Harvelle

Foggy's wife! It's just a silly phase i'm going through.

[4eather]

Welcome to my world. ↩︎

Rules|Currently not taking any submission

▸ Peacemaker

▸ Kickass ▸ Daredevil

‣ Moonknight ‣ CATWS

‣ Young Sherlock ‣ Murder house (AMERICAN HORROR STORY)

‣ Coven (AMERICAN HORROR STORY)

‣ Asylum (AMERICAN HORROR STORY)

[evanchantingpeters]

All my feminism goes out the window when I lay eyes on this man... Uff😬

[ameliathestrange]

born to be violet harmon, forced to be seth wosmer

he a cutie, i love him sm

[sunskine]

𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐌𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐇𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐌𝐄 ⤷ post death .ᐟ kyle spencer & witch .ᐟ reader 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨: sex, no smut. angst + fluff. madison's a bitch and zoe means well, but, uhh. poor kyle. reader is the same age as the other girls. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: csa (past, off page). it's not discussed in-depth. please take care of yourself! 𝐰𝐜: 1.5k 𝜗𝜚 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: from a request. thank you anon! i've never written frankenkyle before, so i don't have a groove to fall into. this kind of sucks MY BAD

〃⟢ 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐍'𝐓 𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐓𝐎 pseduo-adopt a frat guy, but life never really went the way you expected it to. Kyle had shown up a few days after he died, hanging on Zoe’s arm and grunting nonsense that pretty clearly conveyed his distress. For Miss Robichaux’s, the undead weren’t anything new, but Kyle’s mental state was. Resurrection didn’t usually strip the person of their speech capabilities and motor skills, just their emotional depth. That seemed to be the one thing Kyle hadn’t lost: his pain. 

For the first few days, you’d kept to the sidelines, spectating helplessly on the situation. Kyle, at least through your eyes, was unequipped to handle a lot of what was thrown at him now. Zoe, despite her gentle words and hands, was growing frustrated at his non-progression. Madison was, well...Madison. You think she’d feel a little bad for killing the guy, especially after he tried to help her, but no. Either she was too blind to the nuances of that night (you couldn’t exactly blame her) or reducing a kind, promising college student to a desperate, miserable man trapped inside a body with all the physical faculty of a toddler didn’t bother her. 

It bothered you. Especially once you caught wind of what they were doing. 

After getting up in the middle of the night to pee, you’d been making your way back to your room, eyes bleary and slippers squeaking against the hardwood, when you heard commotion in Madison and Zoe’s shared bedroom. You probably should have left it alone, but trouble in a finishing school for adolescent witches, particularly when it involved the queen of pissing people off, Madison Montgomery, shouldn’t be left to resolve itself. 

So you’d padded over to their door and pushed it open. Bad mistake. 

All three of them were on Madison’s bed, naked, twisted up with eachother. Kyle was flat on his back, eyes closed but awake, golden hair splayed on Madison’s pillow. Zoe had her thighs on either side of his head, fingers gripped tightly around the headboard. Madison, on the other hand, had a monopoly on the rest of him. 

You’d felt your heart clench painfully and you took a step forward almost against your will, fingertips lingering on the brass doorknob. It wasn’t that you thought he was a child—he was a frat brother, he’d probably had more than his fair share of sexual experiences—but that was before he’d died. Now, he couldn’t speak properly. He didn’t understand some things. Even though you got the feeling that it was mostly a motor thing—that Kyle’s mind was trapped inside a body that didn’t remember how to function, it still made you a little sick to think about doing what they were. 

Especially considering what you knew. 

You hadn’t meant to find him, bloody and shaking on the bathroom floor, but you had. Finding the door open that day, you and Zoe had decided to split up. She’d made laps around the area, and you ventured inside. And there he was, his eyes wide but distant, hair mussed, congealed blood on his face, on his neck, making his shirt stiff and sticky. 

Your name passed his lips over and over, hands reaching for you, even as he bumped his head against the cool ceramic of the toilet bowl. You’d knelt, taken inventory of his body, made sure he wasn’t injured. 

“What’s wrong?” you’d asked. “What happened?” 

A frustrated sound tore from his throat, and you’d caught wind of the tears in his eyes. “Bad,” he’d choked out. “Here’s bad. Her.” 

“Her? Who?” you’d asked, pulling away for a brief moment to wet a washcloth and begin to clean his face. Magic tingled in your chest, but you tried to tamp it down. You could use that later, when you were somewhere safer. 

He’d just shaken his head, jerking away from your touch before finally allowing you to wipe away some of the blood. 

“Who’s blood is this?”

He’d said nothing, gaze wandering to the ceiling, like he could barely stand to look at you, knowing you expected an answer. 

“I’m going to find you some new clothes.” You’d given him a worried look and slipped out of the room, sucking in a deep breath. 

He’d made a pained noise, but let you go. 

And then you’d been alone. Well, alone-ish. Left to wander through his house in search of his childhood bedroom. The house was cluttered and messy, dishes piled in the sink, windows grimy, every seat in the living room covered by stacks of newspaper. You didn’t know whether or not this was a new development, but you could guess. After Kyle left for college, there was nobody around to keep his house clean. Not when his mother was the person she was, after all. 

His bedroom door had been open, swinging on its hinges, like the last time it was opened had been violently. Lying in front of his dresser was the corpse of his mother. Her head was bashed in, blood splattered up the walls. A trophy sat in the hollow of her skull. 

Your heart had pounded in your chest, blood rushing to your fingertips, your breathing fast. You’d stepped over her body, legs feeling weak as you rummaged through his dresser, searching for something comfortable that might still fit his adult (or close to adult) frame. After a few tense moments, you’d retrieved a worn plaid pajama shirt and a plain gray t-shirt and promptly got the fuck out of that room. 

When you’d returned to the bathroom, you’d noticed that Kyle’s jeans were unbuttoned and his shirt was undone. Something painful clicked in your chest, but you hadn’t said anything. Kyle didn’t need that right now. 

So watching Madison, Zoe, and Kyle like that…well, it made something hot and angry flare in your chest. Then again, it wasn’t your job to protect him. He could take care of himself, couldn’t he? But…

“Stop,” you’d said. 

That word shattered the whole scene, and whatever friendship you’d built with the girls. Zoe, later, was apologetic. She told you that she felt bad about doing what she had, that she’d managed to justify it to herself, but that she regretted it. If Madison felt remorse, she didn’t say anything. 

You were sitting in the dining room, across from Kyle, cards strewn on the table between you. 

“Go fish,” you said, after shuffling through your hand. 

Light streamed in through the windows, making the white kitchen glow golden. Kyle stared at you for a moment before his gaze drifted to the pool of cards. He blinked, then looked to you like he was asking for permission. 

“Yeah,” you said. “You take a card. They’re blue on the back so that it looks like water. Fishing.” 

He nodded. When he leaned forward to pull a card, the sun filtered through his blond hair. He looked young. You always thought that, but it was especially apparent in moments like these. 

You hummed, glancing over your cards, before looking back up at him. “Hammerhead.”

He handed the card over, and you set the pair down on the table in front of you. “S…Seahorse,” he said. 

You grinned at him and gave him the card. “Damnnit, you’re gonna win.” 

He smiled back and you felt your heart clench. He set his final cards down, counting out his pairs before smiling wider and announcing, “Eleven.” 

“Nine! Come on! How’m I ever supposed to beat you?” 

Kyle shrugged. He didn’t have his full range of motion back yet, but he had enough for more minute, micro movements. You leaned across the table to plant a kiss on his cheek, and you watched as his face flushed. “Not fair,” he muttered, glancing away from you. 

“Fair and square,” you retorted, leaning back and crossing your arms over your chest. 

“You have...mm…magic.”

“I can cook emotion into food. And you’re not eating anything, are you?” 

He grouched for a bit before his face softened, brows lowering along with his shoulders. “Fine.”

“But I can make something if you’re hungry.” 

“Brownies?” 

You stood, rounding the table, fingers brushing through his hair briefly. He melted into the touch, eyes closing, head leaning back. When you pulled away, he let out a noise of complaint, but shook it off and moved to tidy the cards. 

He liked doing things like that now that he could. He had a lot of motor function back, which he was excited to show everybody. 

And you were excited to watch. It felt nice, watching him get better. Watching the scars fade, sink deeper into his skin. 

Even if his skin wasn’t his. Even if he was built out of parts that belonged to people who hurt somebody so badly, in the exact way he’d been hurt. Even if somehow, still, he seemed to attract people who wanted to hurt him in that way. Because he was getting stronger, and he had you, now. And you’d help. Or step back, if that was what he wanted. 

Really, you just wanted to make sure you’d never have to find him in another bathroom.

[bakuonmydeku]

Why make them hot if their a killer?? Why make then be morally grey if their gonna be boyfriend shapped?

[4eather]

— RULES. 🍂

— What i write!

I enjoy writing a wide range of fiction, especially dark-themed content. I'm open to NSFW topics, including hard kinks like BDSM—I'm a masochist at heart, and I don't judge! If you have unconventional kinks or rare pairings in mind, I'm definitely up for it. On the flip side, I also appreciate some vanilla smut, yearning, slow burns, and fluffy stories.

I write both character/character and character/reader fics (platonic, romantic.)

I'm pro-fiction and pro-ship, so I’m comfortable with topics like age-gaps, non-con elements, and yandere themes. I can also write character death and angst. If you'd like an age-gap fic, please specify the reader's age.

The only topics I won't write about are characters cheating on the reader, AMAB reader or character/incest, and AMAB character smut, I also do not and WILL not write pregnancy-related stories.

[4eather]

Des chenapans

Featuring: Sherlock Holmes x Female Reader x James Moriarty Summary: 𝘚𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘚𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘴. 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘶𝘱 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘱 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘤𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮. 𝘐𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺. 𝘏𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳, 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘧𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘴, 𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥. Genre: Romance, Drama, Comedy Warning/tags: 𝘕𝘰 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘺/𝘯, 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘍𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘰 𝘱𝘩𝘺𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥/𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦𝘯'𝘴 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘳. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘩 (𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵, 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩). 𝘚𝘩𝘰𝘶’𝘢𝘯 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘶𝘵, 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘯, 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘪-𝘨𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪'𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘴, 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘚𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘢 𝘣𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘚𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘴 𝘧𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘨𝘰𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥, 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘳𝘵, 𝘔𝘺𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘣𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘚𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬.

• A/n: this is abit rushed!! i'm sorry for the wait everyone!! Next chapter will be about reader avoiding Sherlock's every advance

Masterlist | Previous chapter | Next chapter.

The past few days had been a whirlwind of being a porter, each moment brimming with a variety of tasks assigned to both you and Sherlock. However, the head porter typically preferred to see you two working apart, his reasoning being that together, you’d fall into idle chatter and neglect your cleaning duties—something that irked Sherlock deeply. He had taken quite an interest in you in a way he struggled to put words into. He had noticed your French background and the palpable tension that hung between you and your older cousin the moment he take good look at the both of you, he caught your sharp glare directed at anyone who dared to invade her personal space that day, especially the glare you were shooting daggers at his older brother Mycroft.

He noticed a lot of odd things about you in that particular day, the way light seemed to cast a more ghostly pallor over your features, and you appeared shaky—perhaps a lingering effect of your recent travel. And the way you breathed seemed weighted, as if an invisible weight rested upon your chest. Was it illness, perhaps? Or was he merely overanalzying things again? You were a very quiet person, and he doesn't know if you just simply don’t like him because of his older brother, because even as your cleaning hours aligned with his own; he had expected at least the slightest attempt at conversation from you, but nothing came. 

He wasn’t typically great with making friends. But with you he found himself wanting to be yours, he longed to delve deeper into your world, but you were a ghost, and each time he mustered the courage to speak, a wave of clamminess washed over him, driving him to adjust his hair in what felt like a futile attempt at looking presentable. By the time he was ready, you would invariably slip away, leaving only his thought of what could have been.

It was a stroke of destiny when he finally found you nestled in the corners of the dimly lit library, a haven that almost seemed to cradle secrets. The soft, golden glow from the overhead lamps danced above you, illuminating your focused expression as you delved into the pages of some book he couldn't quite see. The sight made him momentarily freeze. Instinctively, he smoothed back his hair, his eyes darting around in search of a mirror—he wanted to make sure no dust marred his face—before he quickly stopped himself; he doesn't want this opportunity to slip away. His intentions were simple—get to know you better; perhaps, curiously ask about how your cousin knew his older brother, Mycroft. Though, he knew that the answer is a no due to your  confused face that day. And though he couldn't quite careless about his brother’s relationship with your cousin, it’d be a great way to start up a conversation.

Pretending to be interested in the same bookshelf, he could almost feel the tension building up in the air around you. He reached for a book that didn’t even interest him in the slightest just to make himself look busy, before angling closer to catch a glimpse of the title you were engrossed in, only to realize it was some sort of math book definitely from the professor he saw you talking with yesterday.

“Quite the fancy book you have there,” he stammered, raising his fist to his lips in a faux cough, hoping his words might stir even the slightest acknowledgment from you.

But your silence was unyielding, and he felt the sting of rejection. Undeterred, he pressed on. “Would you happen to know how my older brother Mycroft is acquainted with your cousin?” The question held little weight to him in truth, but it created a space for conversation—a reason to bridge the invisible gulf between you.

When you finally peered up from your reading, your gaze was nothing short of piercing. He caught a glimpse of annoyance flitting across your features—a clear signal that his intrusion had shattered your moment of solace. Hastily, he shifted his attention back to the book in hand, unwilling to linger on his embarrassment.

“No, I do not know, my cousin is quite a secretive person,” you replied, your tone flat and indifferent as you resumed your focus on the math book, perhaps hoping he’d take the hint and leave you be. Yet beneath that indifference, he sensed a flicker of hope—a glimmer of connection waiting to be unearthed.

“Ah,” he acknowledged, feeling an ember of hope kindling in the wake of your response. At least you had given him with something to work with. Closing the book with a decisive clap, he took a seat beside you, pressing himself against the cool wallbeside you. “Je n'ai pas pu m'empêcher de remarquer que vous êtes française,” he blurted out in French as a last-effort appeal, his pronunciation somewhat clumsy but earnest enough to capture your attention. 

I couldn't help but noticed that you’re from France

You closed the book resting on your lap, turning to face him, an eyebrow raised in curiosity. “Comment le sais-tu?” Your tone sparked a smile across his lips, and his own curiosity mirrored in the arch of his eyebrow as he responded, “Je l'ai remarqué à vos bagages ce jour-là, à la saleté sur votre chaussure cirée ce matin-là, et à vos vêtements uniques.” Surprisingly, he noticed a flicker of shocked and admiration in your expression, despite his terrible pronunciation.

How do you know?

I noticed it by your luggage that day, the dirt on your polished shoe that morning, and your unique clothing.

"How does a college porter end up speaking French in the Northeastern?" you inquired, tilting your head—a look of amusement illuminating your features as your gaze lingered on his face, his smile grew wider clearly liking your attention, he shifted on the floor to fully face you.

"I used to give food to a homeless German man," he confessed, pride swelling in his chest while you regarded him with a mix of awe and amusement, your own smile widening in response to the earnest of his revelation "and he would share knowledge in return." With a slight tip of his beret, he endeavored to charm you, and to his delight, you chuckled.

"That would explain the butchered pronunciation," you teased lightly, watching as he momentarily froze, the hint of offense flickering across his face. But just as quickly, he regained his composure, his expression transforming into one of playful exasparation. Rising to his feet, he extended a hand toward you, in hoping to turn the moment of embarrassment into a light-hearted connection.

You hesitated for a fleeting moment, uncertainty flitting across your features before you clasped his hand. He pulled you up with more force than intended, your chests colliding as a surprised “oof” escaped your lips. "I apologize," he said, his apologetic smile was genuine, tinged with a touch of embarrassment as he slowly let go of your hand—he couldn't help but notice how much smaller it was compared to his and how smoother, making him want to reached out and touch you again.

"It's no problem, Sherlock," you replied, stepping back—an involuntary emotion flutter in his chest at the distance, it didn’t sit well with him. He frowned slightly, but not wanting to overthink it, shrugged off the feeling.

“Shall we get back to our tasks then, Mister linguist?” you teased, giving his back a gentle pat, a simple gesture that conveyed a warmth he couldn’t ignore.

------

The two of you had just finished tidying up for the day, meticulously dusting shelves and organizing books in Professor Charles' cluttered office. It was supposed to be a routine task for you alone, a chance to investigate the professor's office for some sort of clue. However, Sherlock had insisted on tagging along, much to your annoyance. No matter how many excuses you concocted, he remained stubbornly attached to your side, his eager persistence wearing on your nerves. Even the head porter, who had often scolded you for even simply looking at each other, didn’t say anything this time, claiming that two pairs of hands were better than one. Like that balding man hadn’t frequently reprimanded you for simply handing Sherlock’s a broom! Was the universe suddenly conspiring against you? 

You swallowed your irritation for the sake of maintaining a peaceful camaraderie, weighing the benefits of keeping Sherlock close. he could serve as your scapegoat if anything went wrong, or be a convenient alibi. He seemed rather keen on your companionship. Anyway, it was quite endearing, really. He followed you around unrelentingly, as if you were the most captivating subject in the entire university. 

As you dusted a cabinet adorned with an array of ancient texts, you cast a sidelong glance at Sherlock, who was diligently sweeping the floor with a broom. “Did you notice that the head porter is balding at the back of his head?” you ventured, hoping to distract him from your intention. You had long realized that Sherlock was quite the observant little rat, and although he followed you like a devoted puppy, you still didn’t trust him enough not to spill your secrets. So, you remained cautious around him.

“I did, actually,” he replied, pausing mid-sweep. “He’s balding not because of old age, rather, it came from his relentless habit of wearing hats. That, coupled with the copious sweating beneath them, is quite frankly revolting.” 

Usually, Sherlock didn’t gossip unless it benefited him, but with you, it felt like a natural, friendly thing to do. He liked that you were talking to him now; perhaps he hadn’t made a fool of himself earlier after all.

“And you noticed all of that…?” you inquired, a hint of disbelief in your voice as you glanced over your shoulder. He paused, puffing up his chest with pride. “With a simple observation,” he declared, his tone self-satisfied. Making you chuckle slightly at that. See? very observant, indeed, you thought.

You were so close to the table—so painfully close to that scattered table of papers—as you tried to keep Sherlock occupied with your nonsensical questions about people in the university to keep Sherlock engaged. Just as you were about to edge forward, he swooped in and started aligning the disorganized sheets, causing a frown to form on your lips. 

