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knoxic · 5 months ago

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How to be a High Lady?

Eris Vanserra x Mate!Reader (f)

Summary: Reader's first meeting as a HL, Rhysand makes some comments and reader chews him out, then smut🤭

wc: 2,8k

warnings: oral sex (f receiving), unprotected p in v, Rhysand slander, might be some ??shit there sorry I wrote this instead of sleeping

part 2

How they met

Her expectations for her first meeting as High Lady weren't very high, obviously there would be judgment and doubt given who her High Lord is, surely there would be some snarky remarks.

༄

Eris had spent the last couple of day trying to remind her that she deserved the title, that she was already proving herself to be a good High Lady, that their court could already see it. Perhaps him being her mate had dulled the effect his words would have on her had it been someone's.

As soon as she accepted the mating bond Eris had took it upon himself to spoil her, never wanting to see her as low as she was when they first met, it was his personal mission to make sure she knew were she belonged, and that was right beside him, sitting in her throne wearing a golden crown made specially for her. He'd never let her doubt herself ever again, for he knew what she was capable of.

"That's a little questionable, coming from you," she ran her fingers through his hair, tucking a few strands behind his pointy ear, "But thank you, you always know what to say." She had received a pout and what seemed to be the best try at puppy eyes his fierce ones could manage.

༄

The rational part of her brain knew that being High Lady wouldn't be an easy feat, never mind being one in Autumn Court, but there'd been some noticeable change already. Bakers in the village she had visited days before greeting her with smiles and free pastries, farmers thanking her for being the reason Beron was dead and now they could receive a decent salary. Somehow, they respected her.

Almost a century ago, when Eris first brought up the idea of making her High Lady, she had laughed at how absurd if was, imagine, a High Lady in Autumn? Yeah, right. But he was serious, so serious he spent the whole night stressing on it, by the time the sun had risen she had decided to at least know more about what it took to rule a court. After days of researching in any library she could find in Autum, she realized a good part of what she'd "learned" were things she already knew but hadn't really thought about, others were hard concepts that she supposed would go to Eris when they became High Lord and Lady of Autumn.

She doesn't remember how nor when she agreed, but she did.

༄

As soon as they stepped foot in Day, their hands entwined, she felt some glances being thrown her way, whispers catching her ears when she sat beside Eris. His hand squeezing hers made her lock eyes with him, those amber eyes comforting any doubts she might had been feeling before.

"Hi! I don't think we've been introduced before, I'm Viviane." She had heard things about the female, how she took care of Winter when Kallias was stuck Under the Mountain, that surely wasn't easy, if someone deserved being High Lady it was her.

Viviane sat beside her, after pleasantries were exchanged conversations just flowed, their mates watching their interaction silently. It appeared that, as usual, the Night Court would be making their dramatic appearance being late to the meeting, and as everyone waited for them, the rest of the High Lords were simply talking between themselves or watching the others interact.

"It'll be nice to have another female here, there's too many males here." Viviane giggled.

"Meetings with Autumn's advisors already give me headaches, I can only imagine your suffering." They laughed a little before the room fell utterly silent. Night Court had arrived.

"We should do this again some time soon, just us." Viviane whispered and gave her a wink before straightening up in her chair and taking Kallias hand between hers.

Now it starts. She felt Eris tense beside her but didn't say anything, knew the image he still sell, instead, she watched Rhysand and Feyre marching towards their chairs, their hands clasped together, the Shadowsinger and the Lord of Bloodshed right behind them, and in the midst of them was... Morrigan.

As Rhysand sat, his eyes locked onto mine, a smirk dancing in his lips, glancing between Eris and me I could see the thoughts running in his head.

"Oh, Eris... Is that, the precious mate of yours?" His voice in a sickly tone of amusement, "I thought you'd hide her forever." He knew the game he was playing, his words were a simple attempt to test Eris, to paint an image that he'd lock me up like Beron did to his mother.

"Whatch your tongue, Rhysand, before I burn it to ash." Eris didn't falter, his tone still cocky as ever. He took great pleasure in showing her off. "But to answer your question, yes, she is my precious mate."

She could see that Rhysand had a bitter comment on the tip of his tongue but was cut off by Helion, who asked something she did not pay attention to, violet eyes still challenging her to look away first, perhaps he was trying to test her or for him it was simply fun to intimidate others. His mate made him break the staring, Eris' hand squeezed mine as soon as he did, I looked at him and the different between his and Rhysand's eyes was outstanding. Eris looked at her as if saying 'say the word and we'll leave' as he did everytime they were in public.

The rest of the meeting went by in a blur, so far she hadn't heard anything that required her to say something, so she was quiet, until Autumn was brought into conversation and Eris let out that she was now High Lady. Rhysand had laughed, laughed as if Eris had told him a joke.

"Really, a High Lady? In Autumn?" His right eyebrow lifted, "What are you playing, Eris? Do you think your court would like you more if you pretend she's in command? Come on..."

"Why did you make Feyre a High Lady?" Eris bit back but his voice remained cocky.

"Do not bring my mate into this."

"You bring mine, I bring yours." Eris tilted his head as if taunting him. "It's a fair question, she's a child–"

"Watch your next words, Eris," Azriel spoke for the first time, "One of them might get stuck in your throat."

"Why do you care, Rhysand? Why does it matter for you if I'm High Lady or not?" Her voice was low and calculated, if she raised it then the Shadowsinger would turn to her and Eris would lose his temper.

"It doesn't matter to me. Though I must say, only a fool would believe he made you High Lady for pure reasons–"

"Don't you think I'm a High Lady because I can be a High Lady?"

"Perhaps not. What do you have of so special you think you can be one?"

"My mate is a High Lord, according to you that should be enough," she continued before he could say anything, "But unlike Feyre I didn't turn High Lady overnight. Maybe I don't have anything special, I just spent decades learning what it takes to be a High Lord, studying the behavior of one and I must say yours is controversial, as was Beron but that's another history."

"What do you mean?" Rhysand had risen from his chair by now, the Illyrians behind him seething.

"Being a High Lord– or High Lady, means you take care or your court, therefore you take care of your people. Velaris is known for being a beautiful place but what of the rest of your court? Hewn City has been in shambles for centuries and you've been High Lord for almost 500 years, what have you done in that time to help them? Rhetorical question, nothing, at least nothing that matters anyway. About the Illyrian camps, the females now are able to learn how to fight but is it even worth it if you don't even have a safe home to go? So many things are begging for help but instead of helping, you just brag about your powers."

"What do you know about my court?" She could swear the room had turned a tad darker.

"Enough to know that, in spite of your judgement, we are doing a far better job at ruling than you are."

"You dare talk about my court and now you criticize the way I rule my own court?" The room was definitely darker, and colder, her left hand felt warmer than the rest of her body, courtesy of Eris. "Who do you think you are?"

"A High Lady."

The room fell silent for a moment, maybe her choice of words was too much for someone so new at this meetings. Rhysand still glared at her with those violet eyes promising death, two other pair of eyes shined behind him, calling for her to look, she didn't look away from Rhysand until a voice spoke up.

"She has a point. A great point of view, proves you're apt for ruling and wants what's best for Autumn, it'll be nice to see such a beautiful place grow." Helion voice was soft, albeit hesitant, and he seemed honest when his lips turned into a gentle smile, which she reciprocated easily. Mornings spent trying new pastries with Eris mother had them talking about her mysterious past lover who she'd then come to learn was Day's High Lord, perhaps that was why he looked forward to seeing Autumn grow, he was looking forward to the day she'd feel free. "I also believe the meeting is over, we should all get some rest for tomorrow, you're all welcome to stay here."

Eris stood up still holding her hand, a sign for her to follow, as they started walking towards the door his hand found place in her lower back, a small demonstration of protectiveness. She'd have to reward him later for being so patient today, not letting his temper get the best of him, at least for her first meeting.

༄

"You did so good today, my love." Eris told her as soon as they walked into their bedroom, his arms finding their way around her waist, holding her from the back, his straight nose nuzzled her neck the way he knew she loved.

"You think? Maybe I said too much..."

"Why, think they'll find out? Listen," he pulled back so she could turn in his arms but still held her waist, "Let them, you'll gain their respect a way or another, Helion already likes you, he'd be delighted to have a witch as smart as you to talk to about spells, the rest will follow suit."

"You know what I meant."

"I know, you did nothing wrong, your power gave you the knowledge for a reason, you used it to tell Rhysand how he's failing his own court, if anyone should apologize is him to his own people, not you." To make a point he gave her nose a small kiss, "But... I don't think he'll do anything at all."

"Yeah... He had many chances and time to change things, and he hasn't." She leaned her body against his, his hands moved behind her back and she felt her dress loosen up, "Thank you for behaving today, I guess you deserve a reward." She pulled back to smile at him, trying to appear innocent.

"Stop that," he laughed, "I wouldn't be opposed to that, but, I think I'd rather reward you. For standing up for yourself and your court, for not being intimidated so easily, you held you own and I'm proud of you."

Eris started pressing gentle kisses on her cheek and all the way down her neck while his hands slipped to her shoulders, pulling the fabric from her body and letting if fall to the floor. Her hands made quick work to unbutton his vest, wanting to have less clothing separating them.

His hands squeezed her bottom before slipping down her thighs and pulling her up, walking towards the bed while still kissing and nipping at her neck. One of her hands found place at the back of his head while the other found his cheek, a sign for him to kiss her lips.

As he kneeled on the bed and laid her down, he leaned back to pull off his vest and linen shirt, her undergarments following right after. Their kissed turned more more heated, his hands roamed through her whole body, gripping her tightly. When they pulled back to breath, his cheeks were a bright shade of red, as they always were around her.

Instead of going back to her lips, his mouth went to her stomach, kissing and licking, going up to her breasts and down her hipbone, his hands pulling her thighs up to rest on his shoulders while his mouth made delicate work of kissing her cunt. Pressing kisses and gentle kitten licks on her clit down to her entrance, teasing it with his tongue and going back to her clit, sucking harshly and soothing it with kitten licks again. When he deemed her wet enough, his fingers joined, middle and ring finger, clad with his wedding band, thrusting slowly and curving upwards while his mouth resumed licking and sucking her clit.

His unoccupied hand, which previously remained clasped tightly around the flesh of her tight, now brushed his fingers around her stomach, lightly running his fingernails through her skin making her erupt with goosebumps, his fingers thrusting into her quickening, her walls were squeezing him and he knew she wouldn't last long. Sucking specially hard on her clit and curving his fingers how he knew she liked, she came with a whimper, thighs shaking around his shoulders, he stills his fingers as to not overwhelm her but his tongue still licked her cunt, precisely avoiding her clit.

When she calmed down he pulled his fingers back and licked her clean of her cum, careful to not go so fast, when he was done he pulled back and leaned her body on hers so they could kiss, making her taste herself on his lips. Her hands roamed the expanse of his scarred back, up to the back of his neck and down to the waistband of his trousers, which she pushed as low as she could reach, a sign he took to get rid of them.

Him standing up gave her a full view of his body, he was lean and yet full of muscles, scars here and there that didn't compare to the ones in his back. General Eris Vanserra was handsome, High Lord Eris was still handsome but he was also elegant and charming. The Eris she had when they were in the intimacy of their bedroom was beautiful, a beautiful male and even beautiful mate and husband, he was a broken male that managed to stitch himself back together and remain good and he was beautiful.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" He was kneeling back on the bed, his hands caressing her legs.

"Because I love you, and you deserve to be admired, Eris." She could swear his cheeks had turned a tad darker, even his ears were tinged pink.

Eris didn't say anything back, just leaned over to capture her lips, gentle this time, slowly parting them with his own and brushing his tongue with hers, licking and sucking on the tip of her tongue. When his hips touched hers she snuck a hand down their bodies to align his cock with her entrance, he gave a few small thrusts to tease her before fully thrusting himself inside her, when they did they moaned in unison. Together they were far from the people they were moments ago, together they didn't have titles or expectations to live up to, together they could just be and they didn't even have to say anything, their movements were unhurried and their sounds were quiet, all heavy breathing and small noises.

Eris' thrusts faltered every now and then, followed by a whimper of his own, one of his hands was tangled in her hair while the other held her face gently, stroking her cheek with his thumb while they kissed. Her legs kept to his sides, caressing him in any way she could, her kept changing between holding his arms and holding his shoulder or hair.

Their bodies had a thin layer of sweat, her cunt throbbing made Eris lose his rhythm, when he found he started thrusting faster, his hand is her hair tightened and they could barely focus on kissing, their mouths just hanging open with heavy breaths and the occasional stroking of tongues was they could manage. Their moans were getting louder, his hips meeting hers harder, their bodies slipping with sweat, his forehead met hers when they tipped over the edge, groans and whimpers mingling together through the bedroom. His seed hot inside her doing wonders to soothe her want for him.

When they calmed down enough to move, Eris rolled beside her and pulled to his sweaty chest, usually they'd bathe but they were both too spent to do anything else, at least for a while.

#eris vanserra #eris vandaddy #eris acotar #eris fanfic #eris smut #eris vanserra fanfic #eris vanserra smut #eris vanserra x reader #eris x reader

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yiiyiiwrites · 3 months ago

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Baking with their mates

I’ve been baking a birthday cake today 😌 and just had this in my head. [Acotar masterlist]

The guys baking:

Azriel:

He’s baked with you a few times, but it’s the decorating where he feels the most confident. His shadows steadying his movements as he adds fancy piped icing to the buttercream exterior.

You like admiring his concentrated gaze and how the silence wraps around you. Sometimes he even hums to himself when he’s really focussed.

You can tell from Azriel’s face that he doesn’t want to cut the cake and eat it after. But the pesky dark wisps smudge the edge, so he sighs and cuts you both a slice to eat. Azriel asking bakers on perfect buttercream mix and the different size piping nozzles.

Cassian:

Chaotic mess, but you’re just the same. You enjoy the shared activity, the light brushes as you squeeze past each other to do certain parts like you’ve got a good routine/production line going between the two of you.

It’s not till you’re waiting for it to bake do you realise the mess you’ve left behind. It’s like a battlefield and you both try to get out of it by rock,paper, scissors but you end picking the same thing and end up cleaning up together.

Cassian always tries whatever you bake straight from the oven, even when you warn him not to. Has roped you into making a chocolate cake after seeing Bruce eat an entire one in Matilda.

Eris Vanserra:

Pastries are your favourite thing to bake and Eris hovers around the kitchen testing your latest experiments. He even asks you teach him taking full advantage of getting your help or opinion. Praise.

He likes when you hold his hands and guide them on how to present the pastry. Smirk on his face as you fall for it every time as you know he’s a bit of perfectionist.

Makes sure you taste it first, his elbows on the counter and leaning forward to catch your expression. Learns how to make churros after you try them at the autumn equinox celebrations.

Lucien Vanserra:

You don’t know why you even said yes to letting Lucien in your kitchen. You both started off using boxed recipes and just adding an egg, now you’re trying to make it from scratch.

You can’t help but get distracted, his sleeves rolled up his muscular arms and the way his finger swipes off a splash of cake mix from your chin.

You end up burning the cake as you were oh so distracted by other things.

Definitely would be making pot brownies randomly when you can’t sleep. Making cookies and adding everything else instead of chocolate chips.

Rhys:

After a long time of Rhys asking to bake with you, you give in and wished you didn’t. Because he’s even better than you at it!!

You should have known though, he seems to pick up things pretty quickly and teases you when you accidentally put the mixer on the highest setting and splatter cake batter everywhere. His confidence and ability to do everything makes you feel butterflies and you’re a ditsy mess as you try to ramble off instructions.

Asks you when you’re opening your own bakery and reeling off business ideas.

Tamlin:

After you asked Tamlin to bake with you, he started researching edible flowers and brought them with him, recipe book in hand for you two to try making them.

The first batch goes horrible wrong, that you end up making something simple. Tamlin goes home and bakes them again multiple times till he perfects them.

He returns a week later, offers you some beautiful cakes decorated with flowers and flavoured with them. Gives you a recipe he amended that makes the best cakes.

#Azriel #cassian #Eris Vanserra #Lucien Vanserra #rhysand #tamlin #acotar #acotar x you #acotar headcanons #acotar fanfic #acotar fluff #azriel x reader #cassian x reader #eris vanserra x reader #lucien vanserra x reader #tamlin x reader #acotar fic #rhysand x reader #eris x reader

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1d1195 · 6 months ago

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Most I

Read Most here | ~3.9k words

From me: I've been watching sad Instagram reels to feel something so I wanted to just write those feelings out.

Warnings: angsty af. Like you're gonna be sad in this part. It's only some fluff and a lot of love, but it's a lot of angst. Just like an absolute ton of it. Also you're supposed to envision Harry as a firefighter so you have to deal with that at the same time.

Summary: She was his soulmate when he didn’t believe in them. He was the love of her life–the one she planned to write about. But was soulmates going to be enough?

“Hi baby,” her giggle was infectious. The kind of laugh that sounded like music and felt like sunshine. He didn’t even need to see her to know there was a smile on her face. The very same smile that had been his favorite one to see since they were young. Only recently did it turn into the one that he loved so much. Well, at least he could admit how much he loved it openly. It made his own smile appear; just knowing when he turned around, he was going to see those pretty lips, her straight teeth (although when he envisioned it, he still remembered it before she had braces; teeth just slightly crooked at the cutest angle—but he would never tell her that). The word baby was for him. She was in his heart. So completely, so wholly. He loved the way the word baby sounded in her voice. How it left her smiling lips. He had dreamed about it for ages. Since he was old enough to name that she really was his crush.

But in the end, he didn’t even have to tell her he liked the name baby. It was just the one she chose.

Like she knew that’s what he wanted.

“Hey kitten,” he chuckled, smiling over his shoulder as she approached. She wrapped her arms around his waist from behind. She nuzzled her face against his back. His shirt smelled so intoxicatingly good—like him. He was warm, perfect. He continued his conversation with Niall. Resting his hand on top of hers, settled on the front of his stomach, right above his belt. She stayed glued to him. Niall hardly paid any attention to her. Not in a mean way, of course; no, she was simply there because she was supposed to be. She was a permanent fixture—no, an extension of Harry’s body. When she wasn’t around, it was the first thing anyone asked. Where was she? Was she okay? She liked to be thought of as a package deal. Even her mom, for all her faults, always wondered where Harry was when he wasn’t there. It was like he was the oxygen in the air and when he wasn’t around it was hard for her to breathe.

She loved Harry. She was so in love with him, she thought you could take a sample of her blood and find love for him in the cells at a molecular level. Loved him beyond description. She didn’t think it was possible to love someone that much until she did. It was the stuff of dreams and romance novels. Every time he looked at her, she was overcome with the feeling like he never wanted to stop looking at her.

Harry truly was in love with her. Astronomically in love with her. He thought he would need to create a new unit of measurement just to explain how vast and deeply he loved her. But there wasn’t any justice for it. He simply loved her. Like his life depended on it. He loved her more than he could describe. More than anyone could ever really witness.

He encouraged all her dreams and ambitions throughout the years. When she wanted to be an astronaut he stayed up until three in the morning researching workout routines for them to practice in his backyard so he could help train her for a life on the space station. The week she wanted to be a baker was spent experimenting with flour and sugar. Failing miserably when they set the smoke alarm off so many times that his mum insisted that they take a break.

But it was her writing that he encouraged more than anything else.

He didn’t care what she chose to write. He read it all. Essays, articles, love stories, a grocery list turned into poetry when it came from her pen. He bought her notebooks upon notebooks for birthdays and Christmases. When she was feeling upset, he never brought her flowers; a new pen and notebook, that was all she needed.

People who didn’t know them well, said they were crazy. Falling in love at a young age like that. It wasn’t a good idea. Harry was going to leave for college a year before her and it seemed doomed before it started. But to her it didn’t matter. Because each of those notebooks that Harry never opened without her permission, never strayed from the page she let him read, all were inscribed on the inside front cover with a heart she had drawn and written their two names inside. Like she was going to write their very future into existence.

Yes, Harry loved her, but it was more than that. There wasn’t anyone sweeter. No one was prettier—inside or out. Her kindness was so touching he couldn’t believe someone like her was in love with him some days. It seemed unfair. If there was a perfect person, it was Harry. She was sure.

Harry didn’t believe in soulmates. But whatever she was and how she fit into his life, he was certain it was as close to a soulmate as he would ever get.

So finally, when Harry was finally exhausted from waiting, the day before his last year of school started—before he would be going off and applying to universities, he needed her to know. “You know I’m in love with you, right?” He asked, point-blank.

She smiled.

That gorgeous, perfect smile that melted him right to his core.

“Yes,” she whispered, and she opened one of the notebooks that were stacked beside her bed, all the ones from over the years that she had hidden exactly what she wanted on the inside front cover. “I know.”

Harry saw the hearts, their names.

She was his soulmate. Whether he liked it or not.

So, when they held hands in the school hallways, went to astronomy class together, and sat so close to one another at lunch and in study hall, no one really paid any mind to them. It seemed like most everyone already thought they were a couple, so their adorableness didn’t change how anyone perceived one another. No one noticed how in love Harry was with her because it seemed like nothing had changed at all.

No one cared that she loved Harry with every piece of her heart. Every part of her mind and soul because it seemed like she always had.

Well.

Almost everyone.

