his back, eager to get into his particular story when his eyes caught the disgruntled lump in the armchair in the corner of the room, shivering every second.

“Problem, Lestrade?” Holmes spoke up mildly

“Er, not at all—just your missus…” His eyes flickered to Holmes nervously, “She doesn’t seem too…”

There was a glint of mischief that lit up the detective’s entire face, but it smoothly composed into amusement. Holmes chuckled and waved the inspector off, “It is of no consequences. She is simply not feeling….well.”

Another shudder wracked the poor girl.

“Continue, inspector.”