“Not to offend you or anything, Benedict,” he suddenly blurted out, the words tumbling from his mouth before he could contain them, “but, do you have some sort of illness?” The bluntness of his inquiry caught you off guard, and he visibly grimaced at his own words. He had rehearsed various ways to ask this but had ultimately still managed to land on the most unvarnished version. 

“Sorry—” he started to retract, but you cut him off with a pointed question. “How do you mean?” You moved around the desk, positioning yourself directly across from him, watching as he fidgeted with the papers. 

“Well,” he continued, his brow furrowing in concern, “it’s just the way you breathe, like there’s something weighing…” His words trailed off as you blinked, suddenly aware of the tight bandage constricting your chest. Had your discomfort been that obvious? Memories began to flood your mind—of your cousin Benedict, who had insisted on wrapping yourself tightly to conceal the two mountain on your chest.

"Are you trying to kill me, Benedict!?" you yelped, a mix of frustration and disbelief as you remembered the way he had tightened the bandage weeks prior. 

"I would never dream of it, dear cousin!" he laughed, seemingly relishing your discomfort. "I’m just trying to teach you the proper way to do this; otherwise, you’ll slack off and never do it right!" His laughter echoed through the room as he tugged back on the fabric, nearly knocking the air from your lungs.

Trusting his advice, you had followed suit—always binding your chest as tightly as he did, leading you to rise before dawn each day to prepare yourself before stepping out of your room.

You found yourself drifting into the haze of your thoughts until a sharp voice jolted you back to reality. “What are you doing with those?!” roared Professor Charles, his tone severe as he approached from behind Sherlock, who immediately stopped speaking and turned, letters and papers clutched awkwardly in his hands. Making you cursed silently at Sherlock. You didn't know whether to thank the professor for the his interruption or grow annoyed that you didn't get enough time to read the letters.

“Tidying, sir. I do apologize, Professor Thompson,” Sherlock managed, his voice steady even as you exchanged glances, your eyes narrowing at Professor Thompson who snatched the sheets from Sherlock’s grasp. 

"No good ever comes from poking your nose into business that doesn't concern you," the professor continued scolding, his voice cutting through the air. He turned sharply on his heel, walking away from Sherlock with an air of authority. Sherlock was quick to tucked his hand behind his back while raising an eyebrow in exasperation, his lips forming a thin line. The professor's gaze flicked toward you, standing just before his cluttered desk with a small scowl marring his otherwise stern features, clearly displeased by your proximity to his workspace.

"We truly apologize, Professor Thompson, we were only carrying out our assigned duties," you offered, your voice steady. With a swift motion, you circled around the desk, moving beside Sherlock before he started yelling at the two of you for being close to his desk, before stealing a glance at the professor. He was busy filing away the papers in a drawer beneath his desk, the sound of the wood creaking under the pressure of his movements echoing through the room. When he slammed the drawer shut, making a loud thud, causing you and Sherlock to stiffen, standing before him like two misbehaving children caught in the act. In unison, you both uttered, “We apologize, sir,” the words tumbling from your mouths, eliciting a quick exchange of glances between you. A small grin crept onto your faces, reminiscent of children sharing secrets, before the professor loudly cleared his throat, drawing your attention back to him.

“Did you write this?” Sherlock inquired, swiftly shifting the atmosphere from awkward tension to academic curiosity. He leaned closer, tilting his head toward the polished wooden table, keenly observing the mathematical book that rested there. Picking up a familiar title—the very book you had immersed yourself in at the library—he glanced up at Professor Thompson with renewed interest. “Yes, I did,” the professor replied, a hint of pride swelling in his chest as a smile broke through his stern exterior. “Recently published, and rather well received, if I may say so.” His tone took on a self-satisfied edge as he rolled his eyes at the words “rather well received.” Shifting his focus, he directed his gaze toward you, tilting his head inquisitively. “I do believe you borrowed one yesterday, didn’t you, Bridgerton?”

“Ah yes, I did, sir,” you responded, your posture shifting slightly as your shoulder brushed against Sherlock’s. You caught Sherlock’s sideways glance, and your heart fluttered did a little in response to his attention. “That is good… good. If I may ask, is my book different from the mathematical one in France? Sorry, there are rumors circulating about a new porter boy from France, and I assumed that is you, yes?”

“You are correct, Professor,” you said confidently, adjusting your stance to engage better him. “The mathematical approach is somewhat different; however, they share core principles. The professor there focuses on teaching abstract concepts, logic, and structure, emphasizing the foundations of how mathematics is logically constructed. In while, your book delves into arithmetic, geometry, and problem-solving using a step-by-step method—yours is more about teaching how to conduct the calculations rather than understanding the ‘why’ behind them.” Your chin tilted up slightly, the conviction in your words causing the professor's eyebrows to furrow in contemplation. “Are you suggesting that—” he began, but Sherlock interjected seamlessly, holding up the math book in his grasp, making you look at him in annoyance at the interruption.

“May I?” Sherlock asked, his tone polite yet assertive as he addressed the professor.

“Oh—Yes, of course,” Professor Thompson approved, diverting his attention back to Sherlock, who stood confidently beside you. The professor settled into his chair, intertwining his fingers as he regarded Sherlock with a flicker of interest. “A scouts curious about mathematics?” he mused, shifting his gaze between both of you rather than focusing solely on Sherlock. 

“My father instilled in me a love for reading,” Sherlock replied, adjusting his stance slightly, a pleased expression blooming on his face as he briefly glanced your way. “He taught me the value of curiosity.” Before his gaze returned to the book in his hand. 

“My own father always told me that being successful means little if you possess skills but lack the knowledge here,” you added, tapping your temple thoughtfully. The professor hummed in acknowledgment while Sherlock cast a sidelong look at you, his expression brightening your words. He was always eager to learn more about you.

“Ah, curiosity,” Professor Thompson echoed, his fingers tapping rhythmically together as he absorbed your words. “The greatest virtue,” Sherlock echoed with a bright smile, turning his focus back to the book. "But not if you're a cat," he quipped, closing the book with a decisive thud, prompting a hearty laugh from the professor-a sound that seemed to dance around the room, leaving you slightly puzzled, not getting the joke. Shifting from foot to foot, you felt the atmosphere morph from tense to lively. 

“Would you mind if I borrow this?” Sherlock asked, lifting the professor’s math book and shaking it gently, his eagerness palpable.

“Um, not at all, um…” the professor hesitated, trailing off as if he were attempting to recall Sherlock's name, gesturing toward him with an open hand.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he stated confidently, moving the book to one hand and bowing his head slightly in acknowledgment.

“Sherlock? It’s an unusual name,” the professor observed, tilting his head in mild surprise. Sherlock then crouched slightly in a mock bow, straightening up as he tucked the book under his arm. He reached for your hand, pulling you gently along with him as he prepared to leave. “Ah, right, Benedict? Perhaps when you are free, I would like to discuss more about the mathematics in your home,” Professor Thompson called after you, making you turn back, eagerness bubbling within. 

"I would be honored, Professor Thompson," you replied with genuine delight, knowing that this meant you would have the opportunity to get to know the professor better. This could potentially allow you to enter his office more often, and if you were ever caught, you could come up with lots of excuses to justify your presence. Your mind raced slightly as you contemplated the secrets that might lie within those papers he had snatched from Sherlock's hands earlier.

Just as you dipped your head slightly in gratitude, Sherlock pulled you out of the room, the door clicking shut behind both of you with a soft but definitive thud. 

As the sound of your footsteps faded, Professor Thompson wasted no time. He swiftly reopened the drawer where he had tucked away the letters and papers, his expression shifting from calm to intent as he scanned the contents. With careful precision, he extracted one of the papers, eyes darting across the text as he absorbed every word. Once he finished, a flicker of urgency crossed his face, and he leaned back slightly, almost as if to shake off the weight of what he had read. In a swift motion, he tucked the paper securely inside the bolt beneath the desk, safeguarding its contents from prying eyes.

------

“I assumed the two of you are well-behaved?” Smudger said, his sharp gaze scrutinizing the two of you standing side by side. You flashed a playful smile, responding, “More than behave, Sir,” which prompted a slow nod from the head porter, who squinted as if he were trying to separate truth from fiction.

“This is for the Chinese princess, just arrived,” he announced, gesturing toward a large wooden box that loomed beside a smaller piece of luggage resting on the polished floor. Sherlock wasted no time, his hands swiftly clasping the hefty wooden box, while you opted for the smaller suitcase. Having shed your aprons earlier, the two of you donned more typical attire—Sherlock sporting a fashionable beret tilted jauntily to one side, while you chose to go without, feeling a sense of freedom in your choice. “Old court, room 2B,” the head porter directed, his finger jabbing purposefully in the air. Nodding, you turned to leave, while Sherlock executed a theatrical swirl as he followed you. “At your service, Mr. Smudger,” he quipped with a flourish.

“Good lad,” the head porter called as you began your trek through the cobbled courtyard, the sun casting playful shadows as you walked side by side.

------

“What do you think is inside these luggage?” Sherlock mused, his curiosity piqued as you ambled along the courtyard sidewalk, the weight of the luggage shifting in your arms. “Hopefully a trove of gold that we could use to escape this wretched place, judging by how heavy it is,” you replied, straining to adjust the smaller suitcase nestled against your side. His amused grin widened at your plight. “Still struggling with that luggage?” he teased, raising an eyebrow at the case you carried, then glancing at the larger piece he controlled with apparent ease.

“Hush, linguist boy, not everyone was raised bearing the weight of their own heavy luggage,” you shot back, rolling your eyes dramatically. His laughter echoed, undeterred by your playful retort. “So, a spoiled French boy, then?” he chimed, his voice light and teasing. Exasperated, you retaliated with a playful kick to his shin, watching with glee as he chuckled and stumbled slightly before regaining his footing. 

He suddenly seemed entranced by something in the distance. Following his gaze, you squinted at the serene expanse of green grass interspersed with flowers, contrasting with the imposing architecture of the school. Had he lost his mind? You pondered, watching him stare blankly at the open air for what felt like an eternity, until your focus shifted to a woman dressed in stunning green near one of the university buildings. She caught your eye, emanating an air of curiosity that you couldn’t quite place, before you avert your gaze back to Sherlock beside you. “Sherlock,” you called sharply, wrenching him from his reverie. “The princess is waiting for her luggage,” you reminded him, nudging him to focus. He mumbled a half-hearted apology, and the two of you resumed your path.

------

Knock, knock.

Sherlock groaned in irritation, shifting his stance as you rapped lightly on the door. "Scouts!" the two of you announced in unison. When the door finally swung open, you were greeted by the breathtaking sight of a stunning Asian woman. You couldn't help but stare in awe for a moment before Sherlock jabbed you gently in the back with the wooden box, an unmistakable signal for you to step inside. The woman stepped back gracefully, allowing you both to cross the threshold into her lavish room.

"Your luggage, ma'am," Sherlock stated smoothly as you entered, noting how the spacious room contrasted sharply with your tiny quarters. "Please, place it on the desk," she instructed, guiding the two of you toward her desk cluttered with various items. Suddenly, Sherlock launched into fluent Mandarin, causing you to furrow your brow in confusion. Damn show-off, you thought, shaking your head slightly. You were far from proficient in the language, familiar only with bits and pieces, yet you could recognize that he spoke about “clearing” something—likely referring to the cluttered desk. The woman’s eyebrows arched in surprise, a small grin blossoming on her lips as she responded in Mandarin, her eyes sparkling with interest.

As she started moving some clutter off the desk, you were quick to placed the smaller suitcase atop Sherlock’s larger one, eliciting a fleeting flicker of her gaze that assessed you from head to toe. You couldn’t ignore that look; nothing got past you, especially not the way her eyes held a curious glint. With a bold quip, “Kàn de kāixīn ma?”—a phrase you had picked up from your cousin Benedict—tilted your head slightly, a playful gesture that danced on the edge of boldness. Perhaps spending too much time with Benedict had influenced your own demeanor, making you a bit more daring than usual. You pondered this for a moment, recognizing that you might need to temper your forwardness. After all, one of your main goals here was to help curb down Benedict’s reputation as a womanizer.

Enjoying the view?

Sherlock’s head snapped toward you, a mix of curiosity and surprise crossing his features. His eyebrows raised, but you simply shrugged in response.

As the two conversed rapidly, Sherlock occasionally averted his gaze from you to her, his demeanor attentive and focused. You found your mind wandering to the mysterious woman you had noticed earlier, the one in green. Perhaps once this was done, you would venture to find her. You pondered your options, tapping your shoe lightly against the polished floor, fidgeting with impatience as your thoughts drifted away from the conversation unfolding before you.

You snapped out of your trance as you overheard her speaking in some word you were familiar in Mandarin, her tone laced with a teasing lilt. She remarked on Sherlock's terrible pronunciation, her melodic voice mingling with the soft rustling of the room, and then some other words you couldn’t quite grasp, until both she and Sherlock turned their eyes toward you. “Ah, I don’t know Mandarin, I only know that one phrase,” you admitted with a another shrug of your shoulders, eliciting an amused look from the lady at your curt response. 

“The shoemaker had a dependency,” Sherlock interjected, shifting to English as he briefly averted his gaze from you, then directed it back toward the woman beside him, his expression serious yet intriguing. 

“Do you mean he was a drunk?” she said, her brows arching slightly in curiosity as she also turned her attention to him.

“That was his poison of choice, yes,” Sherlock confirmed, his tone steady. The woman seemed to absorb this, a fleeting smile playing on her lips as she responded, “which explained your slurred delivery.” Their conversation momentarily hung in the air for a long minute. Before Sherlock responded by bowing his head slightly, his demeanor reminiscent of your hours prior light-hearted remark commented on his French pronunciation.

“Your highness,” he remarked with a playful formality as he prepared to depart, prompting you to mimic a small bow, feeling the light air of ritual surrounding the moment. However, the woman’s smile flickered and faded, a subtle shadow crossing her expression as she watched the door close behind him.

"I didn't know you spoke Mandarin," Sherlock remarked as the two of you strolled side by side down the corridor, the soft sound of your footsteps echoing momentarily in the otherwise quiet hall.

“Well, I wasn’t aware you did either,” you replied, a teasing tone edging into your voice. “But now we both know. Delightful, am I right?” With a sudden burst of energy, you picked up your pace, moving more quickly down the hall. The tasks ahead demanded your attention; and now the two of you were tasked with changing attire to prepare for your duties as waiter boys for the upcoming announcement from the school dean in the dining hall.

------

The formal hall echoed with the distinct sound of glass clinking, a melodic reminder of the gathering's importance.

“Pray, silence for Sir Bucephalus Hodge,” announced the school dean, tapping his cordial glass delicately with a butter knife. Gradually, the noise subsided, and all eyes turned to him as he stood up, adjusting the brown lapel of his well-tailored suit.  “While visiting my, uh, not inconsiderable business interests,” his speech laced with a mixture of pride and self-importance, “in this glorious empire of ours,”

"It struck me that it was time to give back,” he continued, his tone becoming more impassioned as he surveyed the attentive faces of the students. “So it is, uh, with great delight that I announce this term the opening of my new science building,” he further proclaimed, glancing down at Mycroft, who sat beside him, then back to the eager students. “A brilliant addition to this glittering university.” As he continued his address, he focused intently on the students, “Now, scholars. On your feet!” he commanded with a flourish, raising his glass high, a small smile flashing across his face, encouraging the students to rise from their seats. 

“Now I present to you my Hodge scholars,” he declared, his hand diving into his trouser pocket while proudly holding up his glass, prompting a wave of applause from the students. “Take a good look,” he instructed the professors flanking him, “these students will be generals, prime ministers,” he boasted, his gaze scanning the crowd as Sherlock and you observed from the sidelines, surrounded by a group of waitresses. Sherlock shifted next to you as the dean continued his oration, his attention soon landing on his brother, who was seated beside the standing dean. Their eyes met momentarily before Mycroft's gaze shifted to your scowling expression. Sherlock raised an eyebrow in acknowledgment, a silent communication between brothers.

"Leaders who will guide our worlds into the 20th century," the dean added, his words hanging in the air as Mycroft quickly turned his eyes away from the two of you, clearly trying to remove himself from the distraction.

"Enjoy your learning, enjoy your youth. Welcome!" he announced with a flourish, lifting his glass one final time, the wine sloshing close to the rim. The students erupted into applause once more, and as rapidly as they had stood, they settled back into their chairs.

------

“I came up in '23, itchy feet, though. Didn’t stay long,” Hodge remarked conversationally leaning in closer to Mycroft, who reciprocated the gesture, ensure their words weren't lost amidst the background noise of students chattering. 

“And may I say, sir, no one has had a greater impact,” Mycroft replied smoothly, his voice even and composed, as Sherlock stealthily maneuvered behind him, not even recognizing your presence as the two men exchanged words. "On expanding the British Empire than you," he added, eliciting a nod of appreciation from Hodge.

Just then, a lively voice cut through their conversation. "Everything to your satisfaction, sirs?" Sherlock chimed in, slipping into a mock cockney accent that made both men turn sharply toward him. Mycroft’s features contorted into a mask of exasperation upon seeing the playful glint in his brother’s eye. “Yes, uh, thank you… thank you,” Mycroft faltered as Sherlock moved deftly behind him, placing a napkin over Mycroft's lap with a cheeky flourish. 

“Oh,” Mycroft exclaimed, blinking in surprise as his brother’s antics took him off guard. “You quite sure?” Sherlock pressed, his voice still dripping with exaggerated cockney charm. 

“Yes, fine, thank you,” Mycroft managed, his patience thinning as Sherlock continued his playful interruptions. “Nothing else I can get you? I am, of course, at your service,” Sherlock insisted, leaning conspiratorially between Hodge and Mycroft. You, standing nearby, couldn’t help but watch the amusing exchange, a small grin breaking across your face as you moved closer to join them.

"We are of course, at your beck and call as you well know, sir," you chimed in, positioning yourself on Mycroft’s left side, while Sherlock maintained his playful post on the right. Mycroft rolled his eyes, feeling the influx of youthful exuberance amounting to a new, delightful headache. “I said I'm fine, thank you,” he replied sharply, trying to silence both his brother and his dear friend’s cousin.

“Do you know these young men?” Hodge inquired of Mycroft, sparking a quick response from Sherlock. “Yes, he does, sir, very well, sir,” he declared, as he grabbed another napkin, intent on draping it over the lap of a professor seated beside Hodge. 

“Not quite, sir, not very well,” you interjected, deftly placing a napkin over Hodge’s lap, drawing his attention back to you. A curious look crossed Hodge's face as he shifted his gaze between you and Sherlock. “How so?” he asked, clearly intrigued.