Their love wasn’t without fault. Harry worried about the future, if she would grow tired of him because he wanted nothing more than to live in this town of theirs, the place where he met the love of his life and take care of it in thanks for bringing her to him.

“I can write from anywhere, Harry,” she reminded him. “Actually, I would go nowhere to be with you,” she smiled. It was corny. A poem she would probably jot down later before she fell asleep.

“Y’would go nowhere,” he repeated. That dimpled smile of his made her heartbeat twice as fast. His hands slid around her waist. It nearly made her shiver even though it wasn’t the first time he touched her, and it wouldn’t be the last.

She nodded; her hands linked behind his neck. His forehead pressed to hers and he brushed the tip of his nose against hers. His mouth felt like a magnet, and he was going to draw her in whether she wanted to be drawn in or not (but she did—oh, did she want). “Nowhere with you seems like heaven.”

“When y’write your first poetry book, are y’gonna dedicate it to me?”

She nodded. “Absolutely.”

“Yeah? Y’really gonna dedicate it t’nobody?”

“You’re not a nobody,” she rolled her eyes.

“M’not going anywhere. M’jus’ a nobody from nowhere.”

“Harry,” she giggled. “You’re not a nobody... this isn’t nowhere. You’re... everywhere. And you’ll always be my somebody,” she promised.

Her lips were touching his. Not quite kissing, but as she nodded, they brushed in a half-kiss that she didn’t have enough words to adequately describe the feeling and how it would put any full kiss written by any other author to shame. “Think I want t’have your body all t’myself,” he pulled her closer, somehow. His body was so warm and when he smiled, his mouth curved upwards made her lips follow his. She couldn’t take it a moment longer. She sank into the kiss, feeling like the oxygen was almost too pure for her. Leaving her breathless but wanting more of it all the same.

He was her first kiss, her first poem, her first love, and her first everything. There wasn’t an inch of skin that hadn’t been touched by him. So really, the poems, the stories, the writing came naturally. Harry was her muse. There was nothing else to do but write.

But her own insecurities in her writing abilities and her appearance made her nervous that she would hold Harry back.

Harry wanted to be a firefighter for their sweet little town; and she wasn’t oblivious, he had the body for it. She joked with him that he was going to sell thousands of dollars’ worth of calendars when the time came. “Are y’going t’be the one buying thousands of dollars’ worth of calendars?” He chuckled.

“Obviously,” she rolled her eyes. He kissed every inch of her face until she giggled more and more.

“Kitten?” he whispered.

“Yes?”

“M’gonna buy thousands of dollars’ worth of y’books.”

“With my calendar money?”

He tickled her until she squealed.

Harry was beautiful. More beautiful than she felt on most days, and it pained her sometimes to look in the mirror. But it always seemed like Harry knew when those days hit her hardest. “Do y’know you are the most beautiful person I know?” He whispered to her, as if it were a secret. But he would have shouted it from the rooftops. He showed all their friends the pictures he had taken of her and put them in their group chat and reminded them to tell her how pretty she looked. It made her giggle and shy from the attention. He would brush his fingers along her cheek, “So, so pretty,” he reminded her. “Should be illegal t’look at you for this long. Hogging all your beauty t’myself.”

But they always reassured one another that this was it. She was his soulmate—even when he didn’t believe in them. He was the love of her life—the one she planned to write about until she couldn’t physically write anymore.

It helped that people like Eleanor, Louis, Niall, Sarah, and Mitch, all assured her too that no one loved anyone as much as Harry loved her. Everyone loved them together. It wasn’t close to the amount they loved each other, but it was a good amount—one that suggested everyone knew they were meant for each other.

Almost everyone.

Lauren was the same year as she was. She was popular, smart, insanely beautiful. In another dimension, she was sure Harry was meant to be with Lauren. But they were a good pair. Lauren was kind and almost always worked with her on school projects. Arguably one of her closest friends outside her main group of friends she shared with Harry.

When they were out and about, Harry watched out for the girls in the group nearly as much as he watched out for the girl that made his heart stutter. He kept spare hair ties around his wrist for when drinking at parties got to be too much and he worried their hair would fall into the toilet. “Harry, can you come get Lo and I?” She asked once Harry picked up at the other end. It was Harry’s least favorite kind of call. The kind he knew Lauren had dragged her to a party that was too much. It made his heartbeat faster, worried beyond belief until he saw that sweet smile holding her friend’s hair back as she threw up in the bushes. “Can you help me get her into bed?” Of course he would. He would do anything she asked.

Harry noticed the way Lauren’s grip tightened around his neck as he held her and carefully placed her into bed. Out of the kindness of his heart, he ignored it. For Lauren’s sake, for his sake, and of course the sake of the pretty girl whose concern for her friend grew as she gathered items needed to cure a hangover.

Lauren was in love with Harry. Had been for years. But it couldn’t even come close to her and her love for Harry. Not in any way, shape, or form. Lauren adored her friend, because how could she not? She was too sweet for words. But there was a part of her, a gnawing, growing part of her that wanted her friend out of the picture. She told herself all she needed was a chance, but it didn’t seem doable. They were inseparable. There was no way she could tear them apart. It was impossible.

Or was it?

“Harry?” Lauren asked. She was smiling at her phone again. The way she always did when Harry texted her. During the week, it was a little hard to see one another—even though Harry was commuting to the local university just a half hour drive away and they were still in town. So, Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays were meant for dates and kisses and being so obsessed with one another, it would probably make anyone want to throw up.

Especially if they were jealous.

“Yeah, he’s out early. Wanted to know if we needed anything for our study session.”

Lauren felt a crack in her plan. They were really too sweet. Both of them.

“Do you ever… worry about Harry?” Lauren asked.

She frowned. “Yeah, like every day.”

“No,” Lauren felt a stab of hatred for herself as she pressed. Of course, her friend would say something sickeningly kind like that. Of course, she worried about Harry. “No like… him at university.”

“What do you mean?” She asked innocently. The innocence in her voice was sincere. Genuinely asking her friend what she meant. Worry coated her face. Was there something she missed? Should she have been worrying about Harry more?

“Uh… just… forget it,” Lauren shook her head. “It’s stupid.”

That was going to be the end of it. If it was, maybe Harry would have fared better. Maybe it wouldn’t have led to this horrible moment. Left wondering and aching and wishing.

But she was nothing if not the best and most fantastic friend of all.

“Lo, are you sure? You seem… nervous.”

So, she continued. Planted the tiny seed of doubt. “It’s just… Harry’s been with you his whole life and he’s made it well known he won’t be leaving. So, do you ever feel like you should… let him be free to experience more? I don’t know… I just… I think I would worry if it were me.”

That was all it took.

The self-doubt was so easy. It made so much sense coming from her mouth. Harry did deserve more. She thought that on a regular normal day.

Staying close to home wasn’t going to make Harry’s life any richer. He wasn’t staying in a dorm. He wasn’t going to be studying abroad or anything like that. A degree in psychology to help as much as he humanly could. Training to be a firefighter the moment he finished his degree. He would love his life and living here.

But what if he deserved more?

Harry’s house was like her second home. She rarely knocked—only if she was unsure if anyone was home. If the car was in the driveway, she made her way in.

Except today. Because today, Anne’s porch didn’t feel like home. The steps that made her trip and fall on Halloween when Harry tended to her like he planned on being a doctor. It solidified the picture that he would be a fireman, an amazing one at that. But he would have been great at anything he set his mind to. The flower garden where she and Harry found a bird’s nest after a bad storm. The study sessions and poems that she scribbled on the porch where Anne would bring them lemonade and cookies.

It was one of her favorite places on earth.

But it wasn’t today.

She knocked.

Harry pulled the door out of the way. “Hey baby,” he pecked her cheek, oblivious to everything she felt and how she sounded. He was in his own happy world. Nothing was wrong. He wasn’t told that she was less when Harry needed more. He didn’t notice she knocked. That she hadn’t toed over the threshold. “How was school and work? Are y’tired?”

“Harry,” she whispered.

“I was thinking we could order in and watch a movie.”

It’s not fair.

“Harry,” she repeated.

“I think pizza—oh we had pizza two days ago. Maybe Chinese?”

It’s. Not. Fair.

“Harry.”

Finally, he noticed she hadn’t moved much beyond the doorway while he was rushing about. He turned to her finally. Noting her crestfallen face, the way her eyes were bloodshot, and she refused to look him in the eye.

“Hey, kitten,” he frowned and moved toward her. “S’matter, love?” He asked. “Did y’have a bad day? See a sad video?”

It pained her to no end that he knew her so well that a sad video could have been the culprit for her sadness on a normal day. But this wasn’t a normal day. This was the day she was going to break her own heart.

“I uh…” she swiped at her eye.

“Kitten, baby,” he cooed and reached for her arm gently, but she pulled away. “Hey, what—”

“I think I’m gonna…” her throat hurt. Like the words were burning her esophagus like they weren’t supposed to come out. “I want to go away,” she whispered. That was at least in part true. She did want to go away. Far, far away so she wouldn’t feel the hurt like she was in that moment. “For school.”

There was a pang of frustration that went through him. Not because he was mad at her. No, he was going to miss her, that was it. But her success, her happiness, all of it was more important than a few hundred miles. Or even thousands. Harry sighed, wiped a hand over his face, and nodded. It would be hard. Long distance would be really hard. “Alright, yeah. Course, baby. Whatever’s best for y’education.”

She shook her head trying to talk herself out of saying it. Or maybe into saying it. It seemed so wrong. So awful. It wasn’t worth it. All this hurt. She hadn’t even started really. She could stop right then. But she looked at him. Looked at his kind, worried face. The way he looked at her when she had a stomachache or a headache. When she smacked her head on the corner of a table she was cleaning under or when she fell off her bike when she was young. “It’s… it’s really far away, Harry,” she reminded him. Maybe she wouldn’t have to say it. Wouldn’t have to do the hard part. He would just know, he would agree.

“Yeah… yeah, it is. But s’okay,” it sounded like he was trying to convince himself. Just a minor hiccup. “I’ll come t’you every weekend. And there will be holidays. M’sure your mum will want y’home and—”

His poor heart. He’s got no idea I’m about to ruin everything.

“Harry,” she swallowed. “It’s… it’s too far,” it wasn’t even a whisper.

Harry frowning was her least favorite thing. It made it all so much harder. “Too far for what, kitten?” He asked almost rhetorically.

Her inhale of breath was shaky. Like it was hurting her to breathe. Everything hurt. Every inch of her body. Like she had been hit by a car or had fallen from a tree. It wasn’t fair. Harry was oxygen. He always had been for as long as she had known him. Now it was hurting her to be in the same room as him. “For us,” she croaked.

It felt like the whole world had shifted. Flipped on its axis. He remembered hearing about it in their astronomy class. She was sitting right beside him. He wanted to ask her if she remembered because it wasn’t supposed to be like that. It was supposed to happen gradually, in hundreds of thousands of years. No one was supposed to notice. But Harry did. He noticed immediately.

He scoffed and looked at her like she was insane. Like it was a mean joke. She wasn’t mean so where had this come from? The tears were a nice touch. Realistic even. It felt terrible to look at her in such a way, but surely it was only the natural reaction when someone he loved just caused the magnetic field to flip the entire globe. “Baby, what are y’saying?” He asked. It didn’t really make sense and so his only option was to question her. She covered her mouth releasing a sob that he hadn’t ever heard come from her mouth. Not when her childhood dog died. Not when her mom got in a scary car accident and started losing her mind just enough to make her anxious and worried. Not when she got a terrible grade on her math test or hurt her ankle in soccer. There wasn’t a moment he could compare it to. There was no grief she had ever felt that elicited such a sound. Harry reached for her again, instinctively, his hand touching her upper arm. She flinched. Like it stung.

Like it hurt.

In hindsight, it was the last time he touched her, and she flinched away.

“Baby,” his throat felt tight. Nothing in his brain was connecting—the pattern wasn’t something he had encountered before. She didn’t flinch at his touch. The words didn’t make sense. Not from her mouth. What did any of that mean? “Kitten…”

“I’m sorry Harry. It’s too much. We’re too young and…” she took a heaving breath. One that shook her whole body. The only thing Harry could think about was holding her. It didn’t matter that his heart was splintering into pieces. She was in pain, and he wanted to cure it and he wanted to hold her to do it. “I’m sorry, Harry. I’m so sorry,” she left the doorway without another word. Not a single touch, nor kiss. When was the last time he kissed her? Oh, he was so lucky his class finished early, and it was the night before. A goodnight kiss when everything was happy and wonderful. He had an early day. So, he told her he loved her and went to bed. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Like the world had tipped and opened a blackhole to this terrible dimension.

“Harry?” Anne asked, coming from the kitchen. He was staring at the door. Where the love of his life had previously stood. Harry was only 19, but he was never surer of how she fit in his life. “Are you alright?”

“No, not at all,” he croaked, and the tears flooded his vision and down his face. There was nothing else to be said.

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I'm sorry if I missed anyone in the taglist. Please let me know if you'd like to join, if it didn't work, if you no longer want to be included, etc. :)

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#harry styles writing #harry styles fluff #harry styles blurb #harry styles blurbs #harry styles smut #harry styles angst #harry styles imagine #harry styles imagines #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x reader #one direction #one direction writing #harry styles #most #best friend!harry #second chance romance!harry

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dollishmehrayan · 28 days ago

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BAKE ME A CAKE HCS ── .✦

a/n: I’ve had like 3 bags of pretzels and tons of water and I’ve got my Spotify playlist going and ready, so I’m so ready to crush this omg 😭, but literally the pretzels were so yum!! (Sea salt) but anyways enough of food but genuinely you guys need to like um request fics and hcs!!

(Tags: batboys x baker!reader)

BRUCE WAYNE ── .✦

Admiration and Support: Bruce is genuinely amazed by your skills in the kitchen. He never imagined that someone could be so talented at making intricate cakes and delicate pastries. He’ll often sneak into the kitchen just to watch you work, appreciating the craftsmanship that goes into each creation.

Gifts: On special occasions, Bruce will have high-end ingredients or tools delivered to your door, ensuring you have the best supplies for your baking. He may also commission a cake from you for one of the many Wayne galas.

Late-Night Treats: After a long day, he loves sneaking a piece of your cake or a warm pastry when everyone else is asleep. It’s his secret way of unwinding after patrol, and he sometimes brings it to the Batcave when he's working late.

Baking as a Family Activity: If you’re close to his kids, Bruce loves seeing them get involved. Alfred usually helps with the dishes, but Bruce will occasionally attempt to assist in the baking process—though his attempts usually lead to flour everywhere.

DICK GRAYSON ── .✦

The Enthusiastic Taste Tester: Dick is your biggest fan when it comes to your baking. He always asks to taste-test everything you make. You can’t get a batch of cookies or cupcakes past him without him giving an enthusiastic “Are these for me?”

Bakes Together: He absolutely loves baking with you. Even if he’s not the best at it, he loves the experience of spending time together and sharing in the process of creating something beautiful. He’ll add his own “creative” touches (usually involving way too much frosting or sprinkles and like massive diabetes but don’t tell him that😞🙏)

Appreciation: Dick loves showing off your work to his friends and family, boasting about your baking skills. He’ll even tell random strangers about your cakes if the opportunity arises.

Sharing the Love: He loves gifting your baked goods to people. Whether it’s a batch of cookies for the Titans or cupcakes for a charity event, he’s always making sure your delicious treats are shared with others.

JASON TODD ── .✦

The Hidden Sweet Tooth: Jason may come off as tough and gritty, but he has an undeniable soft spot for your baked goods. He’ll act like he doesn’t care, but you’ll often find him sneaking into the kitchen late at night, indulging in the last piece of cake you made.

In the Kitchen With You: Jason’s more of a hands-off kind of guy, but if you ever need help, he’ll step in. He’s not the best baker, but he’ll always try to help you clean up afterward, washing dishes or setting up the ingredients.

Cakes for Special Occasions: Jason secretly loves it when you bake him a special cake for his birthday or some other occasion. He’ll probably act like he’s too tough to care about something so sweet, but he’ll keep a piece of your cake in the fridge to savor later.

Cakes as Comfort: When he's had a rough day, the comfort of your baking is something that instantly calms him. It’s not just the taste but the warmth and care you put into it that makes him feel safe.

TIM DRAKE ── .✦

The Perfectionist’s Palate: Tim appreciates the art of baking on a technical level. He’ll analyze every part of your cake, from the texture of the frosting to the way the layers are stacked, and he’ll always give you the most thoughtful and genuine feedback.

Baking Research: Tim loves to try and learn new recipes with you. He’ll spend hours researching the best techniques, finding obscure recipes, and then he’ll be the one to present a new idea for a cake or pastry for you to try together. He has a great appreciation for the science behind baking.

The Baker’s Helper: Tim is a practical person, so he’ll often assist in the more tedious parts of baking—like measuring ingredients, prepping the oven, or organizing everything before you get started.

Decorating Cakes: Tim is a sucker for well-decorated cakes. He’ll admire your artistry, whether it’s intricate fondant work or delicate piping. If you ever need a hand with the decoration, he’ll be there, helping you get the details just right.

DAMIAN WAYNE ── .✦

Unimpressed at First: Damian might be skeptical at first, having grown up in a more rigid environment. He’ll try to act like he’s not interested in your baking, especially if it’s too “sweet” or “fluffy” for his tastes. But over time, he comes to respect your craft.

A Taste of Perfection: When he finally does try one of your creations, his usually stoic face will break into a small, approving nod. “It’s acceptable,” he’ll say. And that’s his way of telling you that you’ve impressed him.

Incredibly Protective of Your Work: Damian will guard your cakes like they’re priceless treasures. If anyone tries to take the last piece, you’ll find him defending your work with a level of intensity only rivaled by his devotion to his family.

Baking for Special Occasions: He may not show it outwardly, but Damian takes great pride in ensuring that you have the time and space to bake for important events. He’s quietly supportive and makes sure that nothing interferes with your baking process.

AlFRED PENNYWORTH ( IF YOU WERE DATING ANYOF THE BATBOYS ) ── .✦

Your Biggest Supporter: Alfred is the heart of the Batfamily, and he’s often the one who enjoys your baked goods the most. He’ll frequently offer to help you with anything in the kitchen and often provides tips and tricks (he's been making delicious meals for the family for years).

Subtle Compliments: When you bake something particularly spectacular, Alfred will give you a compliment in his typical understated way: “Ah, Miss [Y/N], another masterpiece, I see.” He might even sneak a piece of cake before dinner, though he always acts like it was an accident.

A Baking Partner: Alfred may not be much of a baker himself, but he’ll be happy to assist you in making whatever you need. His love for you is evident in how he’ll quietly encourage you to bake something for a family event or special occasion.

Admiring Your Skills: Alfred will often tell you how much he admires your patience and attention to detail in your work. He loves seeing the joy your creations bring to the rest of the family.

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adoresia · 12 days ago

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۶ৎ Warmth in the rain

⌗ FEATURING : ARMIN ARLERT X FEM!READER

⌗ SYNOPSIS : A gray afternoon, the scent of banana bread, and quiet moments shared under a blanket—when emotions run high and tears fall over the silliest things, Armin tries his best to make it all better, one thoughtful gesture at a time.

⌗ CW : period-related symptoms, emotional outbursts, crying, irritability, self-consciousness

⌗SIA HERE! : @fushiguruuzzzz seduced me into posting guys I fell for it 💔💔 she trickered me but I got kisses so maybe I liked the trickery 😇 I love Armin so much he’s so autumn, book worm, baker boy, awkward coded I fear I have a type for losers (not complaining). Armin smau next? 😜 (yes)

Armin stood in the kitchen, his pale hands trembling slightly as he sifted flour into a bowl. Sunlight slanted through the sheer curtains, painting soft golden rectangles on the counters and wooden floorboards. The kitchen, normally quiet and still, felt alive with his nervous energy. His lips pressed together in a tight line, and his ocean-blue eyes darted between the recipe on his phone and the mess of ingredients scattered around him. He’d spent most of the afternoon trying to figure out what was wrong. You weren’t yourself today, and it was throwing him off. You were normally so expressive, so vibrant, but now… now you’d retreated into this irritable shell that had him second-guessing every move. It wasn’t just the sharp words or the tears—it was the way your shoulders slumped and your voice sounded thinner, like you were carrying something invisible that weighed you down. Armin wasn’t great at reading between the lines. He’d always been better with facts, with logic. But the look on your face today—the frustration, the vulnerability—clung to him like static. He was sure he’d done something wrong at first, but you’d muttered something about cramps and a heating pad, and suddenly things began to click.

“Periods,” he muttered to himself under his breath, glancing nervously at the batter as he stirred it. “How does anyone even… deal with this?”

The sunlight shifted as a cloud passed over the house, dimming the room for a moment. Armin leaned against the counter, his hair falling slightly into his eyes as he paused to think. He imagined you upstairs, bundled under layers of blankets, your face half-hidden but your emotions written all over the little parts of you he could see. He hated that he couldn’t just fix this for you—couldn’t just take the pain and frustration away. But he could try to make you feel better.

That’s why he was baking banana bread.