“He is a very... very close friend of a cousin of mine, sir,” you explained, while Sherlock added, “I’m his lowly brother, sir.” The two of you exchanged a glance, a moment of camaraderie shared before turning your heads toward Mycroft, whose countenance suggested he was desperately hoping to avoid further scrutiny. 

“What? Brother? No? A friend I understand, but a brother?” Hodge exclaimed, disbelief painting his features as he regarded Mycroft. “Is this true, Mycroft?” Hodge pressed, eager for confirmation, while Mycroft shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Uh, it’s not a very interesting story, sir,” Mycroft said dismissively, a note of frustration lacing his tone. He shook his head slightly, hoping Hodge would lose interest in the conversation and move on. But Hodge was relentless. “But is it true?” he pressed, his gaze shifting to Sherlock and you, who were carefully draping a napkin over the other professor’s lap. Hodge then turned back to Mycroft, who exchanged a glance with him, the tension in the air palpable. Stammering slightly, Mycroft finally replied, “Yes, indeed, he is my brother.”

Hodge’s confusion deepened as he looked at Sherlock, trying to figure out how someone like him ended up serving here instead of being a student. “So how did he end up serving here?” he inquired, his tone betraying genuine curiosity. To this, Sherlock declared loudly, “Redemption, sir,” as he draped another napkin over the lap of the chatting professor beside you, mimicking your earlier movements. 

“Redemption from what?” Hodge asked, his intrigue piqued as he shifted his focus from Mycroft to Sherlock. The other professors momentarily paused their conversations, casting their attention toward Sherlock, captivated by the unexpected revelation.

“Prison, Her Majesty's pleasure,” Sherlock answered nonchalantly, a hint of mischief in his voice. The declaration made you sit up a little straighter; while you had exchanged tentative words before, he hadn’t revealed that part of his past to you yet. In fact, since that initial talk in the library, your conversations had been limited to brief pleasantries. Noticing your surprised expression, Sherlock flashed you an encouraging smile, a silent promise that he would explain everything later. He then returned his focus to Hodge and Mycroft, with you trailing closely behind him.

“How could you say this wasn’t interesting, Mycroft?” Hodge exclaimed, turning back to Mycroft, who exhaled in exasperation, clearly frustrated by the turn of events. As Sherlock took his place on Hodge’s right side, you settled on his left, ready to hear more. “Do carry on, young man,” Hodge urged, tilting his head expectantly toward Sherlock.

“Ah, well,” Sherlock began, leaning slightly toward Hodge, his voice low and conspiratorial. “My magnanimous brother here took pity on the black sheep of the family.” He glanced from Hodge to Mycroft, then back again, capturing everyone’s attention as you subtly shifted aside, allowing him to take center stage. Who wouldn’t want to hear this increasingly riveting story?

“For which I am eternally grateful,” Sherlock added with a theatrical flourish, stepping back to regain his previous position. You chimed in cheerfully, “More wine, your lordship?” prompting Hodge to swivel toward you, his eyes narrowing in recognition as he then returned his gaze to Sherlock. 

“So, tell me… you have the same parents?” Hodge inquired, his voice slightly stammering in disbelief at the familial dynamics Sherlock had just outlined. “Yes, we do, sir,” Sherlock replied, as you expertly poured wine into Hodge’s glass, the rich liquid swirling within the delicate crystal. “Although, sadly, we only really see each other at, uh, family funerals,” he continued, making an exaggerated gesture with his hand, his expression twisting into one that blended jest with a hint of sorrow. “Courtrooms and the like,” he added, as you diligently poured until the cordial glass brimmed, the wine glistening under the soft light of the room.

"Sir, today..." you began, your voice trailing off as Sherlock gracefully moved to serve the esteemed professor seated beside you, while you expertly poured the wine. The rich, ruby liquid filled the glasses, catching the ambient light of the room, creating a warm glow. "Oh, that's quite enough," Hodge interjected, his tone playful yet slightly alarmed, as Mycroft's eyes widened slightly at the amount you were pouring. 

"It is your quite special day, your scholars are an inspiration to us all," you remarked, leaning down toward Hodge and gesturing toward the eager students seated at the front of the hall. Hodge's gaze flickered back and forth between you and Sherlock, creating a palpable tension in the air.

"So, um, tell me, young man..." Hodge asked Sherlock, causing your eyes to momentarily darted to a student seated among the group, the two of you sharing an intense staring contest before you regained your composure and turned your attention back to Sherlock, a bit curious to hear his response also. "Larceny. Thieving. Theft. Petty theft," Sherlock replied without any hesitation, his inflection casual, which elicited a resigned sigh from Mycroft, who shook his head ever so slightly, a familiar exasperation with his younger brother evident. 

"Although those days are well and truly behind me," Without skipping a beat, Sherlock swiftly moved aside to retrieve another napkin, placing it over Hodge's suit with an almost theatrical flourish. "Spiritually and permanently," he remarked slyly. You exchanged a glance with him motioning that you already did that, your eyebrow raising in disbelief as he just winked, his impish charm shining through. He quickly lifted a glinting object from Hodge's pocket, and with a triumphant air declared, "There we are, reformed." 

What in the world? you thought, shaking your head, unable to fathom his audacity. Sherlock simply shushed you with a gesture, grinning widely. 

"A taker, now a giver. Reborn to serve, sir," he added, slipping the watch into the pocket of his suit as he moved back beside you. "Thank you, I'm sure we can manage on our own from now on, brother dearest," Mycroft interjected, casting a glance at the two of you, a hint of irritation in his voice. 

"Very well, sirs," Sherlock replied, quickly tugging you away with him, eager to escape the scene. Just as you turned to leave, Hodge called out, prompting Sherlock to halt in his tracks, while Mycroft let out another weary sigh. 

"Bridgerton? Am I right? Eloise's cousin?" Hodge queried, a hint of recognition lighting up his expression. "Yes, sir...?" you trailed off, feeling Sherlock tower behind you as he looked past your head to meet Hodge's gaze. A wave of small panic washed over you—did he notice Sherlock had stolen his watch? The urge to spill the beans surged within you; you were ready to confess that you had nothing to do with that kleptomaniac. After all, you certainly didn’t care what happened to him, it was his problem for not being able to keep his hands to himself.

"I almost didn't recognize you, son. Have you gotten shorter, or are my eyes deceiving me?” he mused, making you blink in surprise. “Sorry, are we acquainted, sir?” you asked, feeling a twinge of embarrassment; social interactions could be tricky for you, and names sometimes slipped away from your brain like whispers in the wind. 

"Your father spoke of your situation," Hodge continued, his voice sounding between dissapointed but not surprised. "I’m glad to see you here. Perhap we could have a talk in my office, if you aren't too busy with your job." Your mouth formed an 'o' in realization. "Ah right! Uncle—Sir Hodge, right, right," you exclaimed, the memory flooding back as you recalled the once-snobbish friend of Benedict's father, who insisted on being called 'uncle' when he visited during your childhood.

Meanwhile, Mycroft observed the exchange he didn't seem surprised, clearly, this information had reached him through Eloise. While Sherlock’s surprise was palpable as he turned to look down at your head instinctively. "Ah right then, sirs, we shall be on our way," you said, allowing Sherlock to pull you along.

Once the two of you were out of earshot, Mycroft turned back to Hodge, a note of contrition in his voice. "I'm so sorry, sir," he offered. 

"Oh, no need to apologize, Mycroft," Hodge replied, adjusting the napkin that had been hastily placed on his lap. "Your brother's the most interesting part of you," he added, a chuckle escaping his lips as Mycroft simply pursed his lip in response.

[4eather]

Des chenapans

⤷ Featuring: Sherlock Holmes x Fem!Reader x James Moriarty

Summary: 𝘚𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘚𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘴. 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘶𝘱 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘱 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘤𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮. 𝘐𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺. 𝘏𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳, 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘧𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘴, 𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥. Genre: Romance, Drama, Comedy Warning: 𝘕𝘰 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘺/𝘯, 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘍𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘰 𝘱𝘩𝘺𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥/𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦𝘯'𝘴 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘳. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘩 (𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵, 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩). 𝘚𝘩𝘰𝘶’𝘢𝘯 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘶𝘵, 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘯, 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘪-𝘨𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪'𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘴, 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘚𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘢 𝘣𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘚𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘴 𝘧𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘨𝘰𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥, 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘳𝘵, 𝘔𝘺𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘣𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘚𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬.

• A/n: this is abit rushed!! i'm sorry for the wait everyone!! Next chapter will be about reader avoiding Sherlock's every advance

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The past few days had been a whirlwind of being a porter, each moment brimming with a variety of tasks assigned to both you and Sherlock. However, the head porter typically preferred to see you two working apart, his reasoning being that together, you’d fall into idle chatter and neglect your cleaning duties—something that irked Sherlock deeply. He had taken quite an interest in you in a way he struggled to put words into. He had noticed your French background and the palpable tension that hung between you and your older cousin the moment he take good look at the both of you, he caught your sharp glare directed at anyone who dared to invade her personal space that day, especially the glare you were shooting daggers at his older brother Mycroft.

He noticed a lot of odd things about you in that particular day, the way light seemed to cast a more ghostly pallor over your features, and you appeared shaky—perhaps a lingering effect of your recent travel. And the way you breathed seemed weighted, as if an invisible weight rested upon your chest. Was it illness, perhaps? Or was he merely overanalzying things again? You were a very quiet person, and he doesn't know if you just simply don’t like him because of his older brother, because even as your cleaning hours aligned with his own; he had expected at least the slightest attempt at conversation from you, but nothing came. 

He wasn’t typically great with making friends. But with you he found himself wanting to be yours, he longed to delve deeper into your world, but you were a ghost, and each time he mustered the courage to speak, a wave of clamminess washed over him, driving him to adjust his hair in what felt like a futile attempt at looking presentable. By the time he was ready, you would invariably slip away, leaving only his thought of what could have been.

It was a stroke of destiny when he finally found you nestled in the corners of the dimly lit library, a haven that almost seemed to cradle secrets. The soft, golden glow from the overhead lamps danced above you, illuminating your focused expression as you delved into the pages of some book he couldn't quite see. The sight made him momentarily freeze. Instinctively, he smoothed back his hair, his eyes darting around in search of a mirror—he wanted to make sure no dust marred his face—before he quickly stopped himself; he doesn't want this opportunity to slip away. His intentions were simple—get to know you better; perhaps, curiously ask about how your cousin knew his older brother, Mycroft. Though, he knew that the answer is a no due to your  confused face that day. And though he couldn't quite careless about his brother’s relationship with your cousin, it’d be a great way to start up a conversation.

Pretending to be interested in the same bookshelf, he could almost feel the tension building up in the air around you. He reached for a book that didn’t even interest him in the slightest just to make himself look busy, before angling closer to catch a glimpse of the title you were engrossed in, only to realize it was some sort of math book definitely from the professor he saw you talking with yesterday.

“Quite the fancy book you have there,” he stammered, raising his fist to his lips in a faux cough, hoping his words might stir even the slightest acknowledgment from you.

But your silence was unyielding, and he felt the sting of rejection. Undeterred, he pressed on. “Would you happen to know how my older brother Mycroft is acquainted with your cousin?” The question held little weight to him in truth, but it created a space for conversation—a reason to bridge the invisible gulf between you.

When you finally peered up from your reading, your gaze was nothing short of piercing. He caught a glimpse of annoyance flitting across your features—a clear signal that his intrusion had shattered your moment of solace. Hastily, he shifted his attention back to the book in hand, unwilling to linger on his embarrassment.

“No, I do not know, my cousin is quite a secretive person,” you replied, your tone flat and indifferent as you resumed your focus on the math book, perhaps hoping he’d take the hint and leave you be. Yet beneath that indifference, he sensed a flicker of hope—a glimmer of connection waiting to be unearthed.

“Ah,” he acknowledged, feeling an ember of hope kindling in the wake of your response. At least you had given him with something to work with. Closing the book with a decisive clap, he took a seat beside you, pressing himself against the cool wallbeside you. “Je n'ai pas pu m'empêcher de remarquer que vous êtes française,” he blurted out in French as a last-effort appeal, his pronunciation somewhat clumsy but earnest enough to capture your attention. 

I couldn't help but noticed that you’re from France

You closed the book resting on your lap, turning to face him, an eyebrow raised in curiosity. “Comment le sais-tu?” Your tone sparked a smile across his lips, and his own curiosity mirrored in the arch of his eyebrow as he responded, “Je l'ai remarqué à vos bagages ce jour-là, à la saleté sur votre chaussure cirée ce matin-là, et à vos vêtements uniques.” Surprisingly, he noticed a flicker of shocked and admiration in your expression, despite his terrible pronunciation.

How do you know?

I noticed it by your luggage that day, the dirt on your polished shoe that morning, and your unique clothing.

"How does a college porter end up speaking French in the Northeastern?" you inquired, tilting your head—a look of amusement illuminating your features as your gaze lingered on his face, his smile grew wider clearly liking your attention, he shifted on the floor to fully face you.

"I used to give food to a homeless German man," he confessed, pride swelling in his chest while you regarded him with a mix of awe and amusement, your own smile widening in response to the earnest of his revelation "and he would share knowledge in return." With a slight tip of his beret, he endeavored to charm you, and to his delight, you chuckled.

"That would explain the butchered pronunciation," you teased lightly, watching as he momentarily froze, the hint of offense flickering across his face. But just as quickly, he regained his composure, his expression transforming into one of playful exasparation. Rising to his feet, he extended a hand toward you, in hoping to turn the moment of embarrassment into a light-hearted connection.

You hesitated for a fleeting moment, uncertainty flitting across your features before you clasped his hand. He pulled you up with more force than intended, your chests colliding as a surprised “oof” escaped your lips. "I apologize," he said, his apologetic smile was genuine, tinged with a touch of embarrassment as he slowly let go of your hand—he couldn't help but notice how much smaller it was compared to his and how smoother, making him want to reached out and touch you again.

"It's no problem, Sherlock," you replied, stepping back—an involuntary emotion flutter in his chest at the distance, it didn’t sit well with him. He frowned slightly, but not wanting to overthink it, shrugged off the feeling.

“Shall we get back to our tasks then, Mister linguist?” you teased, giving his back a gentle pat, a simple gesture that conveyed a warmth he couldn’t ignore.

------

The two of you had just finished tidying up for the day, meticulously dusting shelves and organizing books in Professor Charles' cluttered office. It was supposed to be a routine task for you alone, a chance to investigate the professor's office for some sort of clue. However, Sherlock had insisted on tagging along, much to your annoyance. No matter how many excuses you concocted, he remained stubbornly attached to your side, his eager persistence wearing on your nerves. Even the head porter, who had often scolded you for even simply looking at each other, didn’t say anything this time, claiming that two pairs of hands were better than one. Like that balding man hadn’t frequently reprimanded you for simply handing Sherlock’s a broom! Was the universe suddenly conspiring against you? 

You swallowed your irritation for the sake of maintaining a peaceful camaraderie, weighing the benefits of keeping Sherlock close. he could serve as your scapegoat if anything went wrong, or be a convenient alibi. He seemed rather keen on your companionship. Anyway, it was quite endearing, really. He followed you around unrelentingly, as if you were the most captivating subject in the entire university. 

As you dusted a cabinet adorned with an array of ancient texts, you cast a sidelong glance at Sherlock, who was diligently sweeping the floor with a broom. “Did you notice that the head porter is balding at the back of his head?” you ventured, hoping to distract him from your intention. You had long realized that Sherlock was quite the observant little rat, and although he followed you like a devoted puppy, you still didn’t trust him enough not to spill your secrets. So, you remained cautious around him.

“I did, actually,” he replied, pausing mid-sweep. “He’s balding not because of old age, rather, it came from his relentless habit of wearing hats. That, coupled with the copious sweating beneath them, is quite frankly revolting.” 

Usually, Sherlock didn’t gossip unless it benefited him, but with you, it felt like a natural, friendly thing to do. He liked that you were talking to him now; perhaps he hadn’t made a fool of himself earlier after all.

“And you noticed all of that…?” you inquired, a hint of disbelief in your voice as you glanced over your shoulder. He paused, puffing up his chest with pride. “With a simple observation,” he declared, his tone self-satisfied. Making you chuckle slightly at that. See? very observant, indeed, you thought.

You were so close to the table—so painfully close to that scattered table of papers—as you tried to keep Sherlock occupied with your nonsensical questions about people in the university to keep Sherlock engaged. Just as you were about to edge forward, he swooped in and started aligning the disorganized sheets, causing a frown to form on your lips. 

“Not to offend you or anything, Benedict,” he suddenly blurted out, the words tumbling from his mouth before he could contain them, “but, do you have some sort of illness?” The bluntness of his inquiry caught you off guard, and he visibly grimaced at his own words. He had rehearsed various ways to ask this but had ultimately still managed to land on the most unvarnished version. 

“Sorry—” he started to retract, but you cut him off with a pointed question. “How do you mean?” You moved around the desk, positioning yourself directly across from him, watching as he fidgeted with the papers. 

“Well,” he continued, his brow furrowing in concern, “it’s just the way you breathe, like there’s something weighing…” His words trailed off as you blinked, suddenly aware of the tight bandage constricting your chest. Had your discomfort been that obvious? Memories began to flood your mind—of your cousin Benedict, who had insisted on wrapping yourself tightly to conceal the two mountain on your chest.

"Are you trying to kill me, Benedict!?" you yelped, a mix of frustration and disbelief as you remembered the way he had tightened the bandage weeks prior. 

"I would never dream of it, dear cousin!" he laughed, seemingly relishing your discomfort. "I’m just trying to teach you the proper way to do this; otherwise, you’ll slack off and never do it right!" His laughter echoed through the room as he tugged back on the fabric, nearly knocking the air from your lungs.

Trusting his advice, you had followed suit—always binding your chest as tightly as he did, leading you to rise before dawn each day to prepare yourself before stepping out of your room.

You found yourself drifting into the haze of your thoughts until a sharp voice jolted you back to reality. “What are you doing with those?!” roared Professor Charles, his tone severe as he approached from behind Sherlock, who immediately stopped speaking and turned, letters and papers clutched awkwardly in his hands. Making you cursed silently at Sherlock. You didn't know whether to thank the professor for the his interruption or grow annoyed that you didn't get enough time to read the letters.

“Tidying, sir. I do apologize, Professor Thompson,” Sherlock managed, his voice steady even as you exchanged glances, your eyes narrowing at Professor Thompson who snatched the sheets from Sherlock’s grasp. 

"No good ever comes from poking your nose into business that doesn't concern you," the professor continued scolding, his voice cutting through the air. He turned sharply on his heel, walking away from Sherlock with an air of authority. Sherlock was quick to tucked his hand behind his back while raising an eyebrow in exasperation, his lips forming a thin line. The professor's gaze flicked toward you, standing just before his cluttered desk with a small scowl marring his otherwise stern features, clearly displeased by your proximity to his workspace.

"We truly apologize, Professor Thompson, we were only carrying out our assigned duties," you offered, your voice steady. With a swift motion, you circled around the desk, moving beside Sherlock before he started yelling at the two of you for being close to his desk, before stealing a glance at the professor. He was busy filing away the papers in a drawer beneath his desk, the sound of the wood creaking under the pressure of his movements echoing through the room. When he slammed the drawer shut, making a loud thud, causing you and Sherlock to stiffen, standing before him like two misbehaving children caught in the act. In unison, you both uttered, “We apologize, sir,” the words tumbling from your mouths, eliciting a quick exchange of glances between you. A small grin crept onto your faces, reminiscent of children sharing secrets, before the professor loudly cleared his throat, drawing your attention back to him.

“Did you write this?” Sherlock inquired, swiftly shifting the atmosphere from awkward tension to academic curiosity. He leaned closer, tilting his head toward the polished wooden table, keenly observing the mathematical book that rested there. Picking up a familiar title—the very book you had immersed yourself in at the library—he glanced up at Professor Thompson with renewed interest. “Yes, I did,” the professor replied, a hint of pride swelling in his chest as a smile broke through his stern exterior. “Recently published, and rather well received, if I may say so.” His tone took on a self-satisfied edge as he rolled his eyes at the words “rather well received.” Shifting his focus, he directed his gaze toward you, tilting his head inquisitively. “I do believe you borrowed one yesterday, didn’t you, Bridgerton?”

“Ah yes, I did, sir,” you responded, your posture shifting slightly as your shoulder brushed against Sherlock’s. You caught Sherlock’s sideways glance, and your heart fluttered did a little in response to his attention. “That is good… good. If I may ask, is my book different from the mathematical one in France? Sorry, there are rumors circulating about a new porter boy from France, and I assumed that is you, yes?”

“You are correct, Professor,” you said confidently, adjusting your stance to engage better him. “The mathematical approach is somewhat different; however, they share core principles. The professor there focuses on teaching abstract concepts, logic, and structure, emphasizing the foundations of how mathematics is logically constructed. In while, your book delves into arithmetic, geometry, and problem-solving using a step-by-step method—yours is more about teaching how to conduct the calculations rather than understanding the ‘why’ behind them.” Your chin tilted up slightly, the conviction in your words causing the professor's eyebrows to furrow in contemplation. “Are you suggesting that—” he began, but Sherlock interjected seamlessly, holding up the math book in his grasp, making you look at him in annoyance at the interruption.

“May I?” Sherlock asked, his tone polite yet assertive as he addressed the professor.

“Oh—Yes, of course,” Professor Thompson approved, diverting his attention back to Sherlock, who stood confidently beside you. The professor settled into his chair, intertwining his fingers as he regarded Sherlock with a flicker of interest. “A scouts curious about mathematics?” he mused, shifting his gaze between both of you rather than focusing solely on Sherlock. 

“My father instilled in me a love for reading,” Sherlock replied, adjusting his stance slightly, a pleased expression blooming on his face as he briefly glanced your way. “He taught me the value of curiosity.” Before his gaze returned to the book in his hand. 

“My own father always told me that being successful means little if you possess skills but lack the knowledge here,” you added, tapping your temple thoughtfully. The professor hummed in acknowledgment while Sherlock cast a sidelong look at you, his expression brightening your words. He was always eager to learn more about you.

“Ah, curiosity,” Professor Thompson echoed, his fingers tapping rhythmically together as he absorbed your words. “The greatest virtue,” Sherlock echoed with a bright smile, turning his focus back to the book. "But not if you're a cat," he quipped, closing the book with a decisive thud, prompting a hearty laugh from the professor-a sound that seemed to dance around the room, leaving you slightly puzzled, not getting the joke. Shifting from foot to foot, you felt the atmosphere morph from tense to lively. 

“Would you mind if I borrow this?” Sherlock asked, lifting the professor’s math book and shaking it gently, his eagerness palpable.

“Um, not at all, um…” the professor hesitated, trailing off as if he were attempting to recall Sherlock's name, gesturing toward him with an open hand.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he stated confidently, moving the book to one hand and bowing his head slightly in acknowledgment.

“Sherlock? It’s an unusual name,” the professor observed, tilting his head in mild surprise. Sherlock then crouched slightly in a mock bow, straightening up as he tucked the book under his arm. He reached for your hand, pulling you gently along with him as he prepared to leave. “Ah, right, Benedict? Perhaps when you are free, I would like to discuss more about the mathematics in your home,” Professor Thompson called after you, making you turn back, eagerness bubbling within. 

"I would be honored, Professor Thompson," you replied with genuine delight, knowing that this meant you would have the opportunity to get to know the professor better. This could potentially allow you to enter his office more often, and if you were ever caught, you could come up with lots of excuses to justify your presence. Your mind raced slightly as you contemplated the secrets that might lie within those papers he had snatched from Sherlock's hands earlier.

Just as you dipped your head slightly in gratitude, Sherlock pulled you out of the room, the door clicking shut behind both of you with a soft but definitive thud. 

As the sound of your footsteps faded, Professor Thompson wasted no time. He swiftly reopened the drawer where he had tucked away the letters and papers, his expression shifting from calm to intent as he scanned the contents. With careful precision, he extracted one of the papers, eyes darting across the text as he absorbed every word. Once he finished, a flicker of urgency crossed his face, and he leaned back slightly, almost as if to shake off the weight of what he had read. In a swift motion, he tucked the paper securely inside the bolt beneath the desk, safeguarding its contents from prying eyes.

------

“I assumed the two of you are well-behaved?” Smudger said, his sharp gaze scrutinizing the two of you standing side by side. You flashed a playful smile, responding, “More than behave, Sir,” which prompted a slow nod from the head porter, who squinted as if he were trying to separate truth from fiction.

“This is for the Chinese princess, just arrived,” he announced, gesturing toward a large wooden box that loomed beside a smaller piece of luggage resting on the polished floor. Sherlock wasted no time, his hands swiftly clasping the hefty wooden box, while you opted for the smaller suitcase. Having shed your aprons earlier, the two of you donned more typical attire—Sherlock sporting a fashionable beret tilted jauntily to one side, while you chose to go without, feeling a sense of freedom in your choice. “Old court, room 2B,” the head porter directed, his finger jabbing purposefully in the air. Nodding, you turned to leave, while Sherlock executed a theatrical swirl as he followed you. “At your service, Mr. Smudger,” he quipped with a flourish.

“Good lad,” the head porter called as you began your trek through the cobbled courtyard, the sun casting playful shadows as you walked side by side.

------

“What do you think is inside these luggage?” Sherlock mused, his curiosity piqued as you ambled along the courtyard sidewalk, the weight of the luggage shifting in your arms. “Hopefully a trove of gold that we could use to escape this wretched place, judging by how heavy it is,” you replied, straining to adjust the smaller suitcase nestled against your side. His amused grin widened at your plight. “Still struggling with that luggage?” he teased, raising an eyebrow at the case you carried, then glancing at the larger piece he controlled with apparent ease.

“Hush, linguist boy, not everyone was raised bearing the weight of their own heavy luggage,” you shot back, rolling your eyes dramatically. His laughter echoed, undeterred by your playful retort. “So, a spoiled French boy, then?” he chimed, his voice light and teasing. Exasperated, you retaliated with a playful kick to his shin, watching with glee as he chuckled and stumbled slightly before regaining his footing. 

He suddenly seemed entranced by something in the distance. Following his gaze, you squinted at the serene expanse of green grass interspersed with flowers, contrasting with the imposing architecture of the school. Had he lost his mind? You pondered, watching him stare blankly at the open air for what felt like an eternity, until your focus shifted to a woman dressed in stunning green near one of the university buildings. She caught your eye, emanating an air of curiosity that you couldn’t quite place, before you avert your gaze back to Sherlock beside you. “Sherlock,” you called sharply, wrenching him from his reverie. “The princess is waiting for her luggage,” you reminded him, nudging him to focus. He mumbled a half-hearted apology, and the two of you resumed your path.

------

Knock, knock.

Sherlock groaned in irritation, shifting his stance as you rapped lightly on the door. "Scouts!" the two of you announced in unison. When the door finally swung open, you were greeted by the breathtaking sight of a stunning Asian woman. You couldn't help but stare in awe for a moment before Sherlock jabbed you gently in the back with the wooden box, an unmistakable signal for you to step inside. The woman stepped back gracefully, allowing you both to cross the threshold into her lavish room.

"Your luggage, ma'am," Sherlock stated smoothly as you entered, noting how the spacious room contrasted sharply with your tiny quarters. "Please, place it on the desk," she instructed, guiding the two of you toward her desk cluttered with various items. Suddenly, Sherlock launched into fluent Mandarin, causing you to furrow your brow in confusion. Damn show-off, you thought, shaking your head slightly. You were far from proficient in the language, familiar only with bits and pieces, yet you could recognize that he spoke about “clearing” something—likely referring to the cluttered desk. The woman’s eyebrows arched in surprise, a small grin blossoming on her lips as she responded in Mandarin, her eyes sparkling with interest.

As she started moving some clutter off the desk, you were quick to placed the smaller suitcase atop Sherlock’s larger one, eliciting a fleeting flicker of her gaze that assessed you from head to toe. You couldn’t ignore that look; nothing got past you, especially not the way her eyes held a curious glint. With a bold quip, “Kàn de kāixīn ma?”—a phrase you had picked up from your cousin Benedict—tilted your head slightly, a playful gesture that danced on the edge of boldness. Perhaps spending too much time with Benedict had influenced your own demeanor, making you a bit more daring than usual. You pondered this for a moment, recognizing that you might need to temper your forwardness. After all, one of your main goals here was to help curb down Benedict’s reputation as a womanizer.

Enjoying the view?

Sherlock’s head snapped toward you, a mix of curiosity and surprise crossing his features. His eyebrows raised, but you simply shrugged in response.

As the two conversed rapidly, Sherlock occasionally averted his gaze from you to her, his demeanor attentive and focused. You found your mind wandering to the mysterious woman you had noticed earlier, the one in green. Perhaps once this was done, you would venture to find her. You pondered your options, tapping your shoe lightly against the polished floor, fidgeting with impatience as your thoughts drifted away from the conversation unfolding before you.

You snapped out of your trance as you overheard her speaking in some word you were familiar in Mandarin, her tone laced with a teasing lilt. She remarked on Sherlock's terrible pronunciation, her melodic voice mingling with the soft rustling of the room, and then some other words you couldn’t quite grasp, until both she and Sherlock turned their eyes toward you. “Ah, I don’t know Mandarin, I only know that one phrase,” you admitted with a another shrug of your shoulders, eliciting an amused look from the lady at your curt response. 

“The shoemaker had a dependency,” Sherlock interjected, shifting to English as he briefly averted his gaze from you, then directed it back toward the woman beside him, his expression serious yet intriguing. 

“Do you mean he was a drunk?” she said, her brows arching slightly in curiosity as she also turned her attention to him.

“That was his poison of choice, yes,” Sherlock confirmed, his tone steady. The woman seemed to absorb this, a fleeting smile playing on her lips as she responded, “which explained your slurred delivery.” Their conversation momentarily hung in the air for a long minute. Before Sherlock responded by bowing his head slightly, his demeanor reminiscent of your hours prior light-hearted remark commented on his French pronunciation.

“Your highness,” he remarked with a playful formality as he prepared to depart, prompting you to mimic a small bow, feeling the light air of ritual surrounding the moment. However, the woman’s smile flickered and faded, a subtle shadow crossing her expression as she watched the door close behind him.

"I didn't know you spoke Mandarin," Sherlock remarked as the two of you strolled side by side down the corridor, the soft sound of your footsteps echoing momentarily in the otherwise quiet hall.

“Well, I wasn’t aware you did either,” you replied, a teasing tone edging into your voice. “But now we both know. Delightful, am I right?” With a sudden burst of energy, you picked up your pace, moving more quickly down the hall. The tasks ahead demanded your attention; and now the two of you were tasked with changing attire to prepare for your duties as waiter boys for the upcoming announcement from the school dean in the dining hall.

------

The formal hall echoed with the distinct sound of glass clinking, a melodic reminder of the gathering's importance.

“Pray, silence for Sir Bucephalus Hodge,” announced the school dean, tapping his cordial glass delicately with a butter knife. Gradually, the noise subsided, and all eyes turned to him as he stood up, adjusting the brown lapel of his well-tailored suit.  “While visiting my, uh, not inconsiderable business interests,” his speech laced with a mixture of pride and self-importance, “in this glorious empire of ours,”

"It struck me that it was time to give back,” he continued, his tone becoming more impassioned as he surveyed the attentive faces of the students. “So it is, uh, with great delight that I announce this term the opening of my new science building,” he further proclaimed, glancing down at Mycroft, who sat beside him, then back to the eager students. “A brilliant addition to this glittering university.” As he continued his address, he focused intently on the students, “Now, scholars. On your feet!” he commanded with a flourish, raising his glass high, a small smile flashing across his face, encouraging the students to rise from their seats. 

“Now I present to you my Hodge scholars,” he declared, his hand diving into his trouser pocket while proudly holding up his glass, prompting a wave of applause from the students. “Take a good look,” he instructed the professors flanking him, “these students will be generals, prime ministers,” he boasted, his gaze scanning the crowd as Sherlock and you observed from the sidelines, surrounded by a group of waitresses. Sherlock shifted next to you as the dean continued his oration, his attention soon landing on his brother, who was seated beside the standing dean. Their eyes met momentarily before Mycroft's gaze shifted to your scowling expression. Sherlock raised an eyebrow in acknowledgment, a silent communication between brothers.

"Leaders who will guide our worlds into the 20th century," the dean added, his words hanging in the air as Mycroft quickly turned his eyes away from the two of you, clearly trying to remove himself from the distraction.

"Enjoy your learning, enjoy your youth. Welcome!" he announced with a flourish, lifting his glass one final time, the wine sloshing close to the rim. The students erupted into applause once more, and as rapidly as they had stood, they settled back into their chairs.

------

“I came up in '23, itchy feet, though. Didn’t stay long,” Hodge remarked conversationally leaning in closer to Mycroft, who reciprocated the gesture, ensure their words weren't lost amidst the background noise of students chattering. 

“And may I say, sir, no one has had a greater impact,” Mycroft replied smoothly, his voice even and composed, as Sherlock stealthily maneuvered behind him, not even recognizing your presence as the two men exchanged words. "On expanding the British Empire than you," he added, eliciting a nod of appreciation from Hodge.

Just then, a lively voice cut through their conversation. "Everything to your satisfaction, sirs?" Sherlock chimed in, slipping into a mock cockney accent that made both men turn sharply toward him. Mycroft’s features contorted into a mask of exasperation upon seeing the playful glint in his brother’s eye. “Yes, uh, thank you… thank you,” Mycroft faltered as Sherlock moved deftly behind him, placing a napkin over Mycroft's lap with a cheeky flourish. 

“Oh,” Mycroft exclaimed, blinking in surprise as his brother’s antics took him off guard. “You quite sure?” Sherlock pressed, his voice still dripping with exaggerated cockney charm. 

“Yes, fine, thank you,” Mycroft managed, his patience thinning as Sherlock continued his playful interruptions. “Nothing else I can get you? I am, of course, at your service,” Sherlock insisted, leaning conspiratorially between Hodge and Mycroft. You, standing nearby, couldn’t help but watch the amusing exchange, a small grin breaking across your face as you moved closer to join them.

"We are of course, at your beck and call as you well know, sir," you chimed in, positioning yourself on Mycroft’s left side, while Sherlock maintained his playful post on the right. Mycroft rolled his eyes, feeling the influx of youthful exuberance amounting to a new, delightful headache. “I said I'm fine, thank you,” he replied sharply, trying to silence both his brother and his dear friend’s cousin.

“Do you know these young men?” Hodge inquired of Mycroft, sparking a quick response from Sherlock. “Yes, he does, sir, very well, sir,” he declared, as he grabbed another napkin, intent on draping it over the lap of a professor seated beside Hodge. 

“Not quite, sir, not very well,” you interjected, deftly placing a napkin over Hodge’s lap, drawing his attention back to you. A curious look crossed Hodge's face as he shifted his gaze between you and Sherlock. “How so?” he asked, clearly intrigued.

“He is a very... very close friend of a cousin of mine, sir,” you explained, while Sherlock added, “I’m his lowly brother, sir.” The two of you exchanged a glance, a moment of camaraderie shared before turning your heads toward Mycroft, whose countenance suggested he was desperately hoping to avoid further scrutiny. 

“What? Brother? No? A friend I understand, but a brother?” Hodge exclaimed, disbelief painting his features as he regarded Mycroft. “Is this true, Mycroft?” Hodge pressed, eager for confirmation, while Mycroft shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Uh, it’s not a very interesting story, sir,” Mycroft said dismissively, a note of frustration lacing his tone. He shook his head slightly, hoping Hodge would lose interest in the conversation and move on. But Hodge was relentless. “But is it true?” he pressed, his gaze shifting to Sherlock and you, who were carefully draping a napkin over the other professor’s lap. Hodge then turned back to Mycroft, who exchanged a glance with him, the tension in the air palpable. Stammering slightly, Mycroft finally replied, “Yes, indeed, he is my brother.”

Hodge’s confusion deepened as he looked at Sherlock, trying to figure out how someone like him ended up serving here instead of being a student. “So how did he end up serving here?” he inquired, his tone betraying genuine curiosity. To this, Sherlock declared loudly, “Redemption, sir,” as he draped another napkin over the lap of the chatting professor beside you, mimicking your earlier movements. 

“Redemption from what?” Hodge asked, his intrigue piqued as he shifted his focus from Mycroft to Sherlock. The other professors momentarily paused their conversations, casting their attention toward Sherlock, captivated by the unexpected revelation.

“Prison, Her Majesty's pleasure,” Sherlock answered nonchalantly, a hint of mischief in his voice. The declaration made you sit up a little straighter; while you had exchanged tentative words before, he hadn’t revealed that part of his past to you yet. In fact, since that initial talk in the library, your conversations had been limited to brief pleasantries. Noticing your surprised expression, Sherlock flashed you an encouraging smile, a silent promise that he would explain everything later. He then returned his focus to Hodge and Mycroft, with you trailing closely behind him.