The idea had come to him like a flicker of light in the fog. You loved banana bread—always lit up when the smell filled the air, always hummed in satisfaction after the first bite. The memory of you smiling over a warm slice made his chest ache with longing to see that expression again. He worked carefully, his movements slow and deliberate. Armin wasn’t much of a baker, but he approached the process with the same methodical care he gave to his research. Measuring the sugar felt like balancing equations; folding the wet and dry ingredients together was like conducting a gentle experiment. The batter thickened under his careful stirring, the sweet scent of ripe bananas and vanilla creeping into the air like a soft promise. He glanced out the window as the oven preheated, watching the branches of the oak tree outside sway gently in the breeze. The world felt so calm out there, so steady, and he wished he could borrow some of that stillness to bring to you. Once the batter was poured into the pan and slid into the oven, Armin set a timer and leaned against the counter with a sigh. His golden hair caught the light as he looked toward the ceiling, his thoughts inevitably drifting back to you.

You hadn’t meant to snap at him earlier—he knew that. But hearing your voice break as you apologized, seeing the tears spill from your eyes, had sent a pang of helplessness through him. He hated feeling out of his depth like this, hated that he wasn’t sure how to make things better.

But maybe his baking would help.

The timer beeped softly, and Armin jumped a little, startled out of his thoughts. He hurried to the oven, pulling on mitts and carefully lifting the pan out. The golden-brown loaf looked perfect, its surface cracked just enough to let the sweet, warm aroma spill out into the kitchen. He let out a relieved breath, setting it on the cooling rack with a satisfied nod. He didn’t stop there. He rummaged through the cabinets and fridge, gathering little things he thought you might like: your favorite chocolate bar, a bottle of juice he knew you always reached for, and a heat pack he’d bought for you once but didn’t think you’d ever used. He arranged everything neatly on a tray, his meticulous nature showing in the way he aligned the items just so. Taking a deep breath, he made his way upstairs. The soft creak of the floorboards under his steps was the only sound in the quiet house. As he reached your room, the door was slightly ajar, and he nudged it open gently with his foot. You were a bundle of blankets on the bed, your head completely buried beneath the duvet. The room was dim, the curtains drawn just enough to let a soft, hazy light seep in. Your favorite pillow was propped against the headboard, and there were tissues crumpled on the bedside table—a testament to the emotional whirlwind of the day.

“Hey,” Armin said softly, his voice carrying a careful warmth as he stepped inside.

The smell of the banana bread hit you before his words did. It curled into the room like a comforting hug, and you froze for a moment before peeking your head out from beneath the duvet. Your eyes, still a little red from earlier, widened when you saw the tray he was holding.

“Oh, Armin,” you breathed, your voice breaking.

You sat up slowly, your blanket still wrapped around your shoulders. When your gaze flickered over the tray—the banana bread, the chocolate, the drink, the heat pack—your lip trembled. Tears welled in your eyes again, spilling over as you covered your face with your hands.

Armin panicked, setting the tray down quickly and kneeling beside the bed. “Wait—why are you crying again?” he asked, his voice tight with worry. “I didn’t mess up, did I?”

You shook your head, trying to compose yourself but failing miserably. “No! No, it’s perfect, Armin. It’s just—you did all this for me? Even after I yelled at you and acted like a total mess?”

He blinked, his cheeks flushing a soft pink. “Well, yeah,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I just… I wanted to help. You’ve had a rough day, and I thought maybe this would make it a little better.”

You sniffled, letting out a watery laugh. “It’s not just today, it’s—ugh, stupid hormones. I’ve been all over the place because of my period, and I feel bad for taking it out on you.”

“Oh,” he said, his expression softening with understanding. “So… that’s what this is about?”

You nodded, wiping at your cheeks. “Yeah. Sorry I’ve been so weird.”

He smiled, small and shy, as he reached up to brush a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “Don’t apologize. I mean… it’s not your fault, right? I’m just glad I didn’t make things worse.”

You pulled him into a hug, burying your face against his shoulder. “You made it so much better.”

A few moments later, the two of you were tangled up under the duvet, sharing the banana bread he’d baked. The golden light from the window wrapped around the room like a soft blanket, and the sweet, comforting taste of the bread melted on your tongue. You shifted slightly under the weight of the duvet, leaning to the side and resting your cheek against the cool edge of the pillow. Your gaze wandered to the window, where a curtain of soft gray clouds had draped itself over the sky. The once steady light filtering through the room had dulled, replaced by a muted, silvery hue.

Outside, the first drops of rain began to trail down the glass, catching what little light remained and refracting it like tiny prisms. They started slowly, clinging to the pane for a moment before slipping downward in winding, unpredictable paths. Soon, more joined in, cascading in uneven rivulets that raced each other to the bottom, leaving streaks in their wake. The faint sound of the rain tapping against the window filled the room, rhythmic and persistent, like a whisper you couldn’t quite ignore. Your lips pressed into a thin line, a flicker of irritation crossing your features as you watched the rain build in intensity. It wasn’t just the rain itself—though you’d always found its presence more of a nuisance than a comfort—but the oppressive weight of the grayness it brought. It reminded you of the low mood already pulling at you, dragging you deeper into the haze you’d been trying to escape all day. Armin noticed the shift in your expression almost immediately. You’d always had such a transparent way of showing how you felt, whether you meant to or not. The way your brows knitted together, the slight tilt of your head as you stared out at the rain with an almost accusatory look—it was so you, and yet he couldn’t help the pang of worry that rose in his chest.

“I know you don’t like rain,” he said softly, his voice cutting gently through the ambient hum of the weather outside. His lips quirked into a faint, unsure smile, his blue eyes scanning your face for any sign of another emotional landslide. “But I can’t really stop it from happening. Please don’t cry.”

His words caught you off guard, and for a moment, you just blinked at him. Then, the corners of your mouth twitched, betraying the beginnings of a smile.

“Shut up, Armin,” you said with a playful nudge, your voice carrying a warmth that hadn’t been there all day.

The sound of your laughter, light and airy, spilled into the room like a welcome guest. Armin’s chest swelled with a quiet pride at the sight of you smiling, your mood lifting even just a little. He leaned back against the pillows, the two of you tucked close together under the blanket as the rain continued its gentle dance against the window. And though the gray clouds lingered outside, a different kind of warmth spread through you—a steady, comforting glow that had nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with the boy sitting beside you.

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soiwj · 6 months ago

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Tasty Treat

Arlecchino x fem!baker!reader

Link to part 2

Very ooc arlecchino

(i dont know her character wel but she's hot, so i thought I'd give it a shot)

Planning on doing research on her though!!

Fuckk i love women omg

Second mini-fic ever how exciting!!

Please request stuff here!! It's hard to come up with prompts ;-;

I wrote this at 3 am so excuse the lack of structure

You start your usual routine of setting everything up for the day, although today is a bit special. Your bakery doesn't have many customers, considering the place it's in is quite remote. A peaceful forrest that's still in fontaine borders yet far away from any other buildings or people.

You chose this place because you appreciate the beauty and peace that nature brings you. The birds whisteling in the morning, the foxes chittering, the sound of tree leaves rustling. Yet that peace comes with quite a heft price. Loneliness. Besides the old lady that lives in a small village near the forrest, you don't get much human interaction. Even though your bakery is quite big and fits lots of people, you don't really have a lot of customers to share it with.

A week ago, you received a business offer from the house of the hearth. Since the bakery near the orphanage closed down, they don't have any establishments providing them things like breakfast treats and pastries. That's why they're employing you. The contract has you preparing and delivering the food to the hearth.

Even though this seemed like quite a lot of work, you accepted. I mean, how could you not? You get to make pasteries for adorable kids, making them smile, AND you get paid? This is a dream come true. After years of sulking alone in the damp forest serving a customer here and there, you get the privilege of a constant source of profit.

After hours of baking, your tired eyes look at the required amount of food stated in the order, and you realize that this is only enough for the kids. How strange that the boss herself did not order anything. Does she eat breakfast somewhere else? Nevertheless, you decide to make something anyway.

After packing up the orders, you start walking towards the orphanage, barely holding on to the several boxes stacked on top of eachother.

As you arrive, you set the boxes down and ring the orphanage's doorbell. An earie ring echoes from inside.

A tall woman opens the door. Her snow white hair with the occasional black streak looks down at you from the doorframe. Her brows furrow slightly at the sight of you, and the boxes.

"Are you alone?" She asks, you're confused, to say the least. "...yes?" You mutter. "How come you've managed to carry all those boxes on your lonesome?" Her sultry voice sounds out as she crosses her arms in amusement, holding back a grin. Before you can answer, you hear who you assume are the kids, walking slowly towards the persumed dining room.

"I'll help you with these," Arlecchino says curtly as she picks up a few boxes to bring to the kitchen. You pick up the last remaining boxes as you tail behind her.

As you and Arlecchino start unpacking and putting the treats on plates, you can't help but think of how different you expected Arlecchino to be. Clearly, her reputation precedes her. All the while your mind is drifting off to several different subjects, you don't notice the red-crossed eyes staring your way.

After the children finish eating, you stay a while, wanting to hear their opinion on the treats. As you basically survey them, you take the time to get to know some of them. Playing games with them and answering their unending questions.

As you realise you've overstayed your welcome, you say goodbye to the kids and quickly leave the orphanage. On your way back, you reach your hand into your purse, trying to take out your cherry flavored gum. You eventually find it but with it a little pink box brushes your hand. The cookie, you forgot to give it to Arlecchino.

Sat in her office, Arlecchino can't stop thinking about the kind-hearted baker she employed. Just looking at her interacting with the kids made something burn up inside of her. A little warmth that warms her cold, unfeeling heart. She looks out the window, hoping to have some reprieve from this strange feeling. Yet it seems the archons are against her wishes as she sees a certain baker running towards the orphanage. Almost tripping on her way. Even though it is foolish to entertain feelings for such a seemingly simple creature, Arlecchino can't help but grin at another interaction with her. Usually, she doesn't like to play with her food. But this time, she might make you an exception.

You stumble into the building as one of the kids, whom you now know is called Tealus, opens the door for you. With the pink box in hand, you stride through the halls looking for Arlecchino's office. As you ask one of the children, they point to the dark, long hallway without windows. How fitting. Your heels clicking softly as you walk over to her black office double doors. This place seems more like a villain's lair than an orphanage to you now, but you digress.

You knock 5 times in a specific pattern you were used to as a child when you hear a stern "Come in." You pull the golden doorhandle as the office window light starts flooding the hallway. You quickly close the door behind you as you step closer to her desk.

She does not look up from the paperwork on her desk as she multitasks without problem. "Why are you still here, baker." Just because she approves of your bond with the kids does not mean she will treat you differently from other people. "I saw there was nothing for you on the order list, so I made you something." You say proudly. You start rambling as you explain how you forgot to give it to her during breakfast.

She interrupts you as she reaches out her hand. "Can I see it?" You're flustered as you quickly hand her the box. She places it down gently on her desk as she lifts the packaging. Facing Arlecchino is a cookie with a white base, decorated with a black and red spider on top. "How adorable," Arlecchino mutters softly. Your soft 'huh' drives her back to reality as she responds. "I'm not very fond of sweet treats. I prefer savory things." She almost chuckles at the sight of your worried eyes locking with hers. "I can make you something else if you'd like? Hmm, although I can't think of many savory pasteries..." As you start naming some options, you reach for the cookie, trying to throw it away, but Arlecchino's quick reflexes hold your wrist before you can get close. "I thought you didn't like it?" Your confusion radiating off of you. "I never said such a thing. I merely said I prefer savory treats." She softly lets your wrist go as she stores the cookie on a desk extension behind her.

From then on, this has become routine, although some things have changed throughout the weeks. Instead of delivering the food alone, Arlecchino stops by early in the morning to help you carry them. Sometimes, it results in small talk when you haven't finished packing the orders yet.

Usually, she doesn't speak much and lets you do all the talking. You fear she's getting annoyed from your constant ramblings, but unbeknownst to you, she loves it when you talk about your interests and things you love.

This was a bit short, but if you wanna see a specific trope with this situation, you can req anything you wantt!!

Might do a part 2 of this idk yet

#genshin impact #genshin #genshin x reader #x reader #arlecchino #arlecchino genshin #arlecchino x reader #wlw post #wlw #i love arlecchino #i want to kiss her mouth as i sit on her lap

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mandalhoerian · 2 days ago

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forced proximity | baking | wild west au ❅ Leon Secret Santa ( @leonsecretsanta ) ❅ gift for @bonesnplywood !!

summary: When a wagon mishap in the middle of a snowstorm leaves the new sheriff Leon Kennedy stranded at the local bakery, he’s reluctantly pulled into a lighthearted afternoon of decorating gingerbread cookies with the town’s spirited baker, you.

word count: close to 5K, read on ao3

note: AMBER ITS ME!! YOUR SECRET SANTA!!! THE WORST PERSON THESE TROPES COULD POSSIBLY FALL INTO THE LAP OF!!!! I've never in my life joined an event like this or written about christmas (jingle halal everyone), and i was doomed from the start because wild west is something i know absolutely nothing about 😞 so i had to make insane research on the topic for this, and i mean, "insane" research <2 me>, because i've had to look up things such as sugar, icing (did it exist? what about hot chocolate. plot twist, IT DOES), what they baked, how non-commercialized christmas was like back then, and overall about frontier towns, and i swear i was on the verge of tears about to drop out THIS 👌 CLOSE 😭😭😭 I hope I was at least able to catch the vibes and it's enjoyable, please excuse any mistakes or weird stuff overall that doesn't fit, i tried.... merry christmas!

Christmas around these parts was a quiet affair, mostly celebrated by children and the devout few who filled the pews of the old church on the hill. There were no garlands or ribbons strung up, no carolers wandering door to door. Folks didn’t have the time or money for all that fuss.

Instead, Christmas was something simpler. Something humbler. A rare pie cooling on a windowsill, the smell of woodsmoke mingling with fresh bread if a family could spare the flour and sugar, stockings, little more than patched-up socks, hung over fireplaces with faint hope... Sometimes, if the weather allowed, neighbors gathered for a pot of stew or shared biscuits, squeezing together at too-small tables and swapping stories to warm the room better than the fire ever could.

And yet, you, neither a dutiful churchgoer nor a small child any longer, cared more about this holiday than most. Actually, scratch that. “Cared” didn’t begin to cover it.

You lived for Christmas.

Always had. Ever since you were small, the holidays had lit something in you. All of them mattered, but Christmas? That was special. It wasn’t just the crisp air or the smell of pine needles in the bakery where you grew up. It was the whole season, the way December turned the world into something softer, kinder. Your father had seen to that.

Every year, he’d throw open the bakery doors to the orphanage down the lane, baking for the children who had no family to celebrate with. The evenings were loud with laughter, warm with the smell of bread and cakes, and rich with your father’s tall tales spun at the dinner table. He’d send those kids home with free loaves to last them through the winter, and no matter how much the townspeople complained about the expense, they’d show up to help--eventually. Even the grumps couldn’t resist the sight of those kids, faces bright with joy, or the way the bakery felt like the heart of the town in those fleeting weeks.

Of course, none of that magic happened on its own. The ingredients alone were a fortune, especially now, and it had taken some creative wheeling and dealing to keep things running smoothly. Mayor Irons had been easy enough to bribe, an extra haul of your famous sweets for his office, a special stash of sugar sticks just for him. The old sleazeball had learned long ago not to ask questions, especially when the end-of-month "bonus" arrived. It was a necessary evil, one you barely had to think about anymore.

This year, though, was different. The snowstorm had rolled in fast, blanketing the town in thick, sparkling drifts that clung to rooftops and piled high in the streets. It was beautiful in the way all fresh snow is, softening the edges of a hard world. But this wasn’t the gentle, picturesque snowfall from a child's drawing. This storm had teeth. Roads were already impassable, and while the bakery’s ovens burned bright and warm, you couldn’t help but worry about what would happen if the storm kept on. Business had slowed to a crawl, but you weren’t about to close the shop, not with so much left to do before the Christmas festival. The Mayor needed his payment.

Your gaze drifted to the empty shelf behind the counter where sacks of flour and sugar were meant to sit. Supplies that should have arrived hours ago. Supplies you needed for the dozens of gingerbread cookies and other desserts.

Your father had thrown in the towel hours back, muttering that it was pointless to keep the place open when there was nothing left to sell. You, stubborn as always, refused to leave. The wagon train will come, you’d insisted. You weren’t about to trek home in this snowstorm, anyway, and someone needed to mind the fire. But as the wind howled against the windows and the blizzard thickened to a near whiteout, you were beginning to think your father might’ve had a point.

Then, the bell above the door jingled.

You jolted, spinning around.

"Finally," you muttered, brushing flour-dusted hands on your apron as you turned. "Come on in! You're lettin—"

The words caught in your throat.

It wasn’t the deliveryman standing there, but the sheriff—Leon Kennedy—silhouetted in the doorway like a figure out of legend. His wide-brimmed hat, damp and battered, was barely clinging to his head thanks to the string knotted beneath his chin. On his shoulders, six sacks of supplies were stacked so high it made him look almost absurd in the middle of your little bakery. Snow clung to his coat like he’d wrestled a blizzard and won, but that didn’t stop him from nudging the door shut with the heel of his boot and stepping further inside. The quiet thud of those sacks hitting the wooden floor sent a plume of cold air swirling around the room.

You blinked at him, dumbfounded.

“Sheriff?”

Leon straightened, dusting snow from his coat with broad, deliberate swipes. “Sorry I’m late.” He nodded to the sacks, as though hauling half a wagon’s worth of supplies on his back through a blizzard was the most normal thing in the world.

“Where’s the wagon?” you managed, trying to peer through the frosted window before turning back to him.

“Broke down a mile back,” he said, his voice roughened by the cold. “Axle snapped.”

Your stomach dropped. “A mile? In this weather?”

“Figured I’d at least bring what I could carry.” He kicked the snow from his boots, each thud matching the quickening of your heartbeat. “Rest will have to wait.”

You stared at him, then the sacks of flour and sugar piled on the floor. He’d walked through a goddamn blizzard. A mile, uphill, no less—you didn’t even need to ask to know that was the case. You opened your mouth to say something, but all that came out was a breath of air. Finally, you croaked, “I… Thank you.”

Leon just nodded, like gratitude was something he shrugged off the same way he shook snow from his coat. “What needs doin’?” he asked, glancing toward the empty shelves. “Looks like you’re behind.”

You’d just watched the man shoulder a blizzard and a mile of snowbanks, and now he wanted to help you restock?

Your gaze flickered to him—to his reddened cheeks and the tips of his nose, glowing like embers from the cold. The dark leather of his duster was soaked through, clinging to him like a second skin, and the snow gathered on the brim of his hat had begun to melt and drip onto the floorboards.

“Hold on a second,” you said, recovering your wits as you marched around the counter. “You’re half-frozen, Sheriff. Give me that coat before you catch your death.”

Leon’s brow quirked faintly, his lips twitching into something close to a smile. “I’m fine.”

“The hell you are.” You grabbed the hem of his coat, already tugging it off his shoulders before he could protest. The leather was heavier than it looked, soaked through and frigid to the touch. Jesus.

Leon let out a small, huffed laugh, raising his arms in surrender as you worked the coat free. Cedar, you thought absently, catching the scent that clung to him, warm and woodsy even beneath the chill.

“Sit down and warm up,” you ordered, pointing toward the small table near the fire. “You're not going anywhere in this weather.”

“And the shelves?” he asked, ever the dutiful sheriff.

“None of your damn business. You just carried half the territory’s worth of flour through a blizzard—I’d say you’ve earned five minutes.”

Leon’s smile turned genuine then, soft around the edges, and for the first time since he’d walked in, you saw the faintest hint of color return to his face. He nodded, boots thudding against the floor as he made his way to the chair.

As you turned back toward the sacks of supplies, already mentally calculating how much work lay ahead, you couldn’t help but glance over your shoulder. Leon was sitting by the fire now, elbows resting on his knees, hat in one hand and gloves dangling from the other, his gaze distant as he watched the flames. He looked tired. More tired than any man who’d just hauled a mile of flour and sugar should look, but there was something steady in the way he sat there, unshakable, like no storm could ever touch him.

You exhaled softly, shaking your head as you rolled up your sleeves. Christmas was comin’ whether the snow liked it or not.

You busied yourself at the counter, half-focused on the dough you were rolling out and half on the quiet presence of the man. After a while, the silence stretched like the dough underneath your hands, broken only by the occasional crackle of the fire and the soft thud of your movements against your work surface.

He wasn't very talkative in the first place, you knew as much, thinking that perhaps you could have accomodated him better instead of throwing yourself immediately into work the moment you'd gotten what you'd been waiting for the whole morning. The awkwardness that stifled the bakery was bothersome enough that you chanced another glance at Leon, and caught him watching you, eyes briefly darting to the counter before returning to the oven.

“You decorating all those yourself?” he asked finally, nodding toward the trays of fresh-out-the-oven, undecorated gingerbread men to the side that were cooling off.

You blinked, pausing mid-roll. “I was planning to, yeah.”

He stood, rolling his shoulders as if testing how much energy he had left after the trek. “You’ve got a lot of work left. Might as well make myself useful.”

Your brows rose in mild surprise, but you quickly recovered. “You’ve already done more than enough.”

“Storm’s not letting up anytime soon,” he said simply, moving closer to the counter. “Might as well pass the time doing something.”

He put as much intensity into the staring match that followed as he would into a gunfight. It was inevitable that you'd lose.

Finally, you reluctantly handed him an icing bag, unable to hide the smile tugging at your lips. “Alright, Sheriff. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Leon took the bag, turning it over in his hands like it was a tool he needed to get a feel for. “Fair warning,” he said, “I’m better with a six-shooter than whatever this is.”

“It’s just icing. Start slow and gentle. No sharpshooting required.”

“Good,” he replied dryly. “Would hate to accidentally take out a gingerbread man.”

Was that... a joke? Did he just make a joke?

You stepped closer to him, catching the way his hands dwarfed the small icing tube as he held it. His brow furrowed in concentration, the usual stoic expression on his face betraying just a smidge of uncertainty. There was something endearing about seeing him like this, someone so strong and sure reduced to puzzling over frosting.

“Here,” you said softly, placing your hands over his fingers, which twitched beneath yours, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he stilled, letting you guide him. The warmth of his skin seeped into your palms, and you found yourself acutely aware of how close the two of you were.

“Hold it steady,” you murmured, your voice dipping low and deliberate, as if sharing a secret. “The trick is even pressure. Like this.”

You shifted your grip slightly, your thumbs brushing against his knuckles with a deliberate slowness. His hands, so large and steady, seemed to falter beneath your touch, the tiniest twitch betraying his awkwardness. You caught the faint hitch in his breath and felt the way his shoulders stiffened, as though unsure whether to lean into your guidance or escape it entirely, yet together with you, he squeezed the tube gently, a neat line of icing trailing onto the cookie below. He wasn’t focused on the cookie, though—not really. The way his hands followed your movements made it clear he was hyper-aware of the closeness, unsure but not resisting. Feeling the heat rise to your face, you quickly changed tack, pulling your hands away with a light laugh.

"You’ve got it from here," you said, stepping back slightly and gesturing to the cookie in front of him, your tone bright and easy.

Leon exhaled slowly, his breath brushing the side of your face. “Guess I was pressing too hard.”

“Most people do,” you replied, glancing up at him briefly. His focus was in front of him, but his jaw was tight. You could feel the tension in his shoulders despite him admitting what he'd been doing wrong. “Relax your grip a little.”

You adjusted his hold, guiding his hand through another clean line of icing, your bodies aligned as if the two of you had done this a hundred times before. When you finally released his hands, the absence of contact felt oddly stark... Thanks to the cold weather, no doubt.

“Think you’ve got it now?” you asked, stepping back slightly, though your heartbeat had yet to slow.

“Think I’ll need a little more practice.”

That sounded suave at the time, but he was right, in the end. Leon’s first attempt at decorating was, to put it kindly, a disaster.

The icing tube seemed to have a mind of its own, spilling a shaky, jagged line across the gingerbread man’s torso. His frown was growing deeper by each passing minute, and he was constantly adjusting his grip, but it only got worse. By the time he set the tube down, the poor cookie looked more like a battlefield casualty than a festive treat.

You couldn’t hold back your laughter. It bubbled up, light and genuine, as you reached over to inspect his handiwork. “Well,” you said, biting back a grin, “it’s… unique.”

“It’s terrible,” Leon muttered, a touch of color rising in his cheeks as he glanced at your much neater designs. “Maybe I should stick to chasing outlaws.”

“Aw, come on,” you teased, nudging his arm. “You’re just gettin' started. Besides, this is supposed to be fun, not perfect.”

He gave a skeptical huff but picked up the tube again, determined to try. How earnest. You leaned closer, pointing out how to apply even pressure, your hands brushing his as you demonstrated even though you didn't really need to do all of that. Something about enjoying a skilled grown man being awkward about something you were good at and wanting to enjoy moments of making him fumble.

“There you go,” you encouraged as his next attempt turned out… well, marginally better. “See? Not bad for a first-timer.”

"I feel bad for whoever this will be eaten by," he muttered, referring to the misshapen abomination in his hand that could hardly qualify as a 'person.'

"It's the Mayor," you blurted out without thinking, causing a choked laugh escape past his lips, surprise lighting up his handsome features.

"Really?"

"Yep," you grinned, winking conspiratorially at him. "You're helping me bribe the man to invest more on Christmas. Gotta throw in some of your... specialties in there for good luck."

"You're trying to get me fired," he deadpanned, as dry as the wood stacked by the hearth. "And blacklisted."

A loud laugh tore itself out of your throat, warm and melodious in nature. He looked oddly pleased at having brought it out of you, the corners of his lips twitching up minutely before returning to its neutral position. God, how cute! You wondered what other expressions you could draw out of him if you tried. It wasn't fair how handsome he was when he smiled like that, a real smile, with actual emotion. That tiny change softened the harsh line of his mouth and eased the shadow of exhaustion from his face, making him look like a completely different person, like another version of himself who existed behind closed doors. The image stayed burned into your mind's retina as you resumed decorating the cookies with your nimble fingers, sneaking glances every so often, studying him from beneath your lashes.

You wanted to know more about this man. In a way, this snowstorm had been a good thing.

“So,” you started, reaching for another cookie to decorate, “what made you take the sheriff’s job? Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t strike me as the type who’d want to babysit a town like this.”

Leon glanced at you, his hand pausing mid-squeeze. “What makes you say that?”

“Oh, ya know.” You gestured vaguely at him, smirking. “That look. Like you’ve seen too much of the world already and don’t trust any of it.”

He let out a soft, humorless laugh. “You’re not wrong.” For a moment, he focused on his cookie again, the silence stretching between you both. Then, quietly, he added, “I figured it was time to slow down. Maybe try something simpler.”

You arched a brow. “Simpler? Sheriff in a town like this? You must not have heard about all the trouble this place sees.”

“I’ve heard,” he said, glancing your way with the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes. “Still beats the alternative.”

The weight in his voice gave you pause. You didn’t press, sensing there were things he wasn’t ready to share, and not your place to know in the first place. Instead, you held up one of your finished cookies. “Well, here’s to slowing down. Even if it means spending your days wrestling with icing.”

“I’ll take it over the wrestling I’m used to,” he said, his lips twitching into a soft smile as he picked up another cookie. "Already like this better. It's nice working with someone like this. Having a calm evening instead of the usual shit I'm doing. Christmas cookie decorating. Who'd've thought, right?"

"That sounds lonely, Sheriff."

A strange, distant look crossed over his face momentarily, something melancholic and longing flitting across his face before it vanished again under the cool mask you were familiar with.

He let out a small, sad sigh. "...Yeah. S'pose it is."

"You know... Christmas is all about coming together. Starting fresh. And sometimes taking a little break from reality to enjoy yourself," you added thoughtfully, trying not to be too on the nose about what you were trying to convey. "We all need a little grace. Especially around this time of year."

He snorted softly at that, amused.

Your hand moved quicker than your mind could react, bringing the piping tip dangerously close to his mouth. "Care to repeat that?"

Leon blinked, momentarily stunned. "Christmas suits you," he repeated, more brazenly this time, daring you to follow through with the implicit threat. "All warm and welcoming." He leaned forward, almost challenging in nature. "Like this bakery of yours."

"Oh, well—" your ears burned hotter at the implications. If anyone saw you like this now, you would've been done for.

You cleared your throat, attempting to keep yourself composed even as Leon's stare bore a hole through your skull. The damn man was just teasing you, looking smug as fuck for figuring out how to make you flustered for once.

"You better watch your pretty mouth, or else I'll decorate it shut instead."

Leon threw you his most innocent, butter-wouldn't-melt smile, and oh—was he laying it on thick just to rile you up. He seemed to have recovered from earlier, all broody and cold-shouldered as he usually was. This new, playful side of him was going to kill you before the day was over, you were absolutely certain of it.

"Maybe next time," he said simply with a nonchalant shrug.

The man had some nerve. Just the mere implication made your head spin. Did he mean it? Was he flirting? What did that mean for him? For you? You thought back to the few times you'd seen him around town—the polite smiles and nods exchanged at a distance; the brief conversation when your order went missing; the sudden appearance this afternoon that saved your day—and wondered why things were so easy between you despite how limited the interactions. Maybe because you knew each other well enough in name only, without the addition of many personal details beyond those spoken on a passing basis. Or maybe there was something deeper and unspoken that existed between you two ever since that first interaction at the saloon several weeks ago. Maybe you weren't imagining the subtle, shy looks, the hidden smiles, the way he tended to linger by the doorway to watch you work long after he ran out of excuses to be there anymore.

You shook away such thoughts and returned to decorating, not sure what to say in response.

"...Do you ever get the temptation to have any while you do this?" He asked all of a sudden, changing the topic abruptly. "Or wait til the last batch gets done and then have them?"

"These are for Christmas!"

"They are for the Mayor."

You couldn't help but giggle, especially since he said that like someone else would talk about some slimy thing on the bottom of their shoe. "For Christmas's sake."

"Would you eat one? Any of these ones I did?" There was something almost like playful disappointment there, in his tone. "I think we need to do some... quality testing before deciding to send them off to my employer and risk my job while we're at it."

There were very few times Leon Kennedy was described as an optimist, even fewer times he could be considered amusing (the townsfolk seemed convinced he wasn't capable of joy), but hearing him make a joke regarding his 'employer' with you made something flip inside your tummy. It didn't take long for you to cave, popping the partially iced gingerbread man into your mouth.

And that's how both of you ended up sitting down and devouring the whole batch, with two cups of steaming hot chocolate courtesy of yours truly. In true Christmas spirit, Leon even suggested making a gingerbread house from scratch in the shape of the mayor's office (complete with a gingerbread dog) and helping you with the baking process.

At this point, neither of you cared about decorum—the sheriff's sleeves were rolled up high on his arms, and you'd shucked your apron ages ago. Between the pair of you, you had enough raw dough in your mouths to sink a ship, but it was delicious, and your stomach was full of warm gingerbread and sweet cream. All that was missing was eggnog and a roaring fire, and it really felt like Christmas. His company, too, was surprisingly pleasant. Though Leon was quiet—always quiet—he listened attentively to your chatter while you kneaded the dough and he mixed the sugar and eggs while occasionaly going in for the hot chocolate, which was quite endearing for a man you hadn't seen with any beverage other than some sort of alcohol at the saloon.

You leaned against the counter as Leon poured another mug of hot chocolate, his sleeves still rolled up and his hair slightly mussed from pushing it away too many times so it wouldn't get in his eyes while he worked. The snowstorm had calmed some, but the wind still howled outside, leaving little to do but bake another batch of cookies and fruitcakes to pass the time—and keep the shop warm.

“So, about that axle,” you started, reaching for the bowl of flour. “No one told you it was shot?”

Leon shook his head, his expression almost sheepish. “Guess I didn’t ask the right questions. Higgins just said it was ‘good enough.’”

You snorted, scooping flour into the mixing bowl. “‘Good enough’ by Higgins’ standards means it’s one bump away from falling apart. The man’s been patching that wagon together with spit and stubbornness for years.”

Leon’s lips twitched in a faint smile as he leaned against the counter across from you. “Noted for next time.”

“You’re lucky it lasted as long as it did. But you’ll get used to that around here. Everyone’s got their quirks, and most of them involve cutting corners where they shouldn’t.”

“Yeah?” Leon’s tone invited more, his eyes steady on yours as he sipped his hot chocolate.

“Oh, definitely,” you said, grabbing the sugar. “Take Mrs. Winslow, for example. Sweet old lady, bakes pies for half the town out of the goodness of her heart that it's bad for my business, but did you know she’s the reason the post office closes early every other Thursday?”

Leon blinked. “I… can’t say I did.”

You grinned, leaning in conspiratorially. “She’s been having a years-long feud with the postmaster’s wife over some quilting contest back in ‘64. The poor postmaster just shuts up shop early to keep the peace whenever she’s around.”

“Jesus…”

“And then there’s Old Man Miller. Nice fella, always has a good story to share, but he’s also the same guy who thinks it’s a bright idea to milk his cows at midnight to ‘beat the rush’ at the market in the morning.” You laughed, remembering the sight of Mr. Miller stumbling bleary-eyed into the bakery, smelling distinctly of barnyard. “And let me tell you, that man’s cheese tastes like the butt crack of dawn on a Monday morning itself.”

Leon chuckled, shaking his head. “Sounds charming.”

“It is. Charming and... a little crazy, to be honest. But that’s the kind of place this is. We’ve all got our stories, and we’re all a bit touched in the head. Except me, of course. I’m the picture of sanity. Why, just yesterday, I had a completely normal, rational conversation with my sourdough starter as I fed it. It agreed wholeheartedly.”

“I see the resemblance,” Leon joked, his posture relaxing as he took over the task of adding eggs to the bowl, his fingers moving deftly and confidently. “Did the sourdough give you any tips for dealing with the townsfolk, or is that a trade secret?”

"Ah, wouldn't you like to know," you teased, laughing along. "But honestly, the best advice I can offer is to roll with the punches. This place will drive you nuts if you try to understand it. Just let the weird wash over you, and eventually, you'll feel at home."

Leon paused, considering your words. "That might take a while."

“Here's some secrets to keep up... There’s old Tom over at the smithy. He’ll fix your horseshoes for half price, but only if you promise not to bring up the time he accidentally set fire to the mayor’s porch.”

You glanced up to find his eyes crinkling slightly at the edges.

“And let’s not forget about the Reverend,” you continued, emboldened by the sight. “Bless his heart, but he’s been known to sample a little too much of the communion wine. You’ll know it’s happened when he starts quoting Shakespeare in his sermons.”

Leon nodded wisely. “Duly noted. Blackmail Tom, steer clear of the reverend during happy hour. Got any other wisdom to impart, town sage?”

You tapped your chin thoughtfully, enjoying the playful back-and-forth. “Well, if you ever need a favor from the schoolmarm, remember that her favorite flowers are peonies. And whatever you do, do not play poker with the Doc. The man can cheat like no one's business, and no, he's not above using his medical degree to his advantage. Also, avoid the butcher on Tuesdays—he's extra cranky after haggling prices with the ranchers. Oh, and never, ever bet against the blacksmith in an arm-wrestling match. Trust me, I learned that the hard way. Poor Billy. That boy won't learn his lesson anytime soon."

"What about the town baker?" he asked, his tone light, a hint of curiosity in his question, his focus on the dough in front of him, his fingers kneading the mound of flour, butter, and sugar. "Any secrets worth knowing?"

You quirked a brow, a sly smile playing at the corners of your mouth at him taking the first step that he'd been circling for quite some time. What would he have done if you weren't good with signals? Nevermind, though, you liked this brand of shy men. "Well, now that you mention it, there is one thing..."

Leon paused, his hands buried in the dough, his muscles flexing beneath his shirt sleeves. He looked at you expectantly, a glint of intrigue in his otherwise impassive demeanor.

"The baker," you said in a hushed tone, leaning forward as if sharing a secret, "has a weakness for a handsome, helpful sheriff who knows his way around a bag of icing. Especially one who's willing to brave a snowstorm to deliver her supplies personally."

The blush that crept up Leon's neck was immediate, his cheeks turning a delightful shade of pink. You couldn't help but bite your lower lip, finding his flustered state absolutely adorable. His grip on the dough tightened momentarily, and he averted his eyes, his lashes fluttering as he tried to compose himself.

"Ah," he managed, his throat bobbing in a nervous gulp.

You nodded, the grin on your face growing wider. "Mhm. She would love it if on Christmas Eve, that certain sheriff stopped by the bakery to pick up her special order. Maybe even have a drink together. To thank him for all his help, of course. If he's not busy, that is."

Leon cleared his throat, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, his attention still fixed on the dough before him. "I... I'll be sure to check my schedule," he managed, a slight tremor in his deepened voice.

"Good," you replied, straightening up, satisfied with his response. "Now, enough chit-chat, Sheriff. Let's get these gingerbread men in the oven so they can rest and bake, and we can have more hot chocolate and relax in the meantime. How does that sound?"

"Sounds like a plan," Leon agreed, his shoulders relaxing somewhat, though his ears still burned a rosy red.

#leon kennedy x reader #leonsecretsanta2024 #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy fluff

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theweepingangelofcas · 1 month ago

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Spa Day - The Moriarty Brothers

Soooooo funny story, I now work 50 hours a week as both a baker and at a spa so my schedule is PACKED. But I really missed writing. So here I am. Summary: The boys do their best to give you a well deserved spa day (I deserve one too but I don't have time to get one, so let's write about it!)

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William Moriarty

He probably had to do the least research for it. Though I doubt he goes to spas himself, I imagine he understands the practices pretty well himself. After all, he's read a lot of books. At least one of them has to be on self care, right?

He is a homey type of person at heart. Though visiting new places and meeting new people is just part of the noble lifestyle, he prefers to just stay home and relax.

So, on his day off, you decided to pamper him with a little spa day.

"William?" You called. He had just woken up from a nap a few minutes ago, and you knew he had to be around the kitchen for tea, "Where are you, love?" "'I'm over here, dear." His voice was serene and calm, just how you wanted it to be. The tray in your hands rattled with the glass bottles and oils, giving away your plans. He looked up from his piping kettle of tea, cocking an eyebrow at the elixirs and concoctions in your hands, "What's this?" Your face lit up, "You're getting a facial! You deserve to relax more, Will." He stepped up, observing one of the creams on the tray, "I've never had one before. But, I do trust in your hands." He kissed your forehead, once, twice, three times. His favorite way to kiss you. Soon enough, he was laying on the living room's couch. The lights were dim, only a few candles around you two. Lavender and rosebuds could be smelt throughout the room. With each potion of beauty you layered on his skin, his love for you grew. "Are you having fun, Will?" Your elated voice, sweet like candy floss, was music to his ears. His smile could only grow, "Always, love. Always."

Louis Moriarty

Let's face it, has this man ever known a day of rest? He'd rather die.

In fact, as much as he appreciates that you booked a couples massage for you both, he's a little annoyed that he won't have a head start on dinner that night because of it.

The spa was beautiful, to say the least. Flower vines clung to pillars near the entrance, so that the spa smelled of jasmine and peonies. The staff were attentive, offering you both wine before settling you into the private room. Louis, despite his confident demeanor, was adorably shy while getting undressed. He flushed at the idea. But something about you excitedly hopping onto the massage table eased his nerves. He watched as you got comfy under the thin, lilac colored sheet, breathing in the scent of flowers around you. His heart calmed, releasing a breath he didn't even know he had been holding. Maybe this would be a lovely day after all. He loved it. The firm but targeted massage eased his sore back in a way he hadn't known possible. Plus, seeing you happy and content? That was worth everything to him. You weren't surprised when he shyly asked to go back there again for his birthday.

Albert Moriarty

I'm convinced this man has like, a monthly pampering day or something.

Y'know, some wine, a facial, a massage, maybe a nice dinner. A real 'treat yourself' kind of day.

Of course, once you become his darling beloved, he takes you along with him.

At the end of the month, every month, you two have a day out. It's not an average day out, though. It's a day full of relaxation, pampering, and overall, not stressing about absolutely anything. You'd been surprised at first, when he told you about his monthly happiness sesh. But it made sense the more you thought about it. He was a busy man. He deserved to unwind from time to time. A couples facial, couples massage, and then you'd get a manicure and pedicure. Only the best for his dear y/n. Sometimes, when it's been a particularly stressful month, he takes you to a lovely dinner, or even a walk through the nature park you love so much. No matter what you two do together, it can be guaranteed that it'll be the best day you have that month.

#moriarty the patriot #moriarty the patriot x reader #yuukoku no moriarty x reader #yuukuko no moriarty #louis james moriarty x reader #albert moriarty #albert james moriarty #william james moriarty x reader #william james moriarty #william moriarty #louis moriarty #yuukoku no moriarty x you #yuukoku no moriarty #yuumori #james moriarty x reader #moriarty imagine #moriarty x you #moriarty x reader #moriarty

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deanbrainrotwritings · 1 year ago

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jacklesverse bingo 2023 | MASTERLIST

most of these will be 18+ stories that include sexual or dark themes, individual warnings will be added for each one

hello y’all this is my first bingo and I’m so excited to start and finish my @jacklesversebingo card.