“How could you say this wasn’t interesting, Mycroft?” Hodge exclaimed, turning back to Mycroft, who exhaled in exasperation, clearly frustrated by the turn of events. As Sherlock took his place on Hodge’s right side, you settled on his left, ready to hear more. “Do carry on, young man,” Hodge urged, tilting his head expectantly toward Sherlock.

“Ah, well,” Sherlock began, leaning slightly toward Hodge, his voice low and conspiratorial. “My magnanimous brother here took pity on the black sheep of the family.” He glanced from Hodge to Mycroft, then back again, capturing everyone’s attention as you subtly shifted aside, allowing him to take center stage. Who wouldn’t want to hear this increasingly riveting story?

“For which I am eternally grateful,” Sherlock added with a theatrical flourish, stepping back to regain his previous position. You chimed in cheerfully, “More wine, your lordship?” prompting Hodge to swivel toward you, his eyes narrowing in recognition as he then returned his gaze to Sherlock. 

“So, tell me… you have the same parents?” Hodge inquired, his voice slightly stammering in disbelief at the familial dynamics Sherlock had just outlined. “Yes, we do, sir,” Sherlock replied, as you expertly poured wine into Hodge’s glass, the rich liquid swirling within the delicate crystal. “Although, sadly, we only really see each other at, uh, family funerals,” he continued, making an exaggerated gesture with his hand, his expression twisting into one that blended jest with a hint of sorrow. “Courtrooms and the like,” he added, as you diligently poured until the cordial glass brimmed, the wine glistening under the soft light of the room.

"Sir, today..." you began, your voice trailing off as Sherlock gracefully moved to serve the esteemed professor seated beside you, while you expertly poured the wine. The rich, ruby liquid filled the glasses, catching the ambient light of the room, creating a warm glow. "Oh, that's quite enough," Hodge interjected, his tone playful yet slightly alarmed, as Mycroft's eyes widened slightly at the amount you were pouring. 

"It is your quite special day, your scholars are an inspiration to us all," you remarked, leaning down toward Hodge and gesturing toward the eager students seated at the front of the hall. Hodge's gaze flickered back and forth between you and Sherlock, creating a palpable tension in the air.

"So, um, tell me, young man..." Hodge asked Sherlock, causing your eyes to momentarily darted to a student seated among the group, the two of you sharing an intense staring contest before you regained your composure and turned your attention back to Sherlock, a bit curious to hear his response also. "Larceny. Thieving. Theft. Petty theft," Sherlock replied without any hesitation, his inflection casual, which elicited a resigned sigh from Mycroft, who shook his head ever so slightly, a familiar exasperation with his younger brother evident. 

"Although those days are well and truly behind me," Without skipping a beat, Sherlock swiftly moved aside to retrieve another napkin, placing it over Hodge's suit with an almost theatrical flourish. "Spiritually and permanently," he remarked slyly. You exchanged a glance with him motioning that you already did that, your eyebrow raising in disbelief as he just winked, his impish charm shining through. He quickly lifted a glinting object from Hodge's pocket, and with a triumphant air declared, "There we are, reformed." 

What in the world? you thought, shaking your head, unable to fathom his audacity. Sherlock simply shushed you with a gesture, grinning widely. 

"A taker, now a giver. Reborn to serve, sir," he added, slipping the watch into the pocket of his suit as he moved back beside you. "Thank you, I'm sure we can manage on our own from now on, brother dearest," Mycroft interjected, casting a glance at the two of you, a hint of irritation in his voice. 

"Very well, sirs," Sherlock replied, quickly tugging you away with him, eager to escape the scene. Just as you turned to leave, Hodge called out, prompting Sherlock to halt in his tracks, while Mycroft let out another weary sigh. 

"Bridgerton? Am I right? Eloise's cousin?" Hodge queried, a hint of recognition lighting up his expression. "Yes, sir...?" you trailed off, feeling Sherlock tower behind you as he looked past your head to meet Hodge's gaze. A wave of small panic washed over you—did he notice Sherlock had stolen his watch? The urge to spill the beans surged within you; you were ready to confess that you had nothing to do with that kleptomaniac. After all, you certainly didn’t care what happened to him, it was his problem for not being able to keep his hands to himself.

"I almost didn't recognize you, son. Have you gotten shorter, or are my eyes deceiving me?” he mused, making you blink in surprise. “Sorry, are we acquainted, sir?” you asked, feeling a twinge of embarrassment; social interactions could be tricky for you, and names sometimes slipped away from your brain like whispers in the wind. 

"Your father spoke of your situation," Hodge continued, his voice sounding between dissapointed but not surprised. "I’m glad to see you here. Perhap we could have a talk in my office, if you aren't too busy with your job." Your mouth formed an 'o' in realization. "Ah right! Uncle—Sir Hodge, right, right," you exclaimed, the memory flooding back as you recalled the once-snobbish friend of Benedict's father, who insisted on being called 'uncle' when he visited during your childhood.

Meanwhile, Mycroft observed the exchange he didn't seem surprised, clearly, this information had reached him through Eloise. While Sherlock’s surprise was palpable as he turned to look down at your head instinctively. "Ah right then, sirs, we shall be on our way," you said, allowing Sherlock to pull you along.

Once the two of you were out of earshot, Mycroft turned back to Hodge, a note of contrition in his voice. "I'm so sorry, sir," he offered. 

"Oh, no need to apologize, Mycroft," Hodge replied, adjusting the napkin that had been hastily placed on his lap. "Your brother's the most interesting part of you," he added, a chuckle escaping his lips as Mycroft simply pursed his lip in response.

[4eather]

Is it selfish to say that when Wilson Benthel said Dex needs a girl, I get a little sad? LIKE PLEASE NO, MY HUSBANDS AND WIVES IN THERE ARE EITHER DEAD OR ALREADY GOT SOMEONE. I CAN'T HANDLE DEX HAVING ONE TOO. 😔 (I volunteer as tribute though; everyone move, I can handle this.)

[4eather]

Adrian is such a hot freaks coded guy! I just know he's the type listens to “I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend” on repeat while 'stalking' you HWNRKWOAJC

[4eather]

Prom queen

Won't you be my prom queen? (Another morning) Won't you be my prom queen? Everybody has a real good time Won't you be my prom queen? (It's time for my senior prom)

Pairing: Adrian Chase x Fem!Reader (ft chris) Warning/tags: 18+ slight smut, college au, stalker!adrian, creep!adrian, delusional!adrian, manipulating, Obsessive!adrian, mention of violence (nothing graphic), violent though) dryhumping, subby!adrian, pervert!adrian, weirdo!adrian, quietkid!adrian (except he's like the opposite of quiet but ykw), slightly mean!reader? popular!reader, unhinged supportive!chris. Word count: 5.3k

Masterlist

"Good morning, everybody. This is Principal Rogers, and I would just like to congratulate our sophomore and senior classes and wish them well at tomorrow night's prom dance." The principal's announcement crackled through the loudspeaker in the crowded university hallway.

Adrian beamed at the sound, excited that prom day had finally arrived! Usually, he wouldn’t participate in such events, often letting his older brother beat him for embarrassing ‘him’ by not finding a date, but this year was different. He had developed a crush on you, the new popular girl who had arrived about a month ago. Your beauty had quickly caught everyone's attention, including his. You often hung out with the mean girls who were rude to him, but that didn't matter because you were nice to him.

He had been preparing all week for this moment—the perfect time to ask you out. He was sure you would accept his invitation; after all, he had noticed you eyeing him ever since you first crossed paths. He convinced himself that you felt the same way he did. Why else would you smile at him and greet him whenever you passed by? Sure, he saw you smile at other students too, but you never greeted them or listened to them talk about bird facts like you did with him! That had to mean something, right?

He clutched the small white cardboard sign he had made like a lifeline. Nervousness washed over him, though he couldn't quite understand why, as he was confident you were into him as much as he was into you. Awkwardly, he maneuvered through the crowded hallway, careful not to bump into anyone. This school swarmed with people, and he hated it. He often felt like the odd one out, especially since his older brother, Gut, was a popular jock. While he was labeled as the 'quiet kid,' except he wasn't quiet, just weird. Most students avoided him, including Gut, who treated him like a stranger—not Gut's best friend though, or should he say his best friend, Chris, instead? Chris actually talked and listened to his bird facts, even if it sometimes felt forced. They were best buds, and he appreciated Chris's friendship and all of his ‘manly advice’, especially when he felt all alone at college. Still, he admired both Chris and Gut, despite Gut’s hating his gut—ha! He chuckled at his own pun, only to earn weirded-out looks from the other students, which made him walk even faster. He despised this school.

Once he spotted you through the crowd, and it felt as if everything was in slow motion. He finally understood the romance in those annoying movies his mum watched on weekends. Holding the cardboard sign tighter, he felt more anxious now that you were just a few feet away. He glanced at his reflection in the principal's mirror-like window door to check his appearance. He made sure his glasses were straight and that his curls looked decent. His mum had said he looked handsome that morning, but it wasn't like her opinion mattered. After finishing his appearance check, he turned back to the cardboard sign he had made for you, ensuring there were no misspellings. He had asked Chris for help, trusting his best friend's advice, and all Chris said was to write something plain because “chicks” apparently dig that sort of thing. So, he had written, “Would you dance with me?” with a smiley face at the end. He had tried to add a merman doodle, but Adrian wasn't exactly the artistic type, so it ended up looking more like a dying dog. Nevertheless, he hoped you would appreciate the effort.

Feeling a surge of confidence, Adrian straightened up—he couldn’t wait to see your reaction to his prom invitation! He was convinced you didn’t have a partner yet because rumors circulated saying you had been rejecting everyone and were waiting for someone special to ask you. He’s convinced that someone special was him.

As he made his way toward you, he squeezed through the throngs of students until someone bumped into him. The guy staggered back, a look of annoyance crossing his face. The guy began to curse him out, and Adrian recognized him as one of the senior jocks who hung around his brother. “You’re the one that bumped into me, dude,” Adrian said, frowning. The jock flushed with anger and began not only to curse at him but began berating him, growing louder with each word.

“You stupid fuck—are you talking back?” the guy shouted, drawing the attention of everyone in the hallway. Adrian felt annoyed and anxious under their watchful eyes. he could easily break the guy’s neck with his bare hand, but the guy hadn't break any school rules yet—wait, was cursing allowed in school? He was pretty sure it was against the school’s rules, but he couldn’t just go full vigilante mode and kill him in front of everyone. He’ll take care of him later, Adrian thought as he watched the guy curse him out. He didn’t know what to do—should he apologize? But it wasn't his fault; it was this jerk's fault for bumping into him. So why should he apologize? Everything had been going so well; why did this jerk have to interrupt his preparation? Adrian felt his face souring; he was itching to just gut him when his thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice cutting through the cursing.

“Could you leave him alone, Jake? I saw you bump into him,” you called out. Adrian quickly focused on you, and his heart began to race as he realized you were defending him. He felt like he was falling even harder for you, and it assured him even more that you liked him back—at least that's what he thought

His mouth hung open as he watched you, feeling as though everyone around him had disappeared. All his attention was on you, It didn’t even register to him that Jack—Jake—whatever—was saying something.

“What, do you like him or something?” Jake scoffed, his voice dripping with disbelief. You were defending a nobody, making you stiffen—do you? Adrian was cute and nice… what’s wrong with liking him? you wondered. Yet, your friends beside you looked at you in disbelief, making you feel nervous under their gaze. Suddenly, it felt like everyone in the hallway was watching, judging, and your palms began to sweat.

Adrian, however, noticed none of the tension surrounding you; all he could think about was how you stood up for him in front of everyone. Out of nowhere, he blurted, "Would you be my prom queen?" God, you thought, couldn't he read the room? Your throat felt tight as the gasps of those around you echoed in your ears

“Well? Answer him,” one of your friends urged as she snickered. It felt like everyone’s gaze was weighing you down, expecting you to make the wrong decision and ready to judge you for it. Adrian was nice, but you couldn’t bear the humiliation.

"I'd rather die," you blurted out, immediately regretting your harsh choice of words. You took a step back, embarrassed, your hand shaking, as you quickly walked away, refusing to look at Adrian's reaction as you turned away like a coward. The sound of laughter followed you, and regret washed over you for letting the others influence you and for treating him that way.

And Adrian it felt as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped on him uponing hea your rejection.

“I’d rather die, I’d rather die, I’d rather die, I’d rather die...” It echoed back to his brain like a mantra, and suddenly you and all of your friends got to die.

——————

Adrian let out a sniffle as he sat on the edge of Chris's bed, while Chris awkwardly hovered beside him. Adrian wasn't one to cry, but the sting of rejection had settled deep inside him. He genuinely thought that there was something special blossoming between you and him—the way you listened so intently when he rambled about birds and other quirky facts without telling him to shut up like most people tend to do. Even Chris constantly told him to shut up, but you never did. So why did you reject him? He was sure you liked him back; guess he was wrong.

“Dude... that was really mean of her. Like, wow, she actually said she’d rather die?” Chris said, patting Adrian’s back awkwardly. “Why didn’t you tell me it was one of the popular girls you had a crush on, bro?” Chris shook his head. He felt bad for Adrian, but if he had known you were the one Adrian was crushing on, he wouldn't have helped him with asking you out—though Chris help didn't exactly help anyway.

“Come on, dude, stop crying. This is so not manly,” Chris said, though he didn't stop patting Adrian. “I just... I just thought we had something,” Adrian replied, his lip quivering. His expression mirroring that of a sad labradoodle denied a treat. Adrian was just glad his brother had skipped school that today, had Gut heard about the rejection, he knew he would never hear the end of it.

“Dude, listen to me,” Chris said, his voice shifting to a more serious tone as he grabbed both of Adrian's slumped shoulders, making him to look up. Adrian perked up slightly, eager for Chris's ‘manly advice.’ “She’s way out of your league,” Chris declared, causing Adrian to slump again. “Just forget about her. Come on, let’s go out—my treat this time,” Chris urged. But Adrian wasn’t in the mood and remained silent. When Adrian was quiet, it was trouble—because he was never quiet, which genuinely creeped Chris out. 

"How about we take Eagle with us and make him steal shit from other people?" Chris suggested again, but Adrian just flopped his back on Chris's mattress and curled into a ball. "Come on, it'll be fun—it’s Eagle, dude. Are you really gonna say no to him?" Chris groaned. "I'm not in the mood, man," Adrian said, and began shooing Chris away at his own room, making Chris look at him like he’s grown two heads. "Are you serious?" Chris said as he gave Adrian a nasty side-eye, who just rolled away to face the other side, making Chris sigh in disbelief—not only was Adrian creepy quiet, he was rejecting hanging out with Eagle and him? What did you do to Adrian that got him so hung up with you?

“You know what?” Chris said as he stood up, puffing out his chest as if he had the best idea in the world. “Let’s take them out,” Chris suggested. Adrian quickly straightened up. He had been thinking about that, but it felt empty. Killing brings Adrian joy, yet the thought of gutting the jock who made fun of him earlier didn't made him feel anything. However, maybe doing it with Chris would bring back some of the joy.

“Say, I take those stupid jocks,” Chris proposed casually, as if it were just another normal Tuesday for them. “And you handle the mean girls and that girl who rejected you. I can't deal with another girl beating me up after that wild night with that porcupine lady,” he said, as he slightly shivered at the memory.

“You'd do that for me?” Adrian beamed. He wasn't going to kill you because you rejected him; to Adrian, consent is the sexiest thing on earth, but the way you said that you’d rather die than go out with him and then left without looking back stung a bit—not a bit, a lot. He looked up at Chris, who grinned at him and gave him a thumbs up.

“Of course, dude—hey, don’t make it weird,” Chris quickly added as soon as he saw Adrian's twinkling eyes, crossing his arms defensively.

——————

You hadn’t seen Adrian the entire morning, and a nagging worry began to seep into your thoughts—where could he be? Just a little while ago, you had looked around the campus, searching for him in every nook and cranny to apologize for your harsh words, but you couldn't just simply find him anywhere. Few people seemed to appreciate Adrian; they found his liking for bird facts and obsessive chatter off-putting. But to you, he was the sweetest boy on earth. It was hard to understand how others could overlook his genuine kindness. You thought as you practiced your cheerleading backflips in the school gym, your mind wandered, distracted by concern for Adrian. The gym was relatively quiet, with only your coach, her gaze fixed on her phone, and a handful of cheerleaders practicing routines in the corner. 

Along with Adrian’s absence, Mel and Christina were noticeably missing too, which was unusual. They would never skip out on practice unless they were out fucking dudes, which they probably were. But with prom just hours away, you thought they would be eager to gossip about their prom dresses and hairstyles. But then, they were friends first, so the thought crossed your mind that they might have gone off without you, leaving you out of their plans.

You were just a little worried about them because of that weirdo Vigilante running around Evergreen, killing people and leaving fear in his wake. You hoped with all your heart that Adrian was safe, despite the fact that he might resent you after your previous action. Distracted by your thoughts, you executed another backflip but miscalculated your landing and twisted your ankle painfully. A sharp cry burst from your lips. “Fuck!” You winced and collapsed on the gym floor, drawing the attention of your fellow cheerleaders.

“Oh goodness, are you alright?” a concerned redhead exclaimed, rushing to your side, while others followed suit, offering their hands to help you up. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just twisted my ankle… I think?” You managed to reply, trying to brush off the situation. Your coach soon approached, annoyance etched across her features as she called your name, prompting you to look down in shame. “I told you girls to be more careful! You have a cheerleading performance next week! Go treat yourself in the locker room! Girls, back to practice!” Her voice was firm, and some of the girls scattered back to their spots, but the redhead lingered for a bit, concern still simmering in her eyes. Once you gave her a thumbs up to signal that you were okay, she finally returned to practice. “Sorry, coach,” you murmured, but her dismissive shake of the head sent you limping toward the locker room, disappointment heavy on your shoulders. Not only had you hurt a sweet boy’s feelings, but you also managed to fuck up your ankle. Just great, you thought bitterly as you made your way out of the gym and toward the safety of the girls' locker room.

From the bleachers' point on the gym bench, a pair of blue eyes watched intently as the scene unfolded. Adrian scowled, his expression darkening as he observed your retreating figure and the coach, who was once again lost in her phone. How dare she speak to you like that? Though you and Adrian were not on the best terms at the moment, witnessing the disappointment on your face ignited a protective anger within him. He felt an overwhelming urge to rip your coach's throat out, and he wasn't even gonna do it out of his pure joy of killing people; he wanted her dead for the way she treated you.