— eris

guidebook for sinners turned saints [smut, 8.8k]

description— dean uses the sexiest seduction methods to get laid when he keeps getting cockblocked by his gaming girlfriend.

mon cœur s’ouvre à ta voix [smut, 5k]

description — aka. part II of mattel. finally, in the privacy of your home, you find the willpower to make the afternoon all about dean (as you’d originally hoped) when he tries to distract you from your plans.

and their name was treason [gen, 2k]

description — with the help of charlie, sam and Dean have become prolific con artists. but after losing his work, dean’s left wondering how do you con a con artist?

the love letter collection : part II [fluff, 2.6k]

description — being a dreamwalker, seeing every universe, having a hot boyfriend. there’s a million perks to that. this is the soft version.

seven [smut, 5.2k]

description — dean would rather be doing something else with his time rather than doing research, he’d rather be doing her.

the politics of knife fighting [flangst, 4.5k]

description — tom tried to live a normal life after getting away from his hometown, but he should’ve known his little slice of heaven would go bad eventually.

closer than this [smut, 2.2k]

description — something quick. something hot. in between busy tasks. when everyone else is distracted.

hero of the half-truth [smut, 3.7k]

description — you can’t decide whether it’s a punishment or not when you go to see soldier boy knowing that he’s trying to keep you safe from everything in his life

demonology and heartache [smut, 4.9k]

description — dean is a devout catholic and has never known a life outside the church, all his resolve is broken by the temptation of a hellish seductress.

mattel [smut, 2.9k]

description — looking for some new toys to spice up the bedroom, Dean discloses his insecurities and leaves you thinking of ways to help erase them.

same book but never the same page [fluff, 5.6k]

description — part III of the love letter collection. still dreamwalking. chasing after someone who can destroy worlds. and dean is jealous of his variants. what could go wrong?

two hearted [smut, 4.8k]

description — playing pretend, doing risky things, improv, Valentine’s Day is more than “unattached drifter Christmas” now.

sweet kansas honey [smut, 1.5k]

description — invited by her friend to a bee farm, but Dean wasn’t invited to their cute day out. Dean gets pouty… and, ya know, horny.

colder than my heart, if you can imagine [gen, 2.3k]

description — you and soldier boy can’t seem to get along, but it may be because of something deeper than hatred or jealousy.

the love letter collection : part I [smut, 11k]

description — being a dreamwalker, seeing every universe, having a hot boyfriend. there’s a million perks to that. this is the sad version.

god, if you are above [smut, 1.8k]

description — technically part two of demonology and heartache (which I haven’t posted, yet). an au in which dean is a priest and the reader is a demon with an obsession to corrupt him.

the pros and cons of breathing masterlist [smut, ?]

description — dean gets his bloodlust under control and becomes a baker. then he meets you and there's a whole other lust that takes him over. were you his unmaking or purpose?

stone flower [fluff, 1.9k]

description — aka. part II of I believe in a thing called loved. quickly attempting to find out what’s wrong with his girlfriend, dean makes a dreadful (objectively funny) discovery about what’s actually going on

I believe in a thing called love [smut, 4.2k]

description — dean thinks you’re playing a game but he slowly realises you’re not.

right people, wrong place [smut, 3.3k]

description — aka. part II of and their name was treason. confrontations and unexpected turn of events. the truth and the consequences.

when broken is easily fixed [fluff, 2.7k]

description — priestly broke up with tish (yes!) uh, i mean… you watch him be pathetic and sad with his big wet green eyes and decide to do something about it.

taglist

main masterlist

dean winchester masterlist

beau arlen masterlist

soldier boy masterlist

jensen ackles masterlist

jake gray masterlist

boaz priestly masterlist

do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or republish my work on another platform

#jacklesversebingo23 #d #bingo card #bingo card masterlist #jacklesversebingo23 masterlist #dean winchester x reader #jensen ackles x reader #jason teague x reader #boaz priestly x reader #tom hanniger x reader #soldier boy x reader #jack durphy x reader #beau arlen x reader

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inevitably-johnlocked · 6 months ago

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A-Z Sherlock Fan Fiction Tropes Bingo

Ahhh, so I saw this Fanfiction Bingo Card by @swissmissing going around, and even though I wasn't ever tagged, I wanted to do some recs of my own because, like, that's my whole brand LOL. I hope no one minds...🙃 I needed to have a list ready for this Sunday, and this was perfect, LOL.

And because I'm always trying to overachieve on these challenges, I'm going to do full black out, BOTH tropes in each square.

This will be a Combination of my read fics and "to read" fics [to fill in spaces I don't have tags for], which I will append the latter with (MFL) just like so, for those of you who only want fics I've personally read. And apologies, I had to remove some of my standard links to fit them all within Tumblr's link limits, so author names aren't clickable AND I've removed all series' links, so be sure to check out other stories by the authors!!

AND FINALLY, this is a rare list that I DON'T have in word-count order, just so y'all know! I hope you guys like the fics I've pick for y'all. Literally random picks from my lists, based on tag searches, LOL.

AU: A Further Sea by i_ship_an_armada & ShinySherlock (E, 125,492 w., 23 Ch. || Historical Pirates AU || Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Doctor John / Pirate Captain Sherlock, Sailing, UST / RST, Masturbation, Action / Adventure, Mild Angst & Peril, Romance, Shaving, Molly/Janine, Bottomlock, Hand / Blow Jobs, Past Drug Use, Slow Burn, Mild Violence, Facial Shaving, Happy Ending) – Here be a tale of adventure for both body and soul, but beware if ye be not of stout heart, for this be piratelock, ya savvy? Luckless ship's surgeon John Watson takes a chance, and finds himself eye to eye with The Ghost, the scourge of the seven seas and a definite thorn in the side of the blaggard, James Moriarty. But when John finds there's more to this most cunning pirate than be meetin' the eye, he has to choose... is it a pirate's life for him?

Amnesia: I Need You To See Me by Mssmithlove (E, 12,625 w., 1 Ch. || Angst, Amnesia, Soldier!John) – After going back to war, John is yet again invalided home, this time with a broken ankle and a chunk of his memory missing, unable to recall the last five years he's spent being Sherlock Holmes' partner and husband. Part 9 of Happiness Awaits

BDSM: Lock and Key Series by 221b_hound (E, 59,509+ w. across 14 works || Series WiP || Post-HLV, Tattoos, First Kiss/Time, Anal, Hand Jobs, Captain John, Cuddling, Sherlock's Scars, Possessive Johnlock, Exhibitionism / Voyeurism, Frottage, Blow Jobs, Masturbation, Sherlock in Panties, PWP, Dirty Talk, Sexual Fantasies, Restraints, Photographs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Light BDSM, Assorted Kinks, Sherlock in a Sheet, Sex on Furniture, Domestic Fluff) – John has been back at Baker Street for a year, following the debacle that ended in Mary's death. Things are good. Back almost to what they used to be. Sherlock might wish they were something else, now, but he only has himself to blame, he thinks. It's too late, now, for the things he first denied before he'd ruined any chances he might have had. Sherlock also thinks that people who get tattoos are idiots. But perhaps he's about to learn a thing or two, not least of which might be it's not as late as he thinks it is.

Bodyswap: Inexplicable by emmagrant01 (E, 34,664 w., 6 Ch. || Body Swap, TSo3, Magical Realism / Artifacts, Infidelity, Angst) – So what was in that matchbox, anyway? John and Sherlock find out, the hard way.

Crossover: Perdition's Flames by i_ship_an_armada (E, 63,435 w., 21 Ch. || Star Trek Fusion || Established Relationship, Genetic Engineering, Angst & Fluff, BAMF!John) – Sherlock would do anything to save him. Risk anything. Give anything. His money, his life. His soul. What he does, though, is change both of their destinies forever. Genetic re-engineering is the only option left. It turns out researchers underestimated the life expectancy and potential abilities of genetically re-engineered subjects. The British government and what would eventually become the United Federation of Planets, however, had not. Part 1 of PF Universe

Crack: Fucking Cake by Random_Nexus (E, 12,965 w., 1 Ch. || Pre-Slash, Humour/Crack, Inanimate Object Smut, Frottage, “For a Case” / “Experiment”, PWP / Kinky, Mutual Pining, Fluff) – Sherlock brings home a chocolate cake, John finds him about to have sex with said cake, then exceedingly weird hijinx ensue. Part 1 of "Fucking Baked Goods" - Sherlock BBC

Domestic: Back to the Start by slashscribe (M, 14,088 w., 1 Ch. || Sherlock’s Violin, Pining Idiots, Fluff, Domestics) – Sherlock hasn't played the violin since John's wedding (which is long since over), and when John returns to 221B, Sherlock relearns the violin as he and John relearn each other. Post S3 fic with an obscene amount of pining, idiocy, and attempts to pawn off tea duties.

Disability: Breakable by MissDavis (E, 117,627 w., 34 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Established Relationship, Major Character Injury, Fluff/Angst, Depression, Paralysis/Disabilities, Hurt/Comfort, POV Sherlock, Mental Health Issues, Drug Use, Happy-ish Ending) – After John is seriously injured, Sherlock struggles to figure out how to help him, keep himself sane, and maybe, just maybe, get their life back to the way it's supposed to be. Part 1 of Breakable Not Broken

Established Relationship: Caught In The Act Series by ShirleyCarlton (E, 9,217 w. across 7 works || Established Relationship, Unintentional Voyeurism, Alternate POVs, Humour, Blow Jobs, Walking in on Someone, Switching, Public Sex) – This is a series of six scenarios written from the points of view of six different people as they accidentally walk in on Sherlock and John having sex.

Enemies to Lovers: Synchronicity by Calais_Reno (T, 46,424 w., 10 Ch. || Alternate First Meeting || Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Case Fic, POV John, Bullying, Coming Out, Forgiveness, Drinking/Bars, Boarding School, Drunk John) – John and Sherlock meet again, years after they were school boys together. John hasn't forgotten why he still hates Sherlock Holmes. (MFL)

Future: Uncharted Territory by J_Baillier (T, 19,603 w., 4 Ch. || Dystopian Future / Black Mirror AU || Alternate First Meeting, Angst, Drama, Homophobia, Bisexuality, Technology, Humour, Romance, Near Future, Happy Ending) – The System puts people through a series of assigned relationships in order to determine who their Perfect Match is. John believes that it works; Sherlock really, really doesn't. One of them is probably going to be wrong.

Fluff: A Lifetime Together by LondonGypsy (M, 8,886 w., 1 Ch. || Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Falling in Love, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Pining Idiots, Alternating POVs, Domestics, Retirement) – John and Sherlock falling in love.

Gen: Octopus by glass_rose_paperweight (G, 705 w., 1 Ch. || Established Relationship, Fluff, Bed Sharing, Limpet Sherlock) – A week after Sherlock and John finally get together, and John is finding sharing a bed with Sherlock Holmes to be ... difficult, sometimes. If not downright suffocating.

Genderswap: Cockscomb by birdie7272 (E, 115,302 w., 32 Ch. || Femlock / Gender Swap || Light Dom / Sub, Sensual Play, Cocks, Lace, Safe Words, Pining Sherlock, Case Fic, Truth or Dare, Slow Burn, Feminism, Relationships, Sexuality Crisis, Cheating, Power Play, Manipulation, Control) – Lace, whiskey, and a case full of cocks leads to a brand new kind of adventure. AKA The One With All The Cocks… When There Are No Cocks (MFL)

Historical: Enigma by khorazir (M, 289,667 w., 23 Ch. || Codebreaker / WWII / Imitation Game-Inspired AU || Case Fic, Espionage, Period-Typical Homophobia / Sexism, Pining Sherlock, Inexperienced / Virgin Sherlock, Implied / Referenced Drug Use, Non-Graphic Violence) – It’s the autumn of 1941, war is raging in Europe, German U-boats are raiding Allied convoys in the Atlantic, the Luftwaffe is bombing English cities, and the cryptographers at Bletchley Park are working feverishly to decode their enemies' encrypted communications. One should consider this challenge and distraction enough for capricious codebreaker Sherlock Holmes. But the true enigmas are yet waiting to be deciphered: an unbreakable code, a strange murder, and the arrival of Surgeon Captain John H. Watson of the Royal Navy. (MFL)

Humour: Equine Arse Anonymity by Kayjaykayme (E, 3,834 w., 1 Ch. || Established Relationship, Public Sex, Coming in Pants, Humour, Halloween, Hand Jobs) – Sherlock needs to speak with suspects at a fancy dress ball. He chooses a couple's costume for himself and John. It is logical, practical and well thought out. John doesn't agree and exacts sweet revenge.

Illness: Only To Be With You by SinceWhenDoYouCallMe_John (M, 40,768 w., 4 Ch. || Black Mirror / Future AU || Character Death, Future Technology, Sickness/Cancer/Illness, Heavy Angst with Happy Ending, First Person POV John, Pining John, Heart-Wrenching Angst, Promise of Forever) – I tell myself that next time I’ll come near this same place again. Wait around for the mysterious stranger in his coat to dash past me, hot on the heels of a new criminal in black. I think this all the way back to my Exit, planning where I’ll wait and what I’ll say when I see him. Scheming on how to get his name. It’s only once I reach the Exit Point door that I realize two hours and forty-five minutes have passed, and I realize that this won’t be the last time I Visit. It won’t be the last time at all.

Imprisonment: THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON by skyefullofstars (T, 110,758 w., 24 Ch. || Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Angst, Violence, Whump, Nightmares, Murder, Drug Addiction, Torture) – While Sherlock grapples with his new-found feelings for John Watson, he faces a very real threat: John's kidnapping and shooting at the hands of James Moriarty. And the knowledge that the love of his life is being used to test an addictive drug - at the risk of John's sanity and life. Prequel to THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET. Part 1 of THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON

Jealousy: The High Tide Series by stardust_made (E, 15,269 w. across 3 works || OMC, Angst, Jealousy, Developing Relationship, First Time, Romance) – A little favour Sherlock stupidly agrees to do for Mycroft leads to John meeting a handsome, afluent man, who is going out of his way to woo him. Sherlock struggles with the situation and with his own reactions to it.

Jilted: Love Is Series by SilentAuror (E, 36,903 w. across 2 works || Post S3, Alternating POV Each Story, Angst, Unrequited Love, Rejection then Reconciliation, Romance, Mary Divorce, Eventual Happy Ending) – At Mrs Hudson's urging, Sherlock finally decides to tell John how he feels about him.

Kids: The Baker Street Nativity by SwissMiss (E, 99,662 w., 23 Ch. || Nativity! AU || Teacher Sherlock / TA John, Pining, Sherlock POV, UST, Angst, Christmas, Music/Song Fic, Anal / BJ’s, First Kiss / Time) –Fusion between Sherlock (BBC) and Nativity! (2009 movie starring Martin Freeman). Sherlock is a primary school teacher and John is assigned to be his classroom assistant. Together, they are charged with putting on the school's Nativity play. What could possibly go wrong? Part 1 of The Baker Street Nativity Verse

Kink: John and Sherlock's Kinky First Times Series by wendymarlowe (E, 247,051+ w. across 45 works || Series WiP || Short Stories, Assorted Tags with Assorted Genres, PWP) – A collection of short imaginings of how Sherlock and John might finally allow their relationship to become physical. Don't be afraid of the giant cloud of tags - each fic stands alone and you can read them in any order.

Long: Free Falling by twistedthicket1 (M, 203,574 w., 38 Ch. || Guardian Angels AU || Guardian Angel John, Fluff and Angst, Humour, Kidlock / Teenlock, Light Mystrade, Passage of Time, Possessive John, Drug Use / Overdose, Victor Trevor, Graphic Bullying, Big Brother Mycroft, Hard Drug Use, Depression, Possessive Sherlock, Possessive John, Panic Attacks, Nightmares/PTSD, Pining, Healing Abilities, Kidnapping, Violence, Torture, Blow Jobs, Virgin John, Emotional Development / Attachment, Mortality, Happy Ending) – All Guardian angels are born with a Chosen human. When this child is born, the angel comes into being to protect and care for them during their life on Earth. For John Watson, all he cares about in the world revolves around his Chosen, Sherlock Holmes. Watching him grow up though, the angel soon learns that God must have had a sense of humour the day he decided to make Sherlock, as trouble seems to follow him like a magnet wherever he goes. John can't decide what's worse, the idea of losing his Chosen one, or the fact that he may be breaking the most taboo law of heaven as he disguises himself as a human to better protect and befriend the beloved detective he's always watched from afar. He was meant to care for him. But what happens when caring evolves into something more? What happens when an emotion an angel is supposed to be incapable of possessing comes to life suddenly and viciously inside John's chest?

Love Triangle: Isosceles by SilentAuror (E, 56,609 w., 7 Ch. || Post-S4, POV John, Original Male Character / Sherlock Dates Another Man, Love Triangle, Jealous John, Virgin Sherlock, Sexual Coaching, Angst, Romance, Domesticity, Unrequited Feelings, Miscommunication, First Kiss/Time, For a Case, Friends With Benefits, Bottomlock, Love Confessions, Spooning) – After solving a case for a major celebrity, Sherlock gets himself asked out. When John asks, he discovers that Sherlock has no intention of going, at least not until John agrees to coach him through whatever he might need to know for his date...

Magical Realism: The Frost Child by twistedthicket1 (M, 9,994 w., 2 Ch. || Frozen-ish AU || Magical Realism, Christmas, Angst, Fluff, Powerful John) – In a world where people are born with a Gift of varying levels, simple John Watson is the last person one might look at when thinking of any strong Magick capabilities. Hiding comfortably in the shadow of Sherlock's brilliant deducing abilities, John is content to keep it that way...

Major Character Death: I Think I've Come A Long Long Way To Sit Before You Here Today by ArwenKenobi (T, 18,251 w., 3 Ch. || Grief/Mourning, Passage of Time, Major Character Death, Alternating POV, Sherlock Whump, Pining Sherlock, Hospitalization, Coma, Revenge Murders, Hallucinations, Love Confessions, Brutal Accident, Mystrade, Ghost John) – One year after John is killed Sherlock starts to wonder whether John has actually gone anywhere.

NSFW: Caves in the Mountains Are Seldom Unoccupied by starrysummernights & TheMadKatter13 (E, 7,925 w., 1 Ch. || Were-Creatures || Werebear John, Pseudo Bestiality, Rimming, Dub Con, Rough Sex, Come Inflation / Eating, Size Kink, PWP, Bratty Sherlock, Rutting) – “This isn’t something to play at, Sherlock,” he snapped. “If it doesn’t work out- what you’re asking of me- we can’t shrug and say 'oh well, at least we tried'. If we do this… I could seriously hurt you. Do you understand? I could lose control. I could… I could kill you.”

Next Gen.: If Equal Affection Cannot Be by blueink3 (E, 31,156 w., 3 Ch. || Post S4, Family, Retirement, Grown Up Rosie, Angst, Reunion, Loneliness, Sussex, Fluff, Sexy Times, Happy Ending) – Sherlock fled London a couple of years after John left him in hospital with nothing but an old walking stick and a half-hearted goodbye. Rosie grew up thinking that Sherlock died when he committed suicide in front of her father by jumping from Barts' roof. So it's somewhat awkward when they run into each other in a Sussex general store between the loaves of bread and the Mars bars... (MFL)

Omegaverse: A Fold in the Universe by darkest_bird (E, 152,869 w., 26 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Omegaverse / Prime Universe Crossover || OmegaJohn / AlphaSherlock, First Kiss / Time, Friends to Lovers, Established Relationship, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Dubious Consent, Humour) – Alpha Sherlock and Omega John are in a relationship. Prime Sherlock and Prime John are not. So what happens when a freak fold in the universe switches one John for the other?

Only One Bed: The Cure for Snoring by Goddess_of_the_Night (G, 1,278 w., 1 Ch. || Sleepy Conversations, Bed Sharing, Cuddling, Fluff, Domestic, Platonic / Sleepy Cuddles) – Sherlock and John spend the night in Scotland after finishing a case. The sole Inn in town only has one room left...one bed. This would be fine - if not a bit awkward - if Sherlock hadn't developed a habit of snoring loudly. John suffers through many hours of sleeplessness before he discovers that skin-to-skin contact stops the noise. Part 1 of Dreamscapes

Parenthood: Iris by slashscribe (E, 11,948 w., 1 Ch. || Parentlock, Pining Sherlock, Post-S3) – Sherlock does his best to make John happy when John comes back to 221B with his new baby after the events of Season 3, but Sherlock has a track record of getting things wrong in this area. This story is an exploration of their gradual shift from friends to lovers, told from Sherlock's perspective, full of a lot of pining and lack of emotional awareness.

Platonic: The Green Blade by verityburns (T, 72,929 w., 15 Ch. || Case Fic, Bromance) – As a serial killer hits the headlines, the police are out of their depth and the next victim is out of time. With faith in Sherlock Holmes at an all time low, this is a case which will push loyalties to the limit...

Queer: Rupert Street by WritingOutLoud (M, 27,262 w., 9 Ch. || Alternate First Meeting || Case Fic, Sexuality, Demisexual Sherlock, Drugging, Smart John, Sherlock Has Internalized Biphobia, Fluff, Angst with Happy Ending, Gay Bar, Flirting, John Manipulates Sherlock to Eat, John Deduces, Arguments, Kidnapping/Torture, Hospitalization, John Whump) – Discharged from the war with nothing but the clothes on his back and a realisation of his bisexuality, John Watson has to learn who he’s become. He can’t afford London on an army pension, but the city is the only friend he has. In an effort to understand his newfound queer identity, he heads to a bar one night, where he stumbles across a mysterious stranger who turns his life upside down. ‘I dug around inside myself, and I'm not quite sure what I found, but it was beautiful and terrifying all at the same time.’

Quest: Licence to Kiss by fellshish (T, 13,739 w., 4 Ch. || Post-ASIB, Sort-Of Bondlock, First Kiss, Love Confessions, Mutual Pining, Angst and Humour, Bed Sharing) – Sherlock loves John, and John loves... James Bond. He only made Sherlock watch every single film. Tedious. And now John's birthday is coming up. Sherlock can't tell him how he feels, but he can organise an amazing gift: John's very own spy adventure. Sherlock begs Mycroft for a real case with some extra gadgets. And perhaps some actors pretending to be criminals. What could possibly go wrong?

Retirement: Through the Clouds by Mazarin221b (E, 20,004 w., 6 Ch. || Retirement, Sussex, Bees, Home Improvement, First Time, Romance) – Sherlock takes a remarkably early retirement at 47, and convinces John that a change of pace would do them both good. They buy an old cottage on the South Downs, and exchange their nonstop life in Baker Street for quiet contemplation, bee studies, and book writing. They might go completely insane, but sometimes it takes stepping outside of the life you're living to find the life you want. Part 1 of Through The Clouds

Road Trip: Hitting the Water at Sixty Miles an Hour by what_alchemy (E, 30,568 w., 5 Ch. || Fake Rel., Road Trips, Slow Burn, Mummy Holmes) – “You love your mother, Sherlock?” John watched the muscles in Sherlock’s jaw jump. He nodded in one sharp jerk. “Then we’re going to her party and making her happy.” John let out a resigned sigh. “As a ruddy couple, you bastard.”

Soulmates: The Heart On Your Sleeve by flawedamythyst (T, 5,441 w., 1 Ch. || Soulmate AU || Sherlock POV, Heartmarks, Pining, Fluff and Angst, Semi-S1 / S2 Canon Compliant, Reunion) – Sherlock stared at the imperfect circle on his left wrist in horror, then sat down on his bed with a bit of a thump. After over thirty years, his heartmark was finally showing activity. This was not good.

Slow Burn: Tomorrow's Song by agirlsname (M, 24,645 w., 5 Ch. || Post-TRF, POV Sherlock, Angst with a Happy Ending, Virgin / Repressed Sherlock, Love Confessions, Slow Burn, Pining, Jealous Sherlock) – How can he think a relationship with me would be a good idea? I am the sort of person to take a break from my life and when I come back after two years, I expect to find it exactly as I left it. In reality I find it shattered to pieces. (I actually equate you with my life. When did I start doing that?)

Teen AU: The Sky is Full of Fiddles by agirlsname (T, 25,659 w., 6 Ch. || 1895 Teenlock || Romantic Fluff, Bed Sharing, Swedish Folk Music, Dancing, Sherlock’s Violin, Poetry, Skinny Dipping, Summer Love, First Kiss, Proposals, POV John, Gay Surprise) – It's 1895 in the heart of Swedish folk music and dance. During certain weekends, boys are allowed to visit girls at night, wooing them with fantastical poems. If a girl lets a boy into her room they can share a bed all night, fully clothed, to talk and eat caramels together. John is seventeen and looking for a girl to marry like everyone else. He's very surprised when another boy suddenly stands outside his door, wanting to share his bed… (MFL)

Time Travel: The Engine by stitchy (T, 8,294 w., 1 Ch. || First Kiss, Post-HLV, ASiP Do-Over, Sci-Fi, Time Travel) – Shortly after the events of His Last Vow, Sherlock has an opportunity to revisit the night of A Study in Pink and get some perspective on the destiny of he and John's relationship.

Undercover: The Skin Over My Heart by standbygo (E, 8,849 w., 1 Ch. || Post-Hiatus, Fake Relationship, Case Fic, Dog Tags, Military, Homophobia, Gay Bashing, POV First Person Sherlock, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss / Time, Declarations of Love, Undercover, Haircuts, Flashbacks, Touching, Pining Sherlock, Hospitalization, Metaphors, Introspection, Hand Jobs, On the Couch, John’s Past, Angst with Happy Ending) – Sherlock and John are still trying to adjust to Sherlock's return from his hiatus when John's friend Bill Murray brings them a case. Someone is targeting the LGBTQA+ members of Bill's unit. John and Sherlock go undercover at the unit, but when they end up having to flirt to flush out the suspect, Sherlock realizes he's in over his head.

Unrequited: Love Is Series by SilentAuror (E, 36,903 w. across 2 works || Post S3, Alternating POV Each Story, Angst, Unrequited Love, Rejection then Reconciliation, Romance, Mary Divorce, Eventual Happy Ending) – At Mrs Hudson's urging, Sherlock finally decides to tell John how he feels about him.

Vampires: Bleed Me Out by antietamfalls (E, 87,987 w., 14 Ch. || Vampire AU || Bonding, Vampire Sherlock, Fluff & Angst, Hurt/Comfort, John Whump, Magical Realism) – John isn’t exactly surprised to discover that Sherlock isn't human. His vampirism doesn't pose a problem, even when their relationship gradually grows into something more. That is, until a deadly revelation about John’s blood sends their lives spinning dangerously out of control.

Villain POV: Genesis by pasiphile (M, 19,521 w., 1 Ch. || Graphic Violence, Moriarty’s Past) – Before he was Jim Moriarty, he was just Jimmy, a street kid with more pain in his past and more ambition in his head than he could handle, and only one other person he could bring himself to trust. Part 6 of This Life Is A Trip (When You're Psycho In Love) (MFL)

Whump: Trapped and Upside Down on the M6 by BootsnBlossoms (E, 4,256 w., 1 Ch. || Whump, Car Accident, Hurt / Comfort) – Everything felt wrong. His hair was going the wrong way. His arms were bent in ways he wouldn’t choose to bend them. His neck hurt and he couldn’t really feel his toes. Something was dripping on his face – and rolling up. A car crash. He had been in a car crash.

Werewolves: John Watson’s Moon by patternofdefiance (E, 11,314 w., 1 Ch. || Supernatural Creatures || Werewolf John, First Time, BAMF John, First Time, Anal, Fleeting Depictions of Violence) – Sherlock finds out John is a werewolf and wants to see the transformation. It, uh, gets really kinky.

Xenomorphism: Forest King by Elphen (E, 141,856 w., 27 Ch. || Magical Realism / Omegaverse AU || Mythical Creatures, Group Sex, Body Worship, Drinking / Impairment, Dubious Consent, Anal Fingering/Sex, Transformations / Shapeshifting, Mpreg, BAMF John, Possessive Sherlock, Celtic Mythology, Paganism, Sherlock’s Violin, Frottage, Illnesses, Caring Sherlock, Netherworld/Underworld, Coping Mechanisms, Paternal Lestrade, Defensive John, Big Brother Mycroft, Insecurity, Self-Esteem Issues, Misunderstandings, Mild Jealousy, Pregnant Sex, Male Lactation, Birthing, Emotional Support, Parenthood, Family History) – After falling out with his sister, John ends up in a Cornwall Midsummer’s Eve celebration in the middle of a forest that’s rather…different. After the hazy night of magic and passion with a pale-eyed man, he goes home to London. He’s in for a surprise when his stomach starts growing and buds appears on his head. Not one to just accept things, he returns to Cornwall to demand an explanation. When he meets the forest king, Sherlock, again, he has to come to terms with not only what’s happened to him but what kind of magical world he’s been thrust into. Plus, there’s the questions of whether he trusts the antlered man and how he'll survive being apparently pregnant. Sherlock isn’t much help. That doesn’t mean he isn’t trying to somehow make John understand his feelings, however, even if he’s greatly hampered by being Sherlock. They slowly move forward but problems beyond their control may arise from an act done with the best of intentions. How will they cope, separately and together? (MFL)

Xmas: Our Enthusiasms Which Cannot Always Be Explained by withoutawish (M, 32,961 w., 1 Ch. || Christmas, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Post-TRF, Case Fic, Mild Gore, Sherlock Whump) – The list that is tacked haphazardly on the refrigerator of 221B reads, ‘Kidney(s), and/or a full cadaver (preferably male, late 30s, under six feet tall), bag of fresh toes, sixteen cow’s eyes (corneas retained), dual exhaust hand –held flame thrower, an unopened first edition copy of Joseph Conrad’s 'Heart of Darkness', and no less than ten abhorrently gruesome murders in the upcoming month.” The one neatly hanging next to it simply reads, “Sex.” One of these lists is not John Watson’s. If John Watson were to put what he really wanted in list form, to live in a land somewhere beyond ‘almosts' now that Sherlock Holmes has indeed returned to him, he would never be able to look his flatmate in the eye ever again.

Zombies: The Hollow Ones by antietamfalls (M, 100,244 w., 23 Ch. || Walking Dead Fusion || Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Slow Build, Emotional Constipation, Protective John, Hurt/Comfort) – The dead walk. Mangled corpses of the deceased rise and mindlessly feast upon the flesh of the living. John wakes up, alone and confused, into the remnants of a city gone mad. He will search for answers. He will find Sherlock at any cost. And he will learn that the living are far more dangerous than the dead. (MFL)

Zoomorphism: How to Build a Heart out of Ashes by Teumessian (E, 144,931 w., 31 Ch. || Changeling AU || Slow Burn, Drug Use, Mentions of Child Abuse / Bullying, Mentions of Student/Teacher Relations, Uni-Age) – In an AU where a small number of the population become Changelings at a young age, at 17 John Watson believes he's destined for Normal life but then the Change takes him and he is sent to the Baker Institute. There he meets Sherlock Holmes.

#johnlock fic recs #my fic recs #fic rec bingo #a to z fic recs #long post #fic rec sunday

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j-eryewrites · 5 months ago

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The Great Game (III)

Part 21 of The Arbitrary Lives of the Occupants of 221B Baker Street

SERIES MASTER LIST | MAIN MASTER LIST

Previous | Next

Word Count: ~10.8k

Author's Note: Tensions rise, and the threat of M continues to loom over their heads. When pulled too tight, things are bound to break.

It's almost the end. I hope you all enjoy this chapter. I finished it around midnight, so forgive any typos and whatnot. Without further ado, I present the second-to-last chapter of Arbitrary Lives.

Warnings: Supreme angst, canon typical violence, Sherlock is Sherlock (but in the worst way), mentions of death, character death, mentions of gore, firearms, language, yandere relation themes, drugging (Let me know if I missed anything)

Case after case was how it seemed to go when Sherlock, John, and Y/N were racing against the mysterious M. Every time Sherlock would solve a puzzle given to him, the pink phone would ring moments later, presenting a new one. With each chime of the telephone, Y/N found herself getting more and more anxious. M was bigger than anything they'd ever seen; worst of all, they had no clue who they were. M seemed to operate from afar, offering their advice on cases of the illegal type, allowing M the anonymity to be anyone and be anywhere. For all Y/N knew, M could be some sick person stuck in their parent's basement on the other side of the world. Even so, M seemed one step ahead and knew every step they had taken.

Sitting upon a plush, gray, white striped couch beneath her served more comfort than she'd like to admit. Sherlock had sent her and John on another goose chase after, yet again, another call from their tormentor. While Y/N was lost in thought, petting the hairless cat on her lap, John took the lead in questioning Kenny, the brother of Connie Prince.

The two had done as much research as they could, which turned out to be a few newspaper articles, the bizarre gossip and facts they had gathered from Mrs. Hudson, and, of course, the Wikipedia pages on Connie. Once they put all their research together, they discovered they found a plethora of ways to tell which colors suited oneself and which ones brought out the sick in one's skin tone, but not much about Connie and her brother.

A loud and content purr vibrated from the naked cat as Y/N's hands caressed its head and neck. Upon hearing the meow, John raised his brow, trying to hide his concern. The creature sitting on Y/N's lap was not a cat. John had seen Bjørn, and Bjørn was a cat. Y/N's pet had fur and a bush-brown tail. If anything, the Prince's cat was an abomination in his mind.

"We're devastated," Kenny Prince sighed as he carefully placed his arm on the mantle behind him, leaning ever so slightly. As John withdrew his eyes from the fur-less animal, he found his brows pinching together as Kenny Price posed. "Of course we are." Kenny waved his hand and dramatically looked to the side with a somber expression.

To say the least, John was confused. First, there was the cat. He didn't want to give that thing another thought. Secondly was Kenny's posing. Why was Kenny posing unless he was trying to...His finger brushed against something hard, and John scolded himself. The camera. They had brought a camera. Y/N had proposed they be reporters to gain an interview with Kenny. John would be the reporter and Y/N the photographer. Kenny was posing for candid photos for their article.

"Can I get you anything, sir?" a voice spoke from behind John. It was Raoul, Kenny's staff member.

He whirled around and replied, shaking his head. "Er, no. No, thanks."

"And what about you, miss?" Raoul asked Y/N, who absently shook her head. Her fingers were still petting the cat.

"Raoul is my rock," Kenny admitted, still holding his position. "I don't think I could have managed. We didn't always see eye to eye, but my sister was very dear to me."

A light pressure pushed down on John's thighs. Glancing down, he noticed the cat was no longer on Y/N's lap but his. A wave of disgust trembled through his body. With stiff fingers, he picked it up and dropped it on the other side of the couch where Y/N sat. The cat meowed in discontent, stepping back over to John. John shivered at the cat's relentless attempts and held out his arm as a barrier.

"And–," John said, trying to continue Kenny's conversation and retain the purity of his own lap as it was reserved for Bjørn. "-and to the public, Mr. Prince."

"Oh, she was adored. I've seen her take girls who looked like the back end of Routemasters and turn them into princesses," Kenny continued. Meanwhile, his cat pounced over John's barrier and clung onto his lap. With a wince, John placed a hand on the cat's back. It happily purred. "Still, it's a relief in a way to know that she's beyond this veil of tears."

"Absolutely," John muttered, hiding his grimace. He flashed Y/N a look, but she found gazing at Kenny Prince's coffee table intriguing. He frowned as concern for his friend bubbled to the surface. He could only imagine how exhausted she was. Not just physically from all the running around they have been doing lately but also as exhaustion of the emotional sort. John was not blind to Sherlock's actions, and it didn't take a fool to see that Sherlock was cold. His mind was solely occupied with M and the puzzles that he was given, which meant he didn't have much concern for others. It was not that he usually did, but with Y/N, it was different. She meant something to Sherlock.

John opened his mouth to whisper something to Y/N when he noticed Kenny's voice was absent. Right, John corrected himself. He was here about the case. The sooner he was done with this, the faster he could help both of his friends.

"It's more common than people think," John began. "The tetanus is in the soil, people cut themselves on rose bushes, garden forks, that sort of thing. If left un...," Kenny Prince plopped down between Y/N and John. The sudden jolt of the couch awoke Y/N from her daze. Her shoulder was pressed tightly against Kenny's as he leaned into John, invading his space even more than hers. "...treated..." John finished, scooting as far away from Kenny as he could.

"I don't know what I'm going to do now," Kenny confessed, leaning even closer to John.

"Right," John said, biting the inside of his cheek. He peered over Kenny's shoulder and saw Y/N. They shared a look that screamed discomfort, but they could do nothing as Kenny pushed them into the sides of the sofa. As Kenny continued speaking, John and Y/N's eyes held a secret conversation, mainly curses and discontent with the situation.

"I mean, she's left me this place, which is lovely....," Kenny's voice trailed off as his eyes never left John. "...but it's not the same without her."

Before replying, John took a deep breath and stared down at his notes. "Th-that's why my paper wanted to get the, um, the full story straight from the horse's mouth. You sure it's not too soon?"

"No," Kenny said.

"Right," John gulped.

"You fire away," Kenny uttered. His longing gaze not once left John. The longer the conversation continued, the more uncomfortable Y/N felt; she could only imagine how John felt. Here was Kenny Prince, after his sister's death, flirting with John. Y/N observed Kenny staring at John, making her feel like a forgotten third wheel to a nonconsensual flirting session. She had to come to his rescue. She'd done it before with lots of her friends back home. It would be easy, so long as she could get off the couch, which's cushions were sucking her in deeper.

Before John could ask any of his questions and Y/N could rescue him from unwanted attention, a buzzing echoed from her back pocket. Kenny turned over his shoulder to look at her as if she had interrupted a vital moment. She smiled awkwardly, shoved herself off the sofa, and answered her phone.

"Y/N," Sherlock's voice rang over the phone.

"You know, one usually starts a call with hello," Y/N muttered.

"Right, hello," Sherlock's voice oozed with sarcasm.

Sherlock didn't speak for a moment. Y/N furrowed her brows. "Is there a reason you called Sherlock?"

On the other end, Sherlock struggled to find a response. He had practiced his excuse beforehand. Well, it wasn't much of an excuse, more of a warning. Even so, after hearing her voice, Sherlock had forgotten everything. He mentally reprimanded himself for falling back into his sentiment so quickly. Y/N needed to be safe, so he had to push her away. A task that only seemed to grow more impossible with each breath she took.

John's eyes widened upon hearing Sherlock's name, and his escape was revealed to him. Shooting out of his seat, he snatched the phone from Y/N, quickly apologized, and began speaking to Sherlock. "Hi. Look, get over here quickly. I think I'm onto something," John breathed. Sherlock found himself missing Y/N's sweet voice. "You'll ne-" John was cut off by the loud footsteps barging into the room.

Confusion plastered onto his face, and he hung up the phone. After all, there was no need to speak through a phone when Sherlock stood in the same room as him.

"That'll be him," John said, pointing at Sherlock. Kenny Prince looked even more shaken than the consulting detective's friends were at his sudden appearance. However, the longer they pondered his arrival, the more John and Y/N realized this was normal for the great Sherlock Holmes.

"What?" Kenny asked, looking at the unwelcome guest in his home.

There was a calculated look on Sherlock's face before any trace of the consulting detective was washed away and replaced with a new persona. Y/N sighed as her legs lowered her body into an armchair nearby.

"Ah, Mr. Prince, isn't it?" Sherlock took out his hand for Kenny to shake.

"Yes," Kenny nodded, standing up to take Sherlock's hand.

"Very good to meet you," Sherlock smiled.

"Yes, thank you," Kenny said, still trying to figure out the situation.

"So sorry to hear about...," Sherlock continued, but Kenny cut him off.

Mr. Prince waved his hand, stopping Sherlock from offering false condolences about the situation. "Yes, yes, very kind."

"Shall we, er..." John cleared his throat, stepping over to Sherlock. He motioned for Sherlock to lean down before whispering in Sherlock's ear, "You were right. The bacteria got into her another way."

Sherlock couldn't help but notice the smirk that appeared on his face. "Oh yes?"

"Yes," John nodded.

"Right. We all set?" Kenny asked, bringing his hands together.

John, Sherlock, and Y/N frowned and watched as Kenny pointed to the camera on the sofa. Y/N grabbed it and removed the protective lens, turning it on. "Um, yes. Can you...?" she said, twirling her finger in the air, pretending to be a journalistic photographer.

"Not too close," Kenny warned as he returned to his original stance by the mantle. "I'm raw from crying." Then he lifted his head and posed for the camera, letting Y/N take a few pictures.

Beneath Sherlock's feet, Kenny's cat meowed. It butted its head against his dark trousers causing Sherlock to frown. He tilted his head as he peered at the cat. He wasn't sure if that's what he should call it.

"Oh, who's this?" Sherlock wondered as he motioned to the feline.

"Sekhmet," Kenny answered, finding a new pose for Y/N to capture. "Named after the Egyptian goddess."

"How nice! Was she Connie's?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes," Kenny nodded, taking pride in his response. Little present from yours truly." Then John smelled it as Kenny picked up Sekhmet, and the ominous smell of disinfectant seeped from the hairless cat. John smiled as the piece clicked into place.

"Actually," John turned to Kenny, tapping Y/N on the shoulder. "I think we've got what we came for. Excuse us."

"What?" Kenny gasped as saw Y/N place the camera strap over her shoulders and return the protective lens to its place.

"Sherlock," John sternly stated, raising his brows to say he'd solved it.

"What?" Sherlock frowned, trying to interpret John's signal.

"We've got deadlines," John said, pushing his two closest friends out of Kenny Prince's living room. This left behind a puddle of confusion for Mr. Prince and his sister's cat.

_____

Once Raoul had closed the door behind them, John erupted in cheers. Triumphantly, John raised his fist in the air and then brought it down, doing a little happy dance. Y/N smiled and giggled at the sight.

“Yes! Ooh, yes!” John laughed. He turned to Sherlock and froze.

One look from Sherlock swiftly ended John's parade. “You think it was the cat. It wasn't the cat,” Sherlock corrected.

John shook his head in disbelief. “What? No, yes. Yeah, it is. It must be. It's how they got the tetanus into her system. Its paws stink of disinfectant.” John whirled around to face Y/N, seeking backup, but found none.

“Honestly, I have no clue what’s going on,” Y/N admitted. “I just took pictures.”

A knowing smirk crept onto Sherlock’s face. “Lovely idea, John.”

“No,” John adamantly said. “He coated it onto the paws of her cat. It's a new pet, bound to be a bit jumpy around her. A scratch is almost inevitable. She wouldn't have...”

“I thought of it the minute I saw the scratches on her arm,” Sherlock announced, “but it's too random and too clever for the brother.”

“He murdered his sister for her money,” John said as his smile was wiped from his face.

“Did he?” Sherlock raised a brow.

“Didn't he?” John wondered.

Sherlock shook his head. “No. It was revenge.”

“Wait,” Y/N interjected. “Revenge? Who wanted revenge? I know his sister wasn’t the nicest to him, but even so, Kenny seemed…genuine?”

“Raoul, the houseboy,” Sherlock began explaining the case. He straightened his coat collar and stood taller, glancing down at his friends. “Kenny Prince was the butt of his sister's jokes, week in, week out, a virtual bullying campaign. Finally, he had enough and fell out with her badly. It's all on the website. She threatened to disinherit Kenny. Raoul had grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle, so...”

John shook his head, still in denial. “No, wait, wait. Wait a second. What about the disinfectant, then, on the cat's claws?”

“Raoul keeps a very clean house,” Sherlock noted. “You came through the kitchen door, saw the state of that floor, scrubbed to within an inch of its life. You smell of disinfectant now. No, the cat doesn't come into it. Raoul's Internet records do, though. Hope we can get a cab from here.”

Sherlock peered up and down the street. There wasn’t a cab in sight.

“Well, we could always walk back to the station or hop on a bus-“ Y/N suggested. Then, as if by divine intervention, a cab pulled onto the street. The trio hastily hailed the cab and jumped inside.