He had already taken care of your two so-called friends, and he was willing to add that coach of yours next to them. He was confident that Chris was perfectly handling that obnoxious jock. They were hardly worthy of your attention anyway; they had laughed at Adrian yesterday, a cruel reminder of the way they treated him. He was convinced you wouldn’t miss them; they had never been good for you. He had planned to kill you along with them at first, then save you for last—until his thoughts shifted when he finally noticed how every so-called friend of yours isn't so great. Instead of taking your life, he decided to change his plan last minute; he’s going to kidnap you instead! Honestly, he didn't really want to kill you anyway; he really—really liked you after all. You didn’t have to like him right away; he was sure that after spending some time together, you would come to see how well you matched.

Adrian slipped off the gym bench and eagerly hurried out of the gym, determination in his steps as he made his way to the locker room, where he could see you rummaging for the medkit. As he approached, he grabbed a clean towel hanging nearby. He didn't want to hurt you, so he planned to make you pass out, but misfortune struck—he tripped over a crack in the tile because of how eager he was to get you back to his house already, nearly losing his balance and face-planting onto the floor. Regaining his footing by grabbing onto one of the lockers, he made a loud crash that echoed through the locker room, his heart racing as he hoped it hadn’t startled you too much.

You barely registered the sound echoing in the locker room before instinct kicked in, and you turned to see Adrian. Confusion washed over you—why was he in the girls' locker room? Yet, a wave of relief followed at the sight of him. “Adrian? What are you doing here?” you asked, rushing toward him while completely forgetting about your ankle. A sharp hiss escaped your lips as your foot protested the movement, and your body wavered dangerously. Adrian quickly dropped the towel he was holding, scrambled toward you, and caught you in his arms.

Your hand instinctively grasped his shirt, the fabric cool against your palm as your noses nearly touched. You could feel a flush creep up your cheeks, acutely aware of how close you were to him—his deep, captivating eyes imprisoned your gaze, making your heart race. as you realized how beautiful his eyes were up close. You wondered what he would do if you kissed him right then. Flushing at the thought, you quickly pulled away from him, realizing you still had to apologize for your harsh words the day before. Adrian frowned at the loss of contact and almost immediately reached out for you again.

"I'm sorry—gosh, I'm really sorry!" you squeaked, wincing as you stood up straight. A jolt of pain shot through your ankle, causing your knee to buckle. Adrian instinctively grabbed your arms to steady you—definitely not because he wanted to feel your soft skin again. 

"Are you okay?" he asked, momentarily disregarding your apologies—his ‘supposed’ frustration toward you momentarily forgotten. How could he stay angry at you, anyway? 

“Yeah! Totally fine…” You attempted to assure him, gripping his bicep for support, the solid muscle beneath his flannel shirt making your heart race even faster. Adrian’s frown deepened, and you could see the concern etched on his handsome face. He immediately saw through your facade—how could you claim to be fine when you definitely weren’t fine, did you not trust him? “No, you’re not?" he stated, his brow furrowing as he carefully guided you to sit on the bench. Your heart raced—his proximity only heightened your awareness of him, and guilt washed over you for treating him poorly. He’s way too good for you, you thought, overwhelmed with regret as you watched him kneel down, gently inspecting your ankle.

“Looks like you landed really hard from that backflip, huh?” he noted casually, and you frowned, confusion rinsing over you. How did he know about your ankle twist? You never told him what happened. Adrian internally cursed himself for slipping, “I never mentioned how I twisted my ankle..” 

“Aren’t you a cheerleader? You told me that like—last week? Remember?” he said quickly, lying through his teeth. He had followed you around campus when he first saw you at the school to learn more about you—It wasn’t stalking; he just wanted to make sure you were alright.

Frowning slightly, you realized just how forgetful you could be at times. Why did you say that? Now he would probably hate you even more. Mentally scolding yourself for that, you forced an awkward smile and replied, "Oh, right—sorry, my head's kinda foggy right now." 

“It’s alright. Where’s the medical kit?” he asked, determination in his tone. You pointed to the corner of the room, watching as he stood and strode purposefully toward it, leaving you alone for a brief moment. 

Biting your lip, you mentally think ways to express your regret over your harsh words from yesterday. 

When Adrian returned, the sight of him kneeling before you again made your heart race anew. He gently grasped your ankle, wrapping it with precise care in bandages. 

“Adrian, about yesterday, I’m really sorry... about yesterday. I didn’t mean it. I let my friends get the better of me and said things I didn’t mean,” you began, anxiety creeping in as you watched him stiffen—did you just make things worse? Had you said something wrong?

Inside, Adrian’s thoughts whirled. You didn’t mean it! Of course, you didn't! It was all your friends' fault! He quickly pushed aside the fact that they had manipulated you; how glad he was, that he got rid of them! He quickly pushed aside how you let your friends control your emotions; that didn't matter. They clearly manipulated you! A huge grin spread across his face as he tightened his hold on your ankle, completely lost in his thought, causing you to wince slightly.

“Adrian? You’re hurting me... a little here,” you murmured, breaking through his trance. He snapped back to reality, quickly releasing your foot. 

“Sorry!” His voice was tinged with sincerity, and you noticed the genuine concern etched across his features. 

“I understand if... you don’t want to be friends anymore,” you added, bracing for his response, but he interrupted, shaking his head fervently. 

“No! I mean—I don’t want us to stop being friends…” His eagerness was palpable as he grasped your hand between his, warmth spreading through you at the contact. His face flushed red.

“You’re not mad at me?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, that innocent gesture sending a giddy sense of joy through Adrian—gosh, you were just too cute. 

“Of course not! Well, I was a little sad, but I could never be angry at you... I like you a lot,” he confessed, his voice dropping to a tender whisper as he brushed his thumb softly over your hand. Unable to contain yourself, you reached up to gently grasp his face, tilting it toward you, and pressed your lips against his. The kiss took him by surprise at first, but he quickly melted into it, responding with a fervor you hadn’t expected. It was messy and sloppy—not how you'd imagined your kiss with him would turn out to be. You thought Adrian would be more gentle, but he was needy and messy, his tongue probing and poking at your lip before you opened your mouth to let him in, and it immediately turned heated,

One hand slid into your hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as he angled your head to deepen the kiss, while his other hand smoothed down the curve of your back.

“Fuck—please… just please,” he blabbers, his fingers slipping under the hem of your cheerleading shirt to caress the soft, bare skin of your back. His grip on your hair tightened as he pulled away from the kiss, tilting your head back to expose your throat. He leaned down, trailing open-mouthed kisses along the vulnerable line, his tongue darting out to taste the salt of your skin.

His hand slid down to grip your hip, fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he urged you closer, wanting to feel every inch of you against him. He could sense the quick, shallow hitch in your breathing and the way your pulse raced beneath his touch. It filled him with a heady, primal satisfaction to know that he was the one making you feel this way, the one who was bringing you such pleasure.

“A-Adrian…” you let out softly, your hands gripping his biceps as he guided your back against the bench. Adrian shuddered at the sound of his name escaping your lips, feeling his pants grow tighter by the second. His length throbbed with need as he began to shift against you, creating a slow, deliberate friction of his hips against your cute cheerleading shorts. A low, whimpering sound vibrated in his chest—a desperate, needy noise that escaped Adrian's lips as his hips continued their relentless rhythm. The friction of your bodies moving together sent jolts of pleasure shooting up his spine.

Your mind swirled in a haze of desire; all that occupied your thoughts was the intoxicating way Adrian's hips rolled against yours. You didn’t even consider that people might enter locker room as your bodies moved together, lost in the heat of the moment. Your nails dug fiercely into the solid muscle of his biceps, the roughness of your grip likely leaving imprints that would linger long after this. Yet, Adrian didn’t seem to mind, his breath hitching as moans escaped his lips, brushing teasingly against the sensitive skin of your neck.

“Did you know friends are supposed to be this touchy? It’s like, a scientific fact. It releases pheromones—something like that—to make the friendship stronger,” he babbled, his words tumbling out in a mix of excitement, causing you to frown in confusion as you struggled to make sense of his nonsensical thoughts.

"I’ve never tried this with Chris—have you tried it with your other friends? God, please tell me you haven't... I’d be super jealous—and I might kill someone again,” he whined loudly. You shook your head quickly—ghe phrase "killing someone" didn’t even register in your mind as you pulled his face away from your neck making Adrian let out a brief whimper before you silenced him by crashing your swollen lips against his. 

In an instant, Adrian came in his pants, a warm patch spreading across the front of his jeans, staining the fabric in his moment of bliss, and a rush of embarrassment quickly flooded his cheeks with color. A strangled noise erupted from him as he deepened the kiss, his tongue entwining with yours—when a loud clatter shattered the heated of the moment, a sharp sound echoing in the air as something crashed to the floor. In an instant, you instinctively pulled away from Adrian, your heart racing at the thought that the two of you had been caught. Adrian was quick to chase after your lips, a soft, longing whine escaping him when you sat up abruptly.

"Hey... what? No, don't pull away," he murmured, his voice low and thick with genuine need, his breath warm against your ear, making you squirm.

"Wha—what was that?" you stammered, looking around with wide eyes, trying to shake off the residual heat of his closeness. Adrian's hands instinctively found your hips, tugging you back toward him, but you pressed a palm against his face, stopping him from distracting you with soft kisses. He pouted comically, his eyes glinting with mischief, and before you could react, he grabbed your wrist, popping one of your fingers into his mouth. You let out a surprised shriek, followed by a surprised giggle as you playfully hit his chest.

But your laughter faded, when your gaze settling on the pink phone lying on the ground, a stark contrast against the dull floor, the source of the earlier noise, and your heart lurched. No... this couldn't be right. Adrian quickly followed your gaze, and his expression darkened as recognition dawned.

"Shit," he whispered, the word barely escaping his lips, and fear bloomed in your chest. You instinctively pulled away from him and reached for the phone, but Adrian was faster; he snatched it up and stuffed it into his pocket, a guilty look crossing his features.

"Sorry—my phone fell out of my pocket..." he mumbled, attempting to regain the playful atmosphere. But you felt an icy grip of suspicion creeping up your spine. You knew exactly what Adrian’s phone looked like, and this was definitely not it. And that phone definitely belonged to your friend Mel. Why did Adrian have it?

Panic rose in Adrian's chest as he desperately scrambled for an explanation. "I changed my phone case! Yesterday—yeah, that’s it. Hey, come on," he stammered, his voice rising with his anxiety. You extended your hand, your voice steadying with resolve. 

"Give me the phone, Adrian," you commanded, standing up from the bench with a mix of dread and determination. Adrian’s heart clenched painfully at the sight of you standing away, his mind racing back to how perfectly the evening had been going. Damn it! He should have gotten rid of that phone! But curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he had wanted to see your text messages from your friend’s phone.

"Don't you trust me?" he pleaded, the hurt in his voice surfacing, but your frown only deepened as you swiftly snatched the phone from his pocket. He shrieked in surprise, reaching for it in an attempt to retrieve it without causing you harm. But it was too late; your eyes caught the notification that flashed on the cracked screen: "Hey, you guys coming to practice?" Your heart raced, and a cold sweat broke across your brow as you clutched the phone tightly, backing away from him, the weight of dread accelerating within you.

"What did you do to my friends?" you whispered, fear seeping into your voice, a tremor running through your body. Adrian’s heart shattered at the sight of your fear, your wide eyes reflecting disbelief and horror.

"No... it isn’t what it looks like, baby—please, see, I found it! Yeah, I found it!" His desperate explanation tumbled from his lips, but the words felt hollow after the lie that had already been spoken. You looked at him, your heart racing as you glanced toward the exits of the locker room, and Adrian followed your gaze, understanding your intent all too well. 

In a flash, you leapt toward the exit, ignoring the sharp pain in your ankle as you reached for the door handle, but Adrian was quicker; he wrapped his strong arms around your waist, pulling you tightly against his chest as you thrashed and kicked, your instincts screaming for escape. 

"Please! Just listen to me! They aren't good for you anyway!" he pleaded, his voice a confused mix of desperation and anxiety as you kicked and elbowed him in the ribs. Adrian yelped in pain and quickly trapped your arms, trying to calm the storm of your emotions. 

"Let me go! Please, don’t kill me!" you cried out, panic overcoming you. Causing Adrian to frown, as he pressed a gentle kiss against your temple.

"I would never hurt you—they don’t deserve you! That’s why I got rid of them—they were manipulating you! Trying to pull you away from me!" he whispered fervently against your hair, holding you close as he breathed in your familiar, comforting scent. The warmth of your body against his was intoxicating, he didn’t want to hurt you, but you were giving him no choice. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he murmured softly, his hand moving to wrap around your throat, his grip carefully estimated, not enough to hurt but just enough to knock you out cold. As your body went limp against him, he felt a surge of regret. “Fuck… I’m really sorry,” he whispered, shifting you against his arm before pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

[4eather]

Peacemaker

‣ Adrian Chase

‣ Chris Smith

‣ Emilia Harcourt

[4eather]

Young Sherlock

‣ Sherlock’s Holmes

‣ James Moriarty

‣ Mycroft Holmes

[4eather]

Prom queen

Won't you be my prom queen? (Another morning)Won't you be my prom queen?Everybody has a real good timeWon't you be my prom queen? (It's time for my senior prom)

⤷ Featuring: Adrian Chase x Fem!Reader (ft chris)

Info: 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦'𝘴 𝘢 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘴𝘩𝘭𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘈𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘶𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘦𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦, 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴. Warning: 18+ slight smut, college au, stalker!adrian, creep!adrian, delusional!adrian, manipulating, Obsessive!adrian, mention of violence (nothing graphic), violent though) dryhumping, subby!adrian, pervert!adrian, weirdo!adrian, quietkid!adrian (except he's like the opposite of quiet but ykw), slightly mean!reader? popular!reader, unhinged supportive!chris.

Masterlist

"Good morning, everybody. This is Principal Rogers, and I would just like to congratulate our sophomore and senior classes and wish them well at tomorrow night's prom dance." The principal's announcement crackled through the loudspeaker in the crowded university hallway.

Adrian beamed at the sound, excited that prom day had finally arrived! Usually, he wouldn’t participate in such events, often letting his older brother beat him for embarrassing ‘him’ by not finding a date, but this year was different. He had developed a crush on you, the new popular girl who had arrived about a month ago. Your beauty had quickly caught everyone's attention, including his. You often hung out with the mean girls who were rude to him, but that didn't matter because you were nice to him.

He had been preparing all week for this moment—the perfect time to ask you out. He was sure you would accept his invitation; after all, he had noticed you eyeing him ever since you first crossed paths. He convinced himself that you felt the same way he did. Why else would you smile at him and greet him whenever you passed by? Sure, he saw you smile at other students too, but you never greeted them or listened to them talk about bird facts like you did with him! That had to mean something, right?

He clutched the small white cardboard sign he had made like a lifeline. Nervousness washed over him, though he couldn't quite understand why, as he was confident you were into him as much as he was into you. Awkwardly, he maneuvered through the crowded hallway, careful not to bump into anyone. This school swarmed with people, and he hated it. He often felt like the odd one out, especially since his older brother, Gut, was a popular jock. While he was labeled as the 'quiet kid,' except he wasn't quiet, just weird. Most students avoided him, including Gut, who treated him like a stranger—not Gut's best friend though, or should he say his best friend, Chris, instead? Chris actually talked and listened to his bird facts, even if it sometimes felt forced. They were best buds, and he appreciated Chris's friendship and all of his ‘manly advice’, especially when he felt all alone at college. Still, he admired both Chris and Gut, despite Gut’s hating his gut—ha! He chuckled at his own pun, only to earn weirded-out looks from the other students, which made him walk even faster. He despised this school.

Once he spotted you through the crowd, and it felt as if everything was in slow motion. He finally understood the romance in those annoying movies his mum watched on weekends. Holding the cardboard sign tighter, he felt more anxious now that you were just a few feet away. He glanced at his reflection in the principal's mirror-like window door to check his appearance. He made sure his glasses were straight and that his curls looked decent. His mum had said he looked handsome that morning, but it wasn't like her opinion mattered. After finishing his appearance check, he turned back to the cardboard sign he had made for you, ensuring there were no misspellings. He had asked Chris for help, trusting his best friend's advice, and all Chris said was to write something plain because “chicks” apparently dig that sort of thing. So, he had written, “Would you dance with me?” with a smiley face at the end. He had tried to add a merman doodle, but Adrian wasn't exactly the artistic type, so it ended up looking more like a dying dog. Nevertheless, he hoped you would appreciate the effort.

Feeling a surge of confidence, Adrian straightened up—he couldn’t wait to see your reaction to his prom invitation! He was convinced you didn’t have a partner yet because rumors circulated saying you had been rejecting everyone and were waiting for someone special to ask you. He’s convinced that someone special was him.

As he made his way toward you, he squeezed through the throngs of students until someone bumped into him. The guy staggered back, a look of annoyance crossing his face. The guy began to curse him out, and Adrian recognized him as one of the senior jocks who hung around his brother. “You’re the one that bumped into me, dude,” Adrian said, frowning. The jock flushed with anger and began not only to curse at him but began berating him, growing louder with each word.

“You stupid fuck—are you talking back?” the guy shouted, drawing the attention of everyone in the hallway. Adrian felt annoyed and anxious under their watchful eyes. he could easily break the guy’s neck with his bare hand, but the guy hadn't break any school rules yet—wait, was cursing allowed in school? He was pretty sure it was against the school’s rules, but he couldn’t just go full vigilante mode and kill him in front of everyone. He’ll take care of him later, Adrian thought as he watched the guy curse him out. He didn’t know what to do—should he apologize? But it wasn't his fault; it was this jerk's fault for bumping into him. So why should he apologize? Everything had been going so well; why did this jerk have to interrupt his preparation? Adrian felt his face souring; he was itching to just gut him when his thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice cutting through the cursing.

“Could you leave him alone, Jake? I saw you bump into him,” you called out. Adrian quickly focused on you, and his heart began to race as he realized you were defending him. He felt like he was falling even harder for you, and it assured him even more that you liked him back—at least that's what he thought

His mouth hung open as he watched you, feeling as though everyone around him had disappeared. All his attention was on you, It didn’t even register to him that Jack—Jake—whatever—was saying something.

“What, do you like him or something?” Jake scoffed, his voice dripping with disbelief. You were defending a nobody, making you stiffen—do you? Adrian was cute and nice… what’s wrong with liking him? you wondered. Yet, your friends beside you looked at you in disbelief, making you feel nervous under their gaze. Suddenly, it felt like everyone in the hallway was watching, judging, and your palms began to sweat.

Adrian, however, noticed none of the tension surrounding you; all he could think about was how you stood up for him in front of everyone. Out of nowhere, he blurted, "Would you be my prom queen?" God, you thought, couldn't he read the room? Your throat felt tight as the gasps of those around you echoed in your ears

“Well? Answer him,” one of your friends urged as she snickered. It felt like everyone’s gaze was weighing you down, expecting you to make the wrong decision and ready to judge you for it. Adrian was nice, but you couldn’t bear the humiliation.