It did not take them long to arrive at the station. Traffic was horrible on the streets, but with a hefty bribe to the cab driver, they were bursting through the door of Lestrade’s office faster than Mrs. Hudson could flick on the latest episode of her favorite soap opera.

A wave of black trickled majestically after Sherlock as he entered the office. “Raoul de Santos is your killer. Kenny Prince's houseboy. Second autopsy shows it wasn't tetanus that poisoned Connie Prince. It was botulinum toxin.”

Lestrade sat up in his seat and sifted through the numerous papers on his desk. Finding the second autopsy report, his eyes scanned the results. His eyes widened. Sherlock was right.

“We've been here before. Carl Powers? Tut-tut. Our bomber's repeated himself,” Sherlock said.

“So how'd he do it?” Lestrade asked.

“Botox injection,” Sherlock answered.

“Botox?” Lestrade questioned, raising his brows. After all, it was not every day that someone was murdered with Botox.

“Botox is a diluted form of botulinum,” Sherlock explained. “Among other things, Raoul de Santos was employed to give Connie her regular facial injections. My contact at the Home Office gave me the complete records of Raoul's Internet purchases. He's been bulk ordering Botox for months.” Sitting across Lestrade, Sherlock swiftly crossed his legs and dug his hand into his coat pocket. “Bided his time, then upped the strength to a fatal dose.”

“You sure about this?” Lestrade asked in confirmation.

Instead of Sherlock’s voice answering, Y/N spoke up. “He is,” Sherlock peered up at her and felt his cheeks heat up. “Connie was an avid Botox user. It was all on the blogs and magazines. No one would bat an eye at the injection sights or if Botox turned up in the autopsies.”

Lestrade nodded his head, “All right.”

“Sherlock,” John slowly said. “How long?”

“What?” Sherlock questioned as he snapped out of his daze.

“How long have you known?” There was hurt evident in John’s voice.

Y/N looked between the two of them. “Wait, you’re saying you sent John and I on a goose chase?”

Sherlock shrugged, letting John and Y/N’s confusion and hurt fly over his head. “Well, this one was quite simple, actually, and like I said, the bomber repeated himself. That was a mistake.”

“No, but Sherl... The hostage... the old woman,” John uttered. “She's been there all this time.”

“I knew I could save her,” Sherlock replied as he began to type on the small pink phone.

. “I also knew that the bomber had given us twelve hours. I solved the case quickly; that gave me time to get on with other things. Don't you see? We're one up on him!“ Sherlock cheered.

Like clockwork, the phone rang, and Sherlock answered. “Hello?”

“Help me,” the old woman whispered.

“Tell us where you are. Address,” Sherlock looked over to Lestrade, who had his team on standby.

“He was so... His voice...,” the woman began to describe.

Sherlock’s pale blue eyes widened, and he grew pale. “No, no, no, no,” Sherlock yelled. “Tell me nothing about him. Nothing.” There was a desperation in his voice that Y/N had only heard a few times.

Sherlock was rarely desperate unless something dangerous was happening. She recalled the terror that trembled from his chest during the night in the museum-the night Sulin died. It was the very voice he had when he clung to her after Hilton Cubitt was killed.

Panic coursed through Y/N’s body, constricting her lungs. Sherlock was scared, and so was she.

“He sounded so... soft-“ the caller was cut off and the horrifying sound of the dial tone screeched in Sherlock’s ear.

Lestrade furrowed his brow and approached the stunned consulting detective. “Sherlock?” he asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“What's happened?” John questioned.

However, Sherlock couldn’t hear any of them. The pink phone was still glued to his ear, and his blue eyes began to fill with a salty ocean. Even in the blur, he found Y/N. She stood with her hands clutching her heart, her face in pain and shock. As he sought comfort in her presence, his fears were confirmed.

This was a game for monsters and freaks. M had made that clear. The woman over the phone was human. She cared enough to speak up. In turn, she died. She was a chess piece in a game ruled by freaks like him. M had made his move. The botulinum that killed Connie Prince wasn’t a mistake. It was a threat. M was going to take his queen. His most important player. It wasn’t a mistake that Carl Powers' shoes were found in her flat. It wasn’t a mistake. He was also killed by botulinum. Through his cloudy eyes, Sherlock saw clearly now.

Sherlock had to remove his queen from the chessboard before M could steal her from him forever.

______

Y/N should have found comfort in the worn leather of the sofa and the creaking of the floor beneath her feet. Steam rose from her cup as the cold air of Sherlock’s flat cooled her tea.

Mrs. Hudson had made it for her, John, and Sherlock. The brown liquid swirled in her cup, with small herbs dancing around. Mrs. Hudson always made tea for them with the secret ingredient of love. Love was precisely what Y/N needed as the television echoed the horrific news.

“The explosion,” the reporter announced, “which ripped through several floors, killing twelve people. It is said to have been caused by a faulty gas main. A spokesman from the utilities company...”

“He certainly gets about,” John sighed, stirring the tiny spoon in his tea.

“Well,” Sherlock began. “Obviously, I lost that round.”

Y/N bit her tongue. Twelve people had died, and Sherlock was still playing the game. She fought back tears as anger boiled to the surface. Sherlock had a heart, but the more he spoke, the more she thought she’d been wrong.

“Although technically I did solve the case. He killed the old lady because she started to describe him,” Sherlock explained. “Just once, he put himself in the firing line.”

“What d'you mean?” John asked.

“Well, usually, he must stay above it all,” Sherlock said, thinking back to all the cases M had given him so far. “He organizes these things, but no one ever has direct contact.”

“What... like the Connie Prince murder – he-he arranged that?” John’s voice wavered. “So people come to him wanting their crimes fixed up, like booking a holiday?”

“Novel,” Sherlock muttered.

Y/N scoffed. “Sounds like a demented version of what you do.” Sherlock cocked his brow. “I mean, you’re a consulting detective. People come to you wanting their cases solved. Maybe he’s a consulting criminal?”

Sherlock nodded, feigning interest. “Taking his time this time,” Sherlock said as he checked the pink phone.

John cleared his throat. “Anything on the Carl Powers case?”

Shaking his head, Sherlock replied. “Nothing. All the living classmates check out spotless. No connection.”

“ Have you checked outside of his class?“ Y/N proposed. John and Sherlock looked at her with confusion.

“I doubt anyone outside of Carl Powers’ class would-“ Sherlock replied.

“But what if he was a bully? I know that victims of bullying will sometimes fight back and m-“ Y/N explained.

“Bully?” John repeated.

“Yeah, I just…,” Y/N said. “I don’t want to leave any stone unturned. There was a reason Carl died, and M brought it to our attention.”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock hummed before asking Lestrade to expand his search on Carl Powers' schoolmates.

“So why's he doing this, then –” John asked Sherlock. “Why is he playing this game with you? D'you think he wants to be caught?”

“I think he wants to be distracted,” Sherlock replied, shaking his head.

“I hope you'll be very happy together,” John murmured.

Sherlock frowned and stepped towards John. “Sorry, what?”

“What I think John is trying to say is that there are lives at stake, Sherlock – actual human lives...” Y/N softly spoke. “What if that was John. What if it was me?”

Sherlock clenched his jaw and winced at her comment. He wasn’t going to let it be her. He didn’t care how many pawns he lost. So long as his queen was safe and away from the game, he’d be alright.

“Just so I know,” John asked. “Do you care about that at all?”

“Will caring about them help save them?” Sherlock spat.

“No, but…,” Y/N replied.

“Then I'll continue not to make that mistake,” his voice rose, startling Y/N, and his heart broke. He didn’t want to scare her off, but he had to. This was the first step: convincing her he had no heart.

“And you find that easy, do you?” John growled, stepping up to Sherlock. Their chests puffed as they glared at each other.

“John, Sherlock,” Y/N pleaded. “Let’s not fight, please-“

“Yes, very,” Sherlock scowled. “Is that news to you?”

“No. No,” John shook his head and stepped back, pinching his brow.”

“I've disappointed you,” Sherlock observed.

“That's good,” John mumbled, “that's a good deduction, yeah.”

“Don't make people into heroes, John,” Sherlock coldly stated. “Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them.”

John sighed. All hope he had for Sherlock fled his mind. John scolded himself for thinking Sherlock had some semblance of empathy. He was sure his and Y/N’s presence had some sort of effect on the consulting detective. Sherlock had begun to care. He’d seen it with his eyes as he rescued them from the tunnel during the Blind Banker case. There was no mistaking it. Sherlock cared for them, but his game with M made John even more concerned. With each task M gave them, John drew more and more connections. Sherlock and M were too similar, and John feared losing his best friend to the monster.

“Excellent!” Sherlock exclaimed the moment the pink phone buzzed with their newest case.

Despite their flaming frustration with the detective, John and Y/N crowded around the phone, peering down at the photo.

“View of the Thames. South Bank – somewhere between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo,” Sherlock noted before turning to his friends. “You check the papers,” he instructed John. “I'll look online...”

“Oh, you're angry with me,” Sherlock paused, looking at John. “…so you won't help.”

John only sighed. Of course, he was going to help. People's lives were on the line, and he was a doctor. There was no way John wouldn’t do his best to save anyone he could. Sitting on the sofa, he picked up a piece of paper and handed it to Y/N before taking a newsletter.

“Archway suicide,” Y/N read.

Sherlock shrugged. “Ten a penny.”

Y/N bit her lip at Sherlock’s nonchalance.

“Two kids stabbed in Stoke Newington,” John repeated as he scanned the pages. “Ah. Man found on the train line, Andrew West.”

Sherlock shook his head, then slammed his computer shut. “Nothing,” he grumbled.

Y/N and John jolted at the sound, and within an instant, Sherlock had retrieved his phone and dialed Greg’s number.

“Gary, It's me,” Sherlock announced. “Have you found anything on the South Bank between Waterloo Bridge and Southwark Bridge?”

A smile crept onto Sherlock’s face upon hearing Lestrade’s words. John and Y/N needed no warning. They reluctantly got to their feet and reached for their coats.

_____

“D'you reckon this is connected, then? The bomber?” Lestrade asked, staring down at the drenched body on the ground.

“Must be. Odd, though...” Sherlock pulled out the pink phone. “He hasn't been in touch.”

Lestrade frowned. “But we must assume that some poor bugger's primed to explode, yeah.”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded. He tried not to notice the way Y/N shivered under her coat. He was tempted to hand her his scarf.

“Any ideas?” Lestrade wondered.

Sherlock tilted his head and bit his lip, counting all the ideas. “Seven... so far.”

Lestrade’s eyes bulged out of his head. “Seven?!”

Standing up from his crouch on the ground by the body, John relayed the information he had gathered. “He's dead about twenty-four hours – maybe a bit longer. Did he drown?” He asked Lestrade.

Greg shrugged. “Apparently not. Not enough of the Thames in his lungs. Asphyxiated.”

John nodded at Lestrade’s answer. “Yes, I'd agree.” Then, stepping over to Sherlock and Y/N, John continued. “There's quite a bit of bruising around the nose and mouth. More bruises here and here.”

Sherlock’s eyes followed where John had pointed out the injuries. Leaning down towards the body, he began to make his observations. “Fingertips,” Sherlock muttered quietly. Then Sherlock stood up and pulled out his phone. His feet swiftly began to trek away from the body. Greg, John, and Y/N followed along in confusion.

“In his late thirties, I'd say, not in the best condition. He's been in the river a long while. The water's destroyed most of the data. But I'll tell you one thing: that lost Vermeer painting's a fake,” Sherlock stated.

“What?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock turned towards Lestrade, with instructions readied. “We need to identify the corpse. Find out about his friends and associates...”

Lestrade shook his hands and head at the same time. Quickly, he jumped in front of Sherlock, interrupting his path to the cab awaiting them. “Wait-wait-wait-wait-wait. What painting? What are you – what are you on about?”

Blue eyes rolled in annoyance, and Sherlock pocketed his phone. “It's all over the place. Haven't you seen the posters? Dutch Old Master, supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago; now it's turned up. Worth thirty million pounds.”

“Okay,” Lestrade calmly said. His hands returned to his side. “So what has that got to do with the stiff?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened as a grin flashed across his face. “Everything. Have you ever heard of the Golem?” He asked his companions.

“Golem?” Y/N repeated. “You mean the magical creature that-“

“No,” Sherlock said, shutting down her idea.

“It's a horror story, isn't it?” John guessed. Sherlock nodded.

“A horror story?” Y/N wondered. “What are you saying?”

“Jewish folk story,” Sherlock explained. “A gigantic man made of clay.”

“So I was right. Sort of…” Y/N interjected.

“It's also the name of an assassin,” Sherlock continued. “Real name: Oskar Dzundza. One of the deadliest assassins in the world. That is his trademark style.”

“So this is a hit?” Lestrade questioned.

“Definitely,” Sherlock confidently said. “The Golem squeezes the life out of his victims with his bare hands.”

Lestrade grimaced. “But what has this gotta do with that painting? I don't see...”

“You do see,” Sherlock hissed. “You just don't observe.”

“All right, all right, girls, calm down,” John began, but Y/N shot him a look. “Sorry, Sherlock calm down,” John corrected. “Sherlock? D'you wanna take us through it?”

Y/N placed her hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and peered up at him. With a soft smile, she reassured him. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock began. “What do we know about this corpse?” He raised a brow and looked at the three of them. “The killer's not left us with much, just the shirt and the trousers. They're pretty formal; maybe he was going out for the night. The trousers are heavy duty. Polyester, nasty, same as the shirt, cheap. They're both too big for him. So, some kind of standard-issue uniform. Dressed for work, then. What kind of work? There's a hook on his belt... for a walkie-talkie.”

“Tube driver?” Lestrade guessed.

“Construction worker?” Y/N wondered.

“Security guard?” John said, throwing his guess into the air.

“More likely,” Sherlock agreed. “That'll be borne out by his backside.”

“Backside?!” Lestrade’s mouth gaped open.

“Flabby,” Sherlock noted. “You'd think that he'd led a sedentary life, yet the soles of his feet and the nascent varicose veins in his legs show otherwise. So, a lot of walking and a lot of sitting around. Security guard's looking good. And the watch helps, too. The alarm shows he did regular night shifts.”

“Why regular?” Lestrade questioned. “Maybe he just set his alarm like that the night before he died?”

“No, no, no,” Sherlock shook his head. “The buttons are stiff, hardly touched. He set his alarm like that a long time ago. His routine never varied. But there's something else. The killer must have been interrupted; otherwise, he would have stripped the corpse completely. There was some kind of badge or insignia on the shirt front that he tore off, suggesting the dead man worked somewhere recognizable, some kind of institution.”

Sticking his hand into the man’s pant pocket, Sherlock pulled out a wad of small papers. “Found this inside his trouser pockets. Sodden by the river but still recognizably...” Sherlock’s voice trailed off, awaiting a response from anyone.

“Tickets?” Y/N said after glancing at the papers.

“Ticket stubs. He worked in a museum or gallery. Did a quick check. The Hickman Gallery has reported one of its attendants as missing.” Sherlock pointed to the dead man on the ground. “Alex Woodbridge. Tonight, they unveil the re-discovered masterpiece. Now, why would anyone want to pay the Golem to suffocate a perfectly ordinary gallery attendant? Inference, the dead man knew something about it, something that would stop the owner getting paid thirty million pounds. The picture's a fake.”

“Fantastic,” John complimented.

“Meretricious,” Sherlock mused.

“And a Happy New Year!” Greg blurted.

Y/N raised a brow as she looked between the three men, uncertain of what inside joke was going on between them.

“Poor sod,” John muttered, looking down at the deceased.

“I'd better get my feelers out for this Golem character,” Greg said as the group picked up their pace back to where the cab awaited.

“Pointless,” Sherlock warned Greg. “You'll never find him. But I know a man who can.”

“Who?” Greg asked.

Sherlock whirled around and extended his arms out. “Me,” he proudly said before gracefully disappearing into the back of the cab. “Why hasn't he phoned? He's broken his pattern. Why?” He muttered to himself. Once John and Y/N were safely seated, Sherlock instructed the cab driver on their next destination. “Waterloo Bridge.”

“Where now? The Gallery?” John wondered.

“In a bit,” Sherlock replied.

“The Hickman's contemporary art,” Y/N questioned. “Why have they got hold of an old master?”

“Dunno,” Sherlock admitted. “Dangerous to jump to conclusions. Need data...” Sherlock’s eyes gazed out the window. The car had slowed underneath a bridge. Beside the car sat a homeless woman collecting change. “Stop!” Sherlock hollered. He leaned close to the driver's ear. “You wait here. I won't be a moment.”

“Sherlock?” John called after his friend, who walked up to the woman. They exchanged words, and Sherlock deposited a hefty sum into her cup.

“What are you doing?” John asked Sherlock once he got back into the cab.

“Investing,” Sherlock mysteriously replied. “Now we go to the Gallery.”

As luck would have it, the gallery was only a few minutes drive away from their detour. “Have you got any cash?” Sherlock asked John.

John sighed and paid the driver before stepping out after Sherlock. However, Sherlock pushed John back into the car, toppling into Y/N’s lap.

“No. I need you two to find out all you can about the gallery attendant. Lestrade will give you the address,” Sherlock said before closing the door in John’s face.

“Okay,” John grumbled. He quickly apologized to Y/N and then the two of them departed to Alex Woodbridge’s flat.

______

It was surprisingly easy to get into Alex Woodbridge’s apartment compared to Kenny Prince’s home. There was no need for a camera and fake personas.

Woodbridge’s apartment was a simplistic sight. The living space gave hardly any room for John, Y/N, and Julie, Alex’s roommate, to comfortably stand without brushing shoulders with one another.

Julie appeared to be a sweet woman with her gentle expression. She wrapped her black and white flannel around her body and led them deeper into the flat.

“We'd been sharing about a year,” Julie explained. She turned around to look back at John and Y/N. Her frizzy, short, brown hair stuck out oddly. “Just sharing.”

“Mmm,” John hummed to reassure Julie he didn’t assume otherwise.

Stepping into Alex’s room, Y/N peered around, John close behind. In the left corner sat the bed, still unmade. Besides, a small table held a lamp, a few empty wrappers, and books. A cloaked object sat underneath a skylight on the far right side of the room. Y/N stepped closer, her brows knitting together as she guessed what it could be.

“Is this a telescope?” Y/N asked, looking back at Julie, who nodded.

John raised his brows, a bit impressed. It was not every day you came across someone who owned their own telescope. Gently pulling off the sheet, John felt a soft smile growing on his lips. His mind began to recall a time when he was a boy. He had learned about the solar system and was fascinated by it, so much so that he wrote to Santa to bring him a telescope for Christmas. It never happened, but still, it was a wish from childhood, and John couldn’t help but be fond.

“May I?” He asked, motioning to the cloth covering the telescope.

“Yeah,” Julie nodded with a sadness in her voice.

“Sorry,” John and Y/N consoled.

“Stargazer, was he?” John questioned, and Julie’s face lit up with a caring light.

“God, yeah. Mad about it. It's all he ever did in his spare time,” she chuckled. “He was a nice guy, Alex. I liked him. He was, er, never much of a one for hoovering.” Then Julie quickly looked away to conceal the tears that bubbled up to the surface.

Y/N wanted to hug the woman but chose not to. Instead, she opted for her words: “Sorry for your loss.” Julie nodded in thanks.

“What about art? Did he know anything about that?” John asked.

“It was just a job,” Julie shrugged, “you know?”

“Hmm. Has anyone else been around asking about Alex?” John pursed his lips in thought, bringing his hands behind his back to fiddle with his fingers. It was a habit that helped him think.

Julie shook her head. “No…” Her voice trailed off as she realized something. “We had a break-in, though.”

“Hmm? When was that?” Y/N wondered as she peeked at the books on Alex’s bedside table. They were astronomy books of all sorts.

“Last night. There was nothing taken,” Julie assured them. “Oh, there was a message left for Alex on the landline,” she said, trying to note anything of importance to the two of them.

John raised his brows and strolled over to the phone beside Julie. “Who was it from?”

“Well, I can play it for you if you like,” Julie said before turning around to enter the message box. She typed a few buttons and the phone began to whirr to life.

Y/N and John stepped closer to hear.

“Oh, should I speak now? Alex? Love, it's Professor Cairns. Listen, you were right. You were bloody right! Give us a call when…,” the message repeated.

“Professor Cairns?” John mumbled, glancing up at Julie.

Shaking her head, Julie replied. “No, no idea, sorry.”

“Mmm,” Y/N bit her lip. “Can we try and ring back?”

“Well, that's no good,” Julie replied. “I mean, I've had other calls since—sympathy ones, you know.”

John and Y/N nodded, remembering Julie’s roommate’s death. Turning to each other, they nodded.

“Thanks again, Julie, for helping us,” Y/N thanked as the woman led John and her out of the flat.

Julie sniffled before replying. “Anything I can do to help you catch Alex’s murderer.”

The two friends waved goodbye as the door shut. Once the click and lock of the door were heard, Y/N turned to John.

“So,” she began. “Shall we go find Sherlock?”

For some odd reason, John felt a slight twinge in the back of his head appear. His frustration with Sherlock was still fresh, and John was not looking to reopen the wound any time soon. Sighing, he responded, “I’m sure Sherlock will find us when he needs us.”

Y/N chuckled in agreement. “Yeah, you’re not wrong about that. Should we go to the gallery then? Do some snooping of our own?” She wiggled her brows, which made John snicker.

Before he could answer, the phone in his back pocket buzzed. Pulling it out, John frowned upon seeing the name, and his headache worsened. He bit back another sigh as the case Sherlock put on the back burner began to burn too hot. Mycroft was growing impatient and started to bother John about it.

“Actually,” John said. “We’ve got another job we can work on.”

Y/N’s face contorted with confusion. “What other-” she cut herself short. “Mycroft.” She linked her arm with John’s. “If Sherlock can have his little side-quests and detours, so can we.”

______

“He wouldn't. He just wouldn't.” The woman on the couch was inconsolable. It was not in the sense that her tears and sobs made questioning her difficult. In fact, she wasn’t crying at all. She solemnly sat on her sofa with her hands clenching tightly together. The tiny shard of sunlight peeked through her closed curtains, dimly lighting the room. While John and Y/N tried their best to sympathize and speak with her, Lucy refused to believe her boyfriend had anything to do with their case despite all the evidence against him.

“Well, stranger things have happened,” John tried to say.

“Westie wasn't a traitor. It's a horrible thing to say!” She glared at John as her hands turned white.

“I'm sorry, but you must understand that's…”

“That's what they think, isn't it, his bosses?” Lucy questioned. If someone else had watched the scene, they would have thought Lucy was interrogating John and Y/N.

“He was a young man about to get married. He had debts…,” John softly listed off possible reasons, but Lucy was not having them.

She defended, “Everyone's got debts, and Westie wouldn't want to clear them by selling out his country.”

“John, can you, erm...?” Y/N sent him a look to let her give it a go. He raised his hands and let Y/N take the reins. “Lucy, we're not here to accuse Westie. We’re here for answers, and you have them. Can you tell me exactly what happened that night?”

Lucy nodded. Her shoulders relaxed, and the color returned to her hands. “We were having a night in. Just... watching a DVD. He normally falls asleep, you know, but he sat through this one. He was quiet. Out of the blue, he said he just had to go and see someone.”

“Do you know who?” Y/N asked. Lucy just shook her head and began to sob. Y/N peered over at John and whispered that it was time for them to leave. Any more questions and Y/N was afraid they’d leave Lucy in an even bigger puddle of tears and sorrow than she had been in before.

“I think it’s time we should go,” Y/N began to stand up. Lucy stood up and led John and Y/N back to the entrance. The cool light of the day momentarily blinded them, but their eyes quickly adjusted.

“Oh, hi, Luce. You okay, love?” A man rolling in a bike asked. He stared at John and Y/N as they stepped out of his way.

“Yeah,” Lucy nodded.

“Who's this?” the biker asked.

“John Watson. Hi,” John greeted.

“Y/N L/N,” Y/N replied, taking the man’s hand.

“This is my brother, Joe.” Lucy explained, “John and Y/N are trying to find out what happened to Westie, Joe.”

Joe raised his brows. “You two with the police?”

“Uh…” John trailed off, looking over at Y/N, who hesitantly nodded. “...sort of, yeah.”

“Well,” Joe began, “tell 'em to get off their arses, will you? It's bloody ridiculous.”

John nodded. “I'll do my best. Well, er, thanks very much for your help. Again, I'm very, very sorry.”

“He didn't steal those things, Mr. Watson,” Lucy called out once John and Y/N stepped onto the street. “I knew Westie. He was a good man. He was my good man.”

Y/N waved goodbye before turning her back to Lucy. She shivered and whispered to John. “It’d be nice if she was right.”

“Yeah…” John absently agreed. “It would be.”

______

Sherlock’s scowl grew the longer he stood outside 221 B Baker Street. Soon, his left foot was tapping on the stone steps. He was growing impatient. John and Y/N sure seemed to be taking their time to arrive.

Suddenly, a black cab rolled up to the street. It didn’t take a genius to spot the two figures inside. Sherlock jumped down the front steps and greeted the cab’s passengers.

John stepped out first and then helped Y/N out afterward. “Alex Woodbridge didn't know anything special about art,” John told Sherlock.

“And?” Sherlock questioned. John furrowed his brow in response.”Is that it? No habits, hobbies, personality?”

“Sherlock, breathe. Give us a second,” Y/N blurted. Sherlock’s wide blue eyes locked onto Y/N and he felt his heart stutter, giving John ample time to appropriately respond.

“He was an amateur astronomer.”

A light went off in Sherlock’s mind. “Hold that cab,” he instructed them before running off to a homeless woman leaning against an iron fence.

“Spare change, sir?” She asked Sherlock.

“Don't mind if I do,” Sherlock stuck out his hand and retrieved the small slip of paper from the woman’s hands.

Y/N watched the interaction with curiosity. Her eyes trailed after Sherlock as he hopped into the cab. Soon, the three of them were tucked in the back seat once again.

It wasn’t long before they walked alongside industrial buildings and inside dark alleyways. Y/N found herself stepping closer to Sherlock as they passed from the light of the street lamps into the dark. Her hand brushed against his ever so softly. For a moment, her hand was all Sherlock could think about.

“Beautiful, isn't it?” Sherlock whispered. His eyes trailing up to the twinkling stars above.

Y/N’s eyes followed Sherlock’s. She paused before speaking. “I thought you didn’t care about stuff like that? Useless bits of information.”

Sherlock smirked, but his eyes moved down to hers, and his smile became a loving smile. “Doesn't mean I can't appreciate their beauty.” Time seemed to stand still as he gazed at Y/N under the starlight. His breath caught in his throat, and his eyes trickled to her lips.

John spoke, breaking Sherlock’s trance. “Listen, Alex Woodbridge had a message on the answerphone at his flat. A Professor Cairns?”

“This way,” Sherlock said, leading John and Y/N deeper into the dark tunnels.

“Nice! Nice part of town,” John sarcastically noted. “Er, any time you wanna explain.”

“Homeless network – really is indispensable,” Sherlock replied.

“Homeless network?” John questioned.

“My eyes and ears all over the city,” Sherlock elaborated.

“Ah, that's... clever. So you scratch their backs and...?”

“Yes, then I disinfect myself,” Sherlock finished before taking out three lights for them and handing them out.

“Flashlights?” Y/N wondered, turning hers on.

John and Sherlock shared an odd expression. “What did you just call it?” John asked.

“A flashlight.”

John shook his head. “It’s a torch.”

Y/N fought back a sigh. “Yeah, torch, whatever. You know, sometimes I think you two forget I’m from America.”

Sherlock chuckled at the interaction. “Let’s go,” he said, flicking on his torch.

The three of them entered the tunnel together. Small fires scattered between erected tents and cardboard boxes were the only light besides their own. As they whirled their lights around, Y/N stuck close to Sherlock. She felt as if she were more than three steps away from him; her lungs would constrict.

“Sherlock! Y/N!” John’s voice hissed. The three of them spotted the tall shadow casting onto a nearby wall.

Sherlock’s leather-gloved hand grasped Y/N’s arm. “Come on!” Sherlock whispered as he quickly pulled her by his side, pushed her against the brick wall, and placed his hands beside her head. Sherlock leaned in close, using his body as a shield. Y/N’s nose was filled with his scent. She closed her eyes and bit her lip at the sudden intrusion in her personal space.

“What's he doing sleeping rough?” John questioned.

Y/N shuddered as Sherlock’s warm breath brushed against her cheeks. “Well, he has a very distinctive look. He has to hide somewhere where tongues won't wag – much.” Sherlock removed one of his hands from beside Y/N and reached into his pocket.

“Oh shi…” John muttered to himself as he felt up his coat. “I wish I'd…”

Sherlock revealed John’s gun and handed it to him. John gratefully took the weapon and readied it.

“Don't mention it,” Sherlock said, pushing off the wall to chase after the Golem. The three of them darted down the hallway after the giant man’s figure. By the time they reached the end, they caught sight of their killer entering a small black car. The door shut, and the car revved. Then Golem was gone.

“ No! No! No! No!” Sherlock cried, waving his fist in the air. “It'll take us weeks to find him again.”

Beside him, Y/N and John panted, looking at the exhaust the car had left behind.

“Actually…” Y/N interjected. “I think I know where he’s going—or at least who he’s going after.”

John’s eyes lit up with the same thought that occupied Y/N’s. “The Professor,” he muttered.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“I told you: someone left Alex Woodbridge a message,” John recalled. “There can't be that many Professor Cairns in the book. Come on.”

______

A bright light crept out from underneath two large metal doors. Beyond the doors, Y/N could hear the voiceover of a film. She furrowed her brows and peered at her friends as they quietly and stealthily approached the doors.

“Is that a–” Y/N began to ask when Sherlock cut her off.

“Y/N, you’re staying out here.”

Shock washed over Y/N’s face. “No, I am not staying behind.”

“No!” Sherlock hissed. “John and I will handle it. We’ll handle Golem, just stay here and-”

“And what? Look pretty? It’s just as dangerous staying out here in the dark than it is in the planetarium,” Y/N argued. She looked to John for assistance but was met with concerned eyes. “John?”

In an instant, Y/N was yanked away from the door. Sherlock’s firm hands grasped her shoulder and pulled her in close. “The Golem is dangerous and-”

“Oh my God!” A shrill cry echoed from inside the planetarium.

Sherlock’s eyes widened, and he removed his hands from Y/N. Motioning to John, he pushed open the door. “Stay here,” he commanded Y/N before the door slammed in her face.

Muttering an array of curses under her breath, Y/N charged in after them. Immediately, her eyes burned from the flashing lights. In the flickers of light, Y/N saw John and Sherlock dance around for any sight of Golem. The longer Y/N looked, the dizzier she felt. Her feet stumbled, and she toppled off the stage.

“Golem!”She heard Sherlock cry.

Y/N groaned and came to a crouch position. In the distance, she spotted a woman lying on the ground. The lights continued to flash as she crawled over to who she believed to be Professor Cairns. Behind her, John and Sherlock struggled to spot Golem.

“..many are actually long-dead, exploded into supernovas,” the film's narrator announced before the tape began to whir.

“I can't see him. I'll go round. I'll go!” John yelled.

Finger dug into the carpet as Y/N pulled herself closer to the professor. Her body was trembling, and her stomach began to churn. The light blared at her, and the volume of the film increased with each second. Y/N was sure that by the end, she’d come out blind and deaf.

“Who are you working for this time, Dzundza?” She heard Sherlock taunt the assassin.

Finally, Y/N reached Professor Cairns. Suddenly, Y/N felt very cold. Sick climbed up her throat, and sweat clung to her forehead. Images of those dead, Hilton, the woman over the phone, and Soo Lin sparked in her mind. Feeling a sudden wave of determination, Y/N sat up and placed her hands on the professor’s chest. She wasn’t about to let someone else die, not if she could help it. Then she pushed down. Her shoulders pumped up and down, holding a steady pace. Up and down. Up and down.

“Golem!” John hollered, followed by the sound of a gun cocking. “Let him go... or I will kill you.”

Then, muffled grunts and cries reached Y/N’s ears. Her pace halted. Frightened eyes whirled around in a desperate search for John and Sherlock. The lights flickered on, and there they were. Under the spotlight, Sherlock swiftly twirled around Golem. The horror of a man towered over Sherlock, making him appear as miniscule as an ant. Nearby lay John, who struggled to get off the ground.

“Sherlock!” Y/N screamed as Golem’s giant hand swung at Sherlock. The force of the blow dragged Sherlock to the floor. Instantly, Golem jumped on him, placing his hands over Sherlock’s nose and mouth.

Jumping to her feet, Y/N ran as if it was the only thing she knew how to do. With each step, her mind went blank. She had to save Sherlock, but how? If Sherlock seemed tiny compared to the Golem, she was microscopic. Launching herself onto the stage, she slammed her body into the Golem. The sheer force momentarily knocked the Golem to the ground. However, he soon found himself back on his feet. A sickening grin inched onto Golem’s face as he stepped to Sherlock and Y/N. Y/N felt herself freeze over, unable to move, breathe, or blink. Golem stalked closer. Y/N shuddered before laying herself over Sherlock. She knew she didn’t stand a chance against a trained killer, but at the very least, she could give Sherlock time.

Sherlock’s eyes blew wide as Y/N placed herself in front of him. “No, run away,” he wanted to croak but found his voice gone. It had been choked from him, instantly stunning him. With a breathless gaze, he gazed up at her. The stars and planets zoomed overhead in a taunting manner.

Clenching her eyes shut, Y/N braced herself for Golem’s hand, but it never came. John had pounced on him, locking the assassin in a chokehold. Golem struggled to pull John off, but when he did, he disappeared–jumping off the stage and running out the door.

Y/N didn’t open her eyes until she felt Sherlock’s gentle touch on her cheek. It took her a moment to realize they were now sitting up. The film was playing overhead. With tears, she looked at him, and her voice was stolen. She wanted to say so many things but couldn’t find the words. Sherlock’s free arm wrapped around her body, pulling her close. Carefully, Y/N tucked her head into Sherlock’s neck. She breathed him in, feeling his heartbeat on her cheek. He was alive. She was alive.

While Y/N clung to Sherlock, he found his mind in torment. He’d almost lost her. Sherlock tried so hard to keep her safe and close because, to him, Sherlock was the safest place around. However, it was a lie. Sherlock was dangerous, and being close to him was unsafe for her.

He knew that now. If he hadn’t dragged her from case to case, she’d be safe in her flat with her cat. If he hadn’t brought her on, she wouldn’t have seen so much death. She would be safe. She would be free to live an everyday life away from Sherlock. But Sherlock was selfish. Her presence was more potent than any drug he’d ever taken. Her lips were sweeter than any victory had been. Sherlock was greedy and wanted her to stay, to be close, and never leave. Most of all, he wanted to love her. He did love her. Sherlock loved Y/N more than anything.

A single tear fell from the pool in Sherlock’s eyes. He loved Y/N, so he had to keep safe, even if it meant he’d never see her again. She would be safe away from him, and so she had to go. Sherlock took one last moment to be selfish as they sat holding each other. His trembling lips met the crown of her head. His nose inhaled her scent one last time. His hands enveloped her body before tearing himself away.

_____

Moriarty. The name was whispered in Sherlock’s mind as he and John opened the door to 221B Baker Street. A bittersweet triumph latched onto their shoulders, dragging them up the stairs. They had solved the case and saved that little boy, but now they had more questions.

Warm light wrapped around Sherlock and John as they stepped into their flat. Their eyes fell onto Y/N’s sleeping figure. Sherlock had sent her home after their fight with Golem. Despite her protests, Sherlock and John’s insistence won. Both men’s eyes softened at the sight of Y/N.Her hair cascaded over her features, vaguely concealing the red skin around her eyes.

Sherlock took a step further into the room. The floorboard creaked beneath his feet, alerting the woman from her sleep. She shot up but then relaxed at the sight.

“You’re back,” she whispered. “What happened? Did you-”

“We solved the case,” Sherlock coldly said. He removed his coat and scarf and tossed them onto John’s armchair.

“Sherlock,” Y/N gently muttered. “Are you alright?”

“Just stop!” Sherlock hissed. Y/N froze, and her eyes widened with shock as Sherlock appeared in front of her. “Don’t you see nothing you do helps? You’re a liability, Y/N. I’ve known it from the moment I laid eyes on you. From the moment I found you in that cab with a gun to your head, you’ve been a liability to me.”

A new set of tears began to pour from Y/N’s eyes, too stunned to fight back.

“If it weren’t for your emotions getting in the way—your caring…oh, your caring. You care too much. Just as I said before, what good does caring do when people are going to die anyway? Soo Lin, Hilton Cubitt: They all died despite your cares. Sentiment is a weakness found on the losing side. You, Y/N, are on the losing side. The only reason you haven’t realized it was because I was there. My mind free from the poison of it all,” Sherlock took in a shaky breath. His voice grew quiet. “...or so I thought.”

Stifling a sob, Y/N pleaded with Sherlock. “So why bother keeping me around?

“I had to,” he uttered. “You are my liability! Your sentiment is contagious, and its effects are leaking onto me. You make me weak. You make me lose my mind when I am not near you. And when I am, all concepts of cunning and intelligence evade me. I become human. I fear. I feel things I have never felt before. You…you have ruined me!”

Silence filled the air. John stood against the wall and clenched his fist in fury. He had never wanted to hit Sherlock more than he did now. However, Y/N’s saddened scoff drew his attention. It was her turn to say her piece.

“I…” Y/N took in a quick breath to steady herself. “…I think I finally understand what’s going on in that mind. You say sentiment is on the losing side, that it’s weak, that I’m weak. Well, Sherlock, you’re wrong.”

Y/N stepped closer to Sherlock—a determined gleam reflected in her eyes. “Yes, I care about others, maybe too much, but that makes me stronger. I have people to love and who love me back. Can you say the same?”

Sherlock stared back at her, all thoughts and words fled in her presence.

“I doubt you can,” Y/N continued. Her words commanded the room and Sherlock’s attention. He could not ignore her. “You push everyone away and blame it all on your intellectual mind. Your brother has to pay others to ensure you’re okay because he cares about you, and you couldn't care less. John buys you milk even when he knows it’ll disappear within a day due to your insane experiments, yet you never say thank you or offer to buy it yourself. Auntie M makes you tea and occasionally helps tidy up even though she’s just your landlady, and you shoot holes into her walls. Greg brings you cases and lets you get away with many things, yet you can never get his name right. Molly lets you take body parts from Bart’s, something that could cost her her job. However, you shred her apart every chance you get. I stand up for you when others try to break you down, and here you are, breaking me. All because I care too much. Because I care too much for you. I get it. I’m just your neighbor and assistant. That’s all I’ll ever be, even though you kissed me that night. Even though I’ve wanted you to kiss me for so long.”

“But your intelligence? That’s not the real reason you push everyone away.” Y/N’s grew low. “You treat the people around you like shit because you’re afraid they’ll leave just like everyone else and it’ll be easier to unattach yourself from them if they were never really there in the first place. So I quit. I quit being your assistant. I quit being your neighbor. You win Sherlock. You want me gone? I’ll leave. I’ll find the first flight out of London. I’ll go back home. I’ll leave, and you’ll never have to see me again because I understand now…”

A sob broke out from Y/N. John gasped, staring between his two friends. Wiping her tears away, Y/N raised her chin up high. Her feet trekked to the open door of John and Sherlock’s flat and paused before leaving. “Goodbye, John,” she said to her friend with melancholy eyes. “Goodbye…Sherlock.” It was barely a whisper, and by the time Sherlock realized what Y/N had said, she was gone.

____

The sound of the lock on her front door was the consolation Y/N found once she entered her apartment. Tears poured from her eyes as she collapsed against the door. She couldn’t see anything and couldn’t hear anything past her sobs, so when a warm hand pressed against her shoulder, she jumped out of her skin.

Following the hand to its owner, she saw Jim standing above her. His eyes were soft and gentle as he lifted her to her feet and hugged her.

Mumbling into her boyfriend’s shoulder, she asked, “How’d you get here?”

“Your aunt let me in,” he replied. “But that’s not important. What’s wrong, love?”

Y/N was too caught up in her emotions to recall her aunt was out with a friend for the evening. Instead, she caved into her boyfriend's touch and sweet words.

“I’d rather not talk about it,” she admitted, leaning deeper into his comfort.

Jim nodded and raised his hand to rub circles on her back. “How ‘bout after tea? I find that tea always helps soothe the mind.” He pulled back and smiled at her.

Y/N quickly agreed, and before she knew it, she’d drunk two cups of the steaming hot liquid. Upon noticing her cup was empty again, Jim poured her another cup and urged her to drink up. Y/N swallowed it down, finding the herbs to numb her senses. After a moment's silence, Y/N found her strength returning.

Taking a deep breath, she peered over at her boyfriend, ready to speak. “It was Sherlock. He…” Tears bubbled back up to the surface. “He…he” Y/N furrowed her brow. Her tongue seemed to stop working, and her mind was growing blank. “Sherlock,” she whispered with much difficulty.

Jim groaned. “Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.” Each time he said the detective's name, a chilling animosity grew.

“Huh?” Y/N said through the fog of her mind. She knocked her hand against something hard. The teacup fell to the floor and shattered. The deafening sound provided Y/N with some momentary clarity. When Y/N tried to stand from her seat, she discovered her legs had failed her. Instead of standing upright, she was on the floor beside the shattered cup. A groan escaped her mouth.

“I was wondering when it’d take effect,” Jim said. Y/N dragged her head to look up at him. Confusion covered her features as she saw the grin on her boyfriend’s face. As if he sensed her gaze, Jim’s eyes turned empty. “ Oh! I love that look on your face. Utter confusion. It’s adorable. I could just…muaw!” He placed a wet kiss on her lips. The force pushed her to the ground, and the hard surface welcomed her. She felt herself growing weaker. Her breath slowed, and her eyes grew heavy.

“You made my job a whole lot easier, and I’m very grateful for that, my dear. But I’ll have to reward you later when you wake up. I’m going to take you far away from here—away from Sherlock, John…I’m taking you away from it all.”

With the last of her strength, her mind screamed at her. Terror filled her veins as the walls caved in on her. She whimpered.

“Oh, there’s no need for that,” Jim said, crouching down. His fingers brushed through her hair, luring her to sleep. “Just rest. Everything will be alright. I promise.”

_____

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