"I'd rather die," you blurted out, immediately regretting your harsh choice of words. You took a step back, embarrassed, your hand shaking, as you quickly walked away, refusing to look at Adrian's reaction as you turned away like a coward. The sound of laughter followed you, and regret washed over you for letting the others influence you and for treating him that way.

And Adrian it felt as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped on him uponing hea your rejection.

“I’d rather die, I’d rather die, I’d rather die, I’d rather die...” It echoed back to his brain like a mantra, and suddenly you and all of your friends got to die.

——————

Adrian let out a sniffle as he sat on the edge of Chris's bed, while Chris awkwardly hovered beside him. Adrian wasn't one to cry, but the sting of rejection had settled deep inside him. He genuinely thought that there was something special blossoming between you and him—the way you listened so intently when he rambled about birds and other quirky facts without telling him to shut up like most people tend to do. Even Chris constantly told him to shut up, but you never did. So why did you reject him? He was sure you liked him back; guess he was wrong.

“Dude... that was really mean of her. Like, wow, she actually said she’d rather die?” Chris said, patting Adrian’s back awkwardly. “Why didn’t you tell me it was one of the popular girls you had a crush on, bro?” Chris shook his head. He felt bad for Adrian, but if he had known you were the one Adrian was crushing on, he wouldn't have helped him with asking you out—though Chris help didn't exactly help anyway.

“Come on, dude, stop crying. This is so not manly,” Chris said, though he didn't stop patting Adrian. “I just... I just thought we had something,” Adrian replied, his lip quivering. His expression mirroring that of a sad labradoodle denied a treat. Adrian was just glad his brother had skipped school that today, had Gut heard about the rejection, he knew he would never hear the end of it.

“Dude, listen to me,” Chris said, his voice shifting to a more serious tone as he grabbed both of Adrian's slumped shoulders, making him to look up. Adrian perked up slightly, eager for Chris's ‘manly advice.’ “She’s way out of your league,” Chris declared, causing Adrian to slump again. “Just forget about her. Come on, let’s go out—my treat this time,” Chris urged. But Adrian wasn’t in the mood and remained silent. When Adrian was quiet, it was trouble—because he was never quiet, which genuinely creeped Chris out. 

"How about we take Eagle with us and make him steal shit from other people?" Chris suggested again, but Adrian just flopped his back on Chris's mattress and curled into a ball. "Come on, it'll be fun—it’s Eagle, dude. Are you really gonna say no to him?" Chris groaned. "I'm not in the mood, man," Adrian said, and began shooing Chris away at his own room, making Chris look at him like he’s grown two heads. "Are you serious?" Chris said as he gave Adrian a nasty side-eye, who just rolled away to face the other side, making Chris sigh in disbelief—not only was Adrian creepy quiet, he was rejecting hanging out with Eagle and him? What did you do to Adrian that got him so hung up with you?

“You know what?” Chris said as he stood up, puffing out his chest as if he had the best idea in the world. “Let’s take them out,” Chris suggested. Adrian quickly straightened up. He had been thinking about that, but it felt empty. Killing brings Adrian joy, yet the thought of gutting the jock who made fun of him earlier didn't made him feel anything. However, maybe doing it with Chris would bring back some of the joy.

“Say, I take those stupid jocks,” Chris proposed casually, as if it were just another normal Tuesday for them. “And you handle the mean girls and that girl who rejected you. I can't deal with another girl beating me up after that wild night with that porcupine lady,” he said, as he slightly shivered at the memory.

“You'd do that for me?” Adrian beamed. He wasn't going to kill you because you rejected him; to Adrian, consent is the sexiest thing on earth, but the way you said that you’d rather die than go out with him and then left without looking back stung a bit—not a bit, a lot. He looked up at Chris, who grinned at him and gave him a thumbs up.

“Of course, dude—hey, don’t make it weird,” Chris quickly added as soon as he saw Adrian's twinkling eyes, crossing his arms defensively.

——————

You hadn’t seen Adrian the entire morning, and a nagging worry began to seep into your thoughts—where could he be? Just a little while ago, you had looked around the campus, searching for him in every nook and cranny to apologize for your harsh words, but you couldn't just simply find him anywhere. Few people seemed to appreciate Adrian; they found his liking for bird facts and obsessive chatter off-putting. But to you, he was the sweetest boy on earth. It was hard to understand how others could overlook his genuine kindness. You thought as you practiced your cheerleading backflips in the school gym, your mind wandered, distracted by concern for Adrian. The gym was relatively quiet, with only your coach, her gaze fixed on her phone, and a handful of cheerleaders practicing routines in the corner. 

Along with Adrian’s absence, Mel and Christina were noticeably missing too, which was unusual. They would never skip out on practice unless they were out fucking dudes, which they probably were. But with prom just hours away, you thought they would be eager to gossip about their prom dresses and hairstyles. But then, they were friends first, so the thought crossed your mind that they might have gone off without you, leaving you out of their plans.

You were just a little worried about them because of that weirdo Vigilante running around Evergreen, killing people and leaving fear in his wake. You hoped with all your heart that Adrian was safe, despite the fact that he might resent you after your previous action. Distracted by your thoughts, you executed another backflip but miscalculated your landing and twisted your ankle painfully. A sharp cry burst from your lips. “Fuck!” You winced and collapsed on the gym floor, drawing the attention of your fellow cheerleaders.

“Oh goodness, are you alright?” a concerned redhead exclaimed, rushing to your side, while others followed suit, offering their hands to help you up. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just twisted my ankle… I think?” You managed to reply, trying to brush off the situation. Your coach soon approached, annoyance etched across her features as she called your name, prompting you to look down in shame. “I told you girls to be more careful! You have a cheerleading performance next week! Go treat yourself in the locker room! Girls, back to practice!” Her voice was firm, and some of the girls scattered back to their spots, but the redhead lingered for a bit, concern still simmering in her eyes. Once you gave her a thumbs up to signal that you were okay, she finally returned to practice. “Sorry, coach,” you murmured, but her dismissive shake of the head sent you limping toward the locker room, disappointment heavy on your shoulders. Not only had you hurt a sweet boy’s feelings, but you also managed to fuck up your ankle. Just great, you thought bitterly as you made your way out of the gym and toward the safety of the girls' locker room.

From the bleachers' point on the gym bench, a pair of blue eyes watched intently as the scene unfolded. Adrian scowled, his expression darkening as he observed your retreating figure and the coach, who was once again lost in her phone. How dare she speak to you like that? Though you and Adrian were not on the best terms at the moment, witnessing the disappointment on your face ignited a protective anger within him. He felt an overwhelming urge to rip your coach's throat out, and he wasn't even gonna do it out of his pure joy of killing people; he wanted her dead for the way she treated you.

He had already taken care of your two so-called friends, and he was willing to add that coach of yours next to them. He was confident that Chris was perfectly handling that obnoxious jock. They were hardly worthy of your attention anyway; they had laughed at Adrian yesterday, a cruel reminder of the way they treated him. He was convinced you wouldn’t miss them; they had never been good for you. He had planned to kill you along with them at first, then save you for last—until his thoughts shifted when he finally noticed how every so-called friend of yours isn't so great. Instead of taking your life, he decided to change his plan last minute; he’s going to kidnap you instead! Honestly, he didn't really want to kill you anyway; he really—really liked you after all. You didn’t have to like him right away; he was sure that after spending some time together, you would come to see how well you matched.

Adrian slipped off the gym bench and eagerly hurried out of the gym, determination in his steps as he made his way to the locker room, where he could see you rummaging for the medkit. As he approached, he grabbed a clean towel hanging nearby. He didn't want to hurt you, so he planned to make you pass out, but misfortune struck—he tripped over a crack in the tile because of how eager he was to get you back to his house already, nearly losing his balance and face-planting onto the floor. Regaining his footing by grabbing onto one of the lockers, he made a loud crash that echoed through the locker room, his heart racing as he hoped it hadn’t startled you too much.

You barely registered the sound echoing in the locker room before instinct kicked in, and you turned to see Adrian. Confusion washed over you—why was he in the girls' locker room? Yet, a wave of relief followed at the sight of him. “Adrian? What are you doing here?” you asked, rushing toward him while completely forgetting about your ankle. A sharp hiss escaped your lips as your foot protested the movement, and your body wavered dangerously. Adrian quickly dropped the towel he was holding, scrambled toward you, and caught you in his arms.

Your hand instinctively grasped his shirt, the fabric cool against your palm as your noses nearly touched. You could feel a flush creep up your cheeks, acutely aware of how close you were to him—his deep, captivating eyes imprisoned your gaze, making your heart race. as you realized how beautiful his eyes were up close. You wondered what he would do if you kissed him right then. Flushing at the thought, you quickly pulled away from him, realizing you still had to apologize for your harsh words the day before. Adrian frowned at the loss of contact and almost immediately reached out for you again.

"I'm sorry—gosh, I'm really sorry!" you squeaked, wincing as you stood up straight. A jolt of pain shot through your ankle, causing your knee to buckle. Adrian instinctively grabbed your arms to steady you—definitely not because he wanted to feel your soft skin again. 

"Are you okay?" he asked, momentarily disregarding your apologies—his ‘supposed’ frustration toward you momentarily forgotten. How could he stay angry at you, anyway? 

“Yeah! Totally fine…” You attempted to assure him, gripping his bicep for support, the solid muscle beneath his flannel shirt making your heart race even faster. Adrian’s frown deepened, and you could see the concern etched on his handsome face. He immediately saw through your facade—how could you claim to be fine when you definitely weren’t fine, did you not trust him? “No, you’re not?" he stated, his brow furrowing as he carefully guided you to sit on the bench. Your heart raced—his proximity only heightened your awareness of him, and guilt washed over you for treating him poorly. He’s way too good for you, you thought, overwhelmed with regret as you watched him kneel down, gently inspecting your ankle.

“Looks like you landed really hard from that backflip, huh?” he noted casually, and you frowned, confusion rinsing over you. How did he know about your ankle twist? You never told him what happened. Adrian internally cursed himself for slipping, “I never mentioned how I twisted my ankle..” 

“Aren’t you a cheerleader? You told me that like—last week? Remember?” he said quickly, lying through his teeth. He had followed you around campus when he first saw you at the school to learn more about you—It wasn’t stalking; he just wanted to make sure you were alright.

Frowning slightly, you realized just how forgetful you could be at times. Why did you say that? Now he would probably hate you even more. Mentally scolding yourself for that, you forced an awkward smile and replied, "Oh, right—sorry, my head's kinda foggy right now." 

“It’s alright. Where’s the medical kit?” he asked, determination in his tone. You pointed to the corner of the room, watching as he stood and strode purposefully toward it, leaving you alone for a brief moment. 

Biting your lip, you mentally think ways to express your regret over your harsh words from yesterday. 

When Adrian returned, the sight of him kneeling before you again made your heart race anew. He gently grasped your ankle, wrapping it with precise care in bandages. 

“Adrian, about yesterday, I’m really sorry... about yesterday. I didn’t mean it. I let my friends get the better of me and said things I didn’t mean,” you began, anxiety creeping in as you watched him stiffen—did you just make things worse? Had you said something wrong?

Inside, Adrian’s thoughts whirled. You didn’t mean it! Of course, you didn't! It was all your friends' fault! He quickly pushed aside the fact that they had manipulated you; how glad he was, that he got rid of them! He quickly pushed aside how you let your friends control your emotions; that didn't matter. They clearly manipulated you! A huge grin spread across his face as he tightened his hold on your ankle, completely lost in his thought, causing you to wince slightly.

“Adrian? You’re hurting me... a little here,” you murmured, breaking through his trance. He snapped back to reality, quickly releasing your foot. 

“Sorry!” His voice was tinged with sincerity, and you noticed the genuine concern etched across his features. 

“I understand if... you don’t want to be friends anymore,” you added, bracing for his response, but he interrupted, shaking his head fervently. 

“No! I mean—I don’t want us to stop being friends…” His eagerness was palpable as he grasped your hand between his, warmth spreading through you at the contact. His face flushed red.

“You’re not mad at me?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, that innocent gesture sending a giddy sense of joy through Adrian—gosh, you were just too cute. 

“Of course not! Well, I was a little sad, but I could never be angry at you... I like you a lot,” he confessed, his voice dropping to a tender whisper as he brushed his thumb softly over your hand. Unable to contain yourself, you reached up to gently grasp his face, tilting it toward you, and pressed your lips against his. The kiss took him by surprise at first, but he quickly melted into it, responding with a fervor you hadn’t expected. It was messy and sloppy—not how you'd imagined your kiss with him would turn out to be. You thought Adrian would be more gentle, but he was needy and messy, his tongue probing and poking at your lip before you opened your mouth to let him in, and it immediately turned heated,

One hand slid into your hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as he angled your head to deepen the kiss, while his other hand smoothed down the curve of your back.

“Fuck—please… just please,” he blabbers, his fingers slipping under the hem of your cheerleading shirt to caress the soft, bare skin of your back. His grip on your hair tightened as he pulled away from the kiss, tilting your head back to expose your throat. He leaned down, trailing open-mouthed kisses along the vulnerable line, his tongue darting out to taste the salt of your skin.

His hand slid down to grip your hip, fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he urged you closer, wanting to feel every inch of you against him. He could sense the quick, shallow hitch in your breathing and the way your pulse raced beneath his touch. It filled him with a heady, primal satisfaction to know that he was the one making you feel this way, the one who was bringing you such pleasure.

“A-Adrian…” you let out softly, your hands gripping his biceps as he guided your back against the bench. Adrian shuddered at the sound of his name escaping your lips, feeling his pants grow tighter by the second. His length throbbed with need as he began to shift against you, creating a slow, deliberate friction of his hips against your cute cheerleading shorts. A low, whimpering sound vibrated in his chest—a desperate, needy noise that escaped Adrian's lips as his hips continued their relentless rhythm. The friction of your bodies moving together sent jolts of pleasure shooting up his spine.

Your mind swirled in a haze of desire; all that occupied your thoughts was the intoxicating way Adrian's hips rolled against yours. You didn’t even consider that people might enter locker room as your bodies moved together, lost in the heat of the moment. Your nails dug fiercely into the solid muscle of his biceps, the roughness of your grip likely leaving imprints that would linger long after this. Yet, Adrian didn’t seem to mind, his breath hitching as moans escaped his lips, brushing teasingly against the sensitive skin of your neck.

“Did you know friends are supposed to be this touchy? It’s like, a scientific fact. It releases pheromones—something like that—to make the friendship stronger,” he babbled, his words tumbling out in a mix of excitement, causing you to frown in confusion as you struggled to make sense of his nonsensical thoughts.

"I’ve never tried this with Chris—have you tried it with your other friends? God, please tell me you haven't... I’d be super jealous—and I might kill someone again,” he whined loudly. You shook your head quickly—ghe phrase "killing someone" didn’t even register in your mind as you pulled his face away from your neck making Adrian let out a brief whimper before you silenced him by crashing your swollen lips against his. 

In an instant, Adrian came in his pants, a warm patch spreading across the front of his jeans, staining the fabric in his moment of bliss, and a rush of embarrassment quickly flooded his cheeks with color. A strangled noise erupted from him as he deepened the kiss, his tongue entwining with yours—when a loud clatter shattered the heated of the moment, a sharp sound echoing in the air as something crashed to the floor. In an instant, you instinctively pulled away from Adrian, your heart racing at the thought that the two of you had been caught. Adrian was quick to chase after your lips, a soft, longing whine escaping him when you sat up abruptly.

"Hey... what? No, don't pull away," he murmured, his voice low and thick with genuine need, his breath warm against your ear, making you squirm.

"Wha—what was that?" you stammered, looking around with wide eyes, trying to shake off the residual heat of his closeness. Adrian's hands instinctively found your hips, tugging you back toward him, but you pressed a palm against his face, stopping him from distracting you with soft kisses. He pouted comically, his eyes glinting with mischief, and before you could react, he grabbed your wrist, popping one of your fingers into his mouth. You let out a surprised shriek, followed by a surprised giggle as you playfully hit his chest.

But your laughter faded, when your gaze settling on the pink phone lying on the ground, a stark contrast against the dull floor, the source of the earlier noise, and your heart lurched. No... this couldn't be right. Adrian quickly followed your gaze, and his expression darkened as recognition dawned.

"Shit," he whispered, the word barely escaping his lips, and fear bloomed in your chest. You instinctively pulled away from him and reached for the phone, but Adrian was faster; he snatched it up and stuffed it into his pocket, a guilty look crossing his features.

"Sorry—my phone fell out of my pocket..." he mumbled, attempting to regain the playful atmosphere. But you felt an icy grip of suspicion creeping up your spine. You knew exactly what Adrian’s phone looked like, and this was definitely not it. And that phone definitely belonged to your friend Mel. Why did Adrian have it?

Panic rose in Adrian's chest as he desperately scrambled for an explanation. "I changed my phone case! Yesterday—yeah, that’s it. Hey, come on," he stammered, his voice rising with his anxiety. You extended your hand, your voice steadying with resolve. 

"Give me the phone, Adrian," you commanded, standing up from the bench with a mix of dread and determination. Adrian’s heart clenched painfully at the sight of you standing away, his mind racing back to how perfectly the evening had been going. Damn it! He should have gotten rid of that phone! But curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he had wanted to see your text messages from your friend’s phone.

"Don't you trust me?" he pleaded, the hurt in his voice surfacing, but your frown only deepened as you swiftly snatched the phone from his pocket. He shrieked in surprise, reaching for it in an attempt to retrieve it without causing you harm. But it was too late; your eyes caught the notification that flashed on the cracked screen: "Hey, you guys coming to practice?" Your heart raced, and a cold sweat broke across your brow as you clutched the phone tightly, backing away from him, the weight of dread accelerating within you.

"What did you do to my friends?" you whispered, fear seeping into your voice, a tremor running through your body. Adrian’s heart shattered at the sight of your fear, your wide eyes reflecting disbelief and horror.

"No... it isn’t what it looks like, baby—please, see, I found it! Yeah, I found it!" His desperate explanation tumbled from his lips, but the words felt hollow after the lie that had already been spoken. You looked at him, your heart racing as you glanced toward the exits of the locker room, and Adrian followed your gaze, understanding your intent all too well. 

In a flash, you leapt toward the exit, ignoring the sharp pain in your ankle as you reached for the door handle, but Adrian was quicker; he wrapped his strong arms around your waist, pulling you tightly against his chest as you thrashed and kicked, your instincts screaming for escape. 

"Please! Just listen to me! They aren't good for you anyway!" he pleaded, his voice a confused mix of desperation and anxiety as you kicked and elbowed him in the ribs. Adrian yelped in pain and quickly trapped your arms, trying to calm the storm of your emotions. 

"Let me go! Please, don’t kill me!" you cried out, panic overcoming you. Causing Adrian to frown, as he pressed a gentle kiss against your temple.

"I would never hurt you—they don’t deserve you! That’s why I got rid of them—they were manipulating you! Trying to pull you away from me!" he whispered fervently against your hair, holding you close as he breathed in your familiar, comforting scent. The warmth of your body against his was intoxicating, he didn’t want to hurt you, but you were giving him no choice. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he murmured softly, his hand moving to wrap around your throat, his grip carefully estimated, not enough to hurt but just enough to knock you out cold. As your body went limp against him, he felt a surge of regret. “Fuck… I’m really sorry,” he whispered, shifting you against his arm before pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

[4eather]

Adrian's Masterlist 18+

But she doesn't know who I am, and she doesn't give a damn about me 'Cause I'm just a teenage dirtbag, baby Yeah, I'm just a teenage dirtbag, baby Listen to Iron Maiden, baby, with me, ooh

Adrian Chase

Series.

Oneshots.

• Prom queen. (nfsw; 5.3k wordcounts)

𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺: 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦'𝘴 𝘢 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘴𝘩𝘭𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘈𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘶𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘦𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦, 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ A LAST NOTE FROM YOUR NARRATOR

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀   ⠀ I am haunted by humans.

[fragulaura]

Paris looks good today

[4eather]

𝘈𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘸 𝘪𝘯 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘨

ɪ'ᴠᴇ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴀ ʟᴀᴅɪᴇꜱ' ᴍᴀɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ʙʀᴀɢ ʙᴜᴛ ɪ'ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴀ ᴍᴀᴍᴀ'ꜱ ʙᴏʏ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀɴᴅʀᴇᴡ ɪɴ ᴅʀᴀɢ ɪ'ᴅ ꜱɪɢɴ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ᴍʏ ᴛʀᴜꜱᴛ ꜰᴜɴᴅ, ɪ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ꜱᴇʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ᴊᴀɢ ɪꜰ ɪ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ꜱᴘᴇɴᴅ ᴍʏ ᴍɪꜱꜱᴘᴇɴᴛ ʏᴏᴜᴛʜ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀɴᴅʀᴇᴡ ɪɴ ᴅʀᴀɢ

Featuring: Sherlock Holmes x Fem!Reader x James Moriarty Summary: 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘯, 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘖𝘹𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘺 𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘴𝘦𝘹 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦, 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦. 𝘏𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵  𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘯. 𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴, “𝘊𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘯, 𝘐 𝘷𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘐’𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳—𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘦.” 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘖𝘹𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘖𝘹𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘨𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥. Genre: Romance, Drama, Comedy. Warning/tags: 𝘕𝘰 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘺/𝘯, 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘰 𝘱𝘩𝘺𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥/𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦𝘯'𝘴 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘳. 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘩, (𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵, 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩.) 𝘍𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵, 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧 𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘨𝘺𝘯𝘺, 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 (𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘪𝘤), 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘯.

Masterlist

Benedict's chamber was a mess whirlwind of clothing and personal belongings, a testament to his frantic preparations. Garments lay strewn haphazardly across the floor—some crumpled, others half-folded—If you hadn’t known him to be a young man, you might have mistaken the scene for the excited aftermath of a little girl preparing for her first sleepover. As you leaned against the doorframe with your arms crossed, a playful smirk danced on your lips. "The sun will rise any moment now, Benedict. How long does packing take you?" you berated, shutting the door behind you with a soft click.

He had penned you an urgent letter just days earlier, explaining that his father, along with your father—his uncle—was sending him away to London. He was to take up the position of a porter boy at Oxford due to his chaotic sex life, which was tarnishing his father's reputation. 

“Patience, dear cousin,” he replied, finally glancing up from the depths of his trunk, a teasing smirk danced across his lips as he took in your appearance, clearly entertained by the disguise you donned. “I need to ensure I have everything I need before leaving you with all of this.”

“What are you, a woman?” you retorted, an eyebrow arched in feigned indignation. You stepped closer, scooping up discarded items from his bed with a scowl. 

“Don’t you look sharp,” he shot back, completely disregarding your jab and he gestured at the tailored suit you wore, complete with a matching top hat that sat jauntily atop your head

“Do not,” you replied, a hint of bashfulness washing over you. Your eyes narrowed as you adjusted your sack coat, then broke into a sheepish grin at the compliment. “Does it really?” you asked, searching his expression for affirmation.

“Absolutely not. It’s hideous, what are you wearing?" he said with unrestrained disdain, his expression a mix of judgment and horror as he motioned toward your sack coat. Offended, you turned away from him, directing your frown at his dressing table while adjusting your coat with an irritated huff. “I think I look rather dashing as a man,” you countered, removing your top hat and placing it carefully on the dressing table, while he stood with arms crossed, disbelief etched across his face.

“You resemble one of those so-called ‘dashing nobles’ who prey on unsuspecting girls at ball dances” he bantered, grimacing at your reflection. Making you bristle with indignation, and retaliated by smacking his arm lightly. He winced but quickly swatted you back playfully. "Just look at yourself," he said, brushing his fingers through his hair with exasperation, gesturing at your wig and the fake mustache you wore. His commentary made you instinctively touch your mustache, shooting him a glare.

“We need to fix this situation. I cannot allow you to sully my name with that ridiculous look," he declared, shaking his head in disapproval. With swift movements, he yanked your wig off, revealing your hair intricately pinned in place. “See how easily that comes off? Goodness, you’d be caught within a day, dear cousin!” he fretted, clearly stressed at your apparent lack of effort in disguising yourself. 

“May I remind you that I am helping you here?” you retorted with a scowl, which prompted him to swing his attitude around quickly. He wrapped an arm around you affectionately, turning you to face the mirror atop the dressing table, his chin resting gently on your shoulder.

"I am not taking back my words, but I truly appreciate your efforts on my behalf, dearest cousin,” he said teasingly before planting a gentle kiss on your temple. You sighed, swatting him away in exasperation. “We need to figure out that long hair of yours," he continued with the biggest grin etched on his face. You paled; doubt began to creep into your mind. Is it too late to back down now? A wave of horror washed over you at the thoughts of Benedict shaving your head clean off. Did you really want to proceed with this decision? Yet, deep down, you knew this step was necessary not only for Benedict but for your younger brother, whose disappearance still haunted you.

_______

"What have you done?" you exclaimed, your voice a mix of shock and frustration as you clutched the remnants of your once long hair, now drastically shortened. Benedict stood behind you with an infuriatingly serene smile, the scissors gleaming in the soft light as he set them down on the dressing table. A swift kick of hus shoe sent loose strands of hair fluttering away.

"You promised you’d only take a little off! Now I look just like you!" you hissed, fury bubbling inside you. In a flash, you snatched the scissor, clenching the scissor tightly in your palm. But he was quick to dodge, ducking to the side with a chuckle, the laughter ringing through the chaos that enveloped you both.

"Please! Not my face! I still need to look perfect for my wedding, cousin!" he teased, evading your advance as you chased him around the small, cluttered room, scissor poised as if they were a weapon.

Once the playful chaos subsided, you faced him with a glare that could have melted steel. He merely met your gaze with a wide grin, the kind that only made you scowl more deeply. "I look like an absolute muppet," you muttered, casting a glance at the mirror on the dressing table where your new appearance was reflected back at you. You brushed your short hair back, the feeling unfamiliar yet oddly liberating—it wasn’t all that bad.

"Quit being a child," he chided playfully, stepping behind you and resting a reassuring hand on your shoulder. You scowled at him once more, the annoyance fighting for control within you. But then his tone shifted, a seriousness taking over as he continued, "Aren’t you doing this for Colin?" The mirth in the room dissipated, leaving only the weight of his words hanging between you.

"You can do this."

"I know," you both locked eyes in the mirror, the reflection revealing not just your physical change but the turmoil within. 

"This is your only chance to find out what really happened to him," Benedict urged, his grip on your shoulder tightening with sincerity, making you look down at the floor. A wave of doubt washed over you—could you truly go through with it? Deep down, doubt began to gnaw at your confidence—could you really do this? But this opportunity was a rare gift, a chance to not only uncover the truth but to escape your mother’s grip.

"I know," you repeat, the gravity of the moment settling in as his hand slid down from your shoulder to caress your arm before giving it a gentle pat. He stepped back, allowing you some much-needed space.

Looking back into the mirror one last time, you took in your transformed self, the long locks exchanged for a choppy style, your fake mustache awkwardly skewed above your lip. A heavy sigh escaped your lips as you ruffled your hair once more, seeking comfort in the familiar gesture. Straightening your back, you turned away from the mirror, determination slowly replacing uncertainty.

"Let us do this,"

_________

"Cousin dearest," he began, a mix of gratitude and longing in his voice, "I truly appreciate your help with all of this." The weight of his words hung in the air as you stood on the uneven, rocky ground, the cool evening breeze tousling your hair. His trunk lay nestled beside him. You were a fair distance from his family's estate, deliberately choosing this secluded spot to ensure that none of his father’s watchful employees caught wind of his departure. As you both stood there, waiting for the carriage’s arrival.

"I seriously doubt that, any woman you’ve fancied has never gotten along with me," you scoffed, a teasing glint in your eye, which drew a hearty laugh from him. He recalled a particularly chaotic encounter when a previous dalliance had mistaken your easy camaraderie for flirtation, resulting in a nearly disastrous confrontation. You gave him a knowing look, remembering how you barely managed to pacify the situation before it escalated into something worse, saving her from a rather awkward fate.

"Those women were different," he insisted, his expression softening as he gazed into the distance. "I vow this time—I've truly found her, the girl worth all my trouble." His voice was earnest, brimming with hope, making you sigh in resignation before you allowed a smile to break through. With a playful nudge to his shoulder, you watched him wince dramatically as if your light touch was more than he could bear.

"You’d better treat her right, then," you warned, your tone a blend of sincerity and jest as you tucked your hands into your trouser pockets, grounding yourself in the moment. Just as he opened his mouth to respond, the distant rumble of wheels on cobblestone interrupted, announcing the arrival of his carriage.

"Well..." he began, glancing over at the road where the carriage approached, his charming smile lighting up his face once more as he grabbed his trunk. "Good luck, dearest cousin," he said, wrapping his arms around you in a warm embrace. You melted into the hug, breathing in the familiar scent of him—something like cologne and sweat. His hand gently caressed your back, a gesture that spoke volumes of your closeness, and he pulled away reluctantly.

"Once again, thank you, cousin," he said, the gratitude in his eyes making you roll yours playfully.

"Go now, before I change my mind and tell Uncle on you," you teased, watching his face break into a playful grin as he saluted you, his cheeky demeanor momentarily returning. He made a beeline to the carriage, where the coachman lent him a hand as he climbed inside.

"Goodbye, dearest cousin! I’ll send you plenty of photographs from the wedding, along with glimpses of my beautiful wife!" he shouted, his head poking out of the quarter window as the carriage began to roll away, the sound of its wheels echoing down the path.

You couldn’t help but smile, waving your hand as the carriage faded into the distance. "Take care, cousin dearest. I look forward to it," you called out, as the carriage shrank into a mere silhouette against the setting sun, you tucked your hands deep into your trouser pockets again and turned and began walking back to the Bridgertons’ household, the warmth of the encounter lingering in your heart. At least one of you was stepping into happiness.

________

Your back was turned to the door when you heard the unmistakable creak of Benedict's chamber being opened. You felt no urge to glance behind you already knowing who it was by the heavy, deliberate footsteps. You were far too anxious to face him in fear of him finding out you weren't his son and getting the two of you in much more trouble.

"Tu as déjà fait tes valises, Benedict." His voice cut through the air, frigid and unyielding. Edmund was a man whose presence seemed to drain warmth from any room. Your interactions with him had been minimal, confined to rare family gatherings overshadowed by silence and formality. He was always preoccupied with his work, a fact Benedict often lamented, It was why Benedict sought solace in the arms of others, hungry for the affection his father never provided.

Have you packed out yet, Benedict?

"Oui, papa," you managed to respond, your voice barely above a whisper as anxiety gnawed at your insides. As your nail dug into your finger, you barely registered the sharp sting of pain and the warm bead of blood that formed from pressing so hard. Your gaze was drawn to the window, where rain began to patter softly against the glass, mirroring the turmoil inside you.

"Bien, la calèche est arrivée. La sœur de votre cousine sera là pour votre trajet jusqu'à Londres. Ainsi, je sais que vous ne ferez rien de stupide." His words dripped with disinterest as he said them, the finality of his tone echoing in the small room. With a slight shove, he closed the door behind him, leaving you alone in the dimly lit room. He remained oblivious, convinced that you were indeed Benedict—no inkling of doubt clouded his judgment. It was a striking reflection of how infrequently he interacted with his son. A conflicted wave washed over you, relief that he hadn’t picked up on your act, mixed with frustration at how little he truly knew his own flesh and blood. But you buried those feelings deep, for Benedict’s sake.

Good, the carriage is here, your cousin’s sister will be there for your ride to london so i’ll know that you will not do anything stupid.

_______

You sat cross-legged on the plush seat of the carriage, the rhythmic clatter of the wheels against the cobblestones echoing in the air around you. Beside you, your sister Eloise maintained a pensive silence, her gaze fixed out the window as the landscape blurred by. You couldn't tell if she had pieced together the truth about you, or if she was simply disheartened by Benedict’s actions.

The tension in your chest tightened like a vice as you wrestled with a mix of anxiety and guilt. Eloise had been your steadfast companion, practically raising you through the tumult caused by your brother’s disappearance and your mother’s decline. You could hardly bear the thought of disappointing her, yet here you were, hiding a secret of monumental significance. The weight of the bandage wrapped around your chest constricted more with each passing moment, and you shifted uncomfortably in your seat, the silence pressing down like a heavy fog.

You adjusted your beret, pulling it down further in an attempt to hide your eyes. Maybe if you made yourself smaller, she wouldn’t pick up on anything amiss.

“You’re unusually quiet,” Eloise finally spoke, her soft tone catching you off guard. You jumped slightly at the sound of her voice, and she added with a small chuckle, “And jumpy.” her attempt to lift the tension only serving to make your heart pound harder.

With a quiet sigh of anxiety, you let out a breath; perhaps you were overthinking things—she didn’t suspect a thing, and your mind was just playing tricks on you. You adjusted yourself again and finally found the courage to respond, “I’m just nervous.” The slight tremor in your voice betrayed you. You cursed yourself for not sounding more like Benedict—confident and self-assured, he thrived on making others uneasy rather than being the one who felt uneasy.

“It’s not that bad being a porter,” she reassured you gently, a hint of warmth in her voice. The grimace that spread across your face at her words was involuntary; the real fear lurked behind her obliviousness to your true identity. You pinched the bridge of your nose, a feeble attempt to regain composure.

“Of course you’d say that—you’re the one who suggested it to Uncle, and he’s the one who told Father,” you responded, making an effort to mimic Benedict’s accent, the inflection rolling off your tongue awkwardly. You caught Eloise’s startled expression in your peripheral vision—her surprise at your knowledge flickering across her face before it morphed into confusion, her lips pursing and brow furrowing in thought.

“How did you—” she began, only to pause as realization dawned. As she muttered your name, the air suddenly thick with questions.

Of course, you knew it was her idea that led to this punishment—Benedict becoming a porter boy at Oxford. You had overheard her private conversation with your father that fateful night, her voice earnest and passionate as she pleaded on Benedict’s behalf. You could still visualize the way she grasped your father’s arm, her desperation palpable.

“Papa, you must convince Uncle that kicking Benedict out won’t help the family name,” Eloise had insisted, her eyes wide with determination. Your heart had twisted at the injustice of their discussions—Benedict, a good child caught in the turmoil of childhood mischief, didn’t deserve to be pushed out into the cold.

You had pressed your back against the wall, eavesdropping on their urgent debate. The risk of getting caught paled in comparison to the worry over your cousin’s fate.

“Eloise, this is Benedict and my brother’s issue. I cannot interfere,” Pierre replied, his tone weary but firm.

"She won't be happy with this, Papa, you know her," her voice had cracked slightly, betraying her concern for you as well.

“A porter boy it is. I will do my best to persuade my brother, but there are no guarantees,” your father gave in, the weight of his decision sealing Benedict’s future fate. Relief washed over you then—a porter boy was a reprieve from being cast adrift on the streets without support.

And now here you were, taking Benedict’s place as a porter boy, thrust into this role because he had unexpectedly decided to flee with a woman and marry her—despite having only just met her. Your mind churned with disbelief; love of his life, my arse.

Once again, silence enveloped the carriage, feeling heavier than before. You couldn’t fathom how Eloise remained oblivious to the deception unfolding in front of her. The thought made your stomach twist with unease.

“I’m sorry she couldn’t join us,” Eloise began once more, her voice tinged with melancholy as you felt beads of perspiration form on your brow. You quickly slid open the quarter window curtain, letting in a rush of cool air that brushed against your flushed skin.

"I thought she’d be here for you, given how close you two are... I didn’t even get the chance to speak to her before we left for London. She’s been avoiding me,” she confessed, her fan flapping idly in her hands as a glimmer of sadness crossed her features. 

The guilt swelled inside you; she’s right here, Sister, you thought—Benedict was the one who had fled, leaving behind the chaos. You clasped your hands tightly together, leaning forward, the carriage’s movements sending waves of anxiety crashing over you. How long would this ride last? You felt like you might burst, overcome with emotion and secrets threatening to spill from your lips.

You pressed your lips shut, too afraid to utter a word, fearing betrayal would cling to each syllable. A soft sigh escaped Eloise’s lips beside you, but she fell silent once more, and you sat in the suffocating quiet, the unspoken truths hanging heavy between you.

__________

Days slipped by, and at long last, the two of you arrived at the sprawling grounds of the prestigious University of Oxford. The magnificent buildings loomed before you, their grand architecture casting a shadow of awe that made you fully grasp why Benedict was so flustered by his punishment as a porter. This place was vast and filled with an air of dignity, and Benedict, with his towering ego, could hardly bear the thought of being reduced to a mere errand boy amidst such esteemed halls. He would rather roam the streets penniless than endure the humiliation of such a role.

You, on the other hand, were far from an egotistical man—you weren’t even a man. You had come to this respected place in search of clues about your missing brother; The weight of humility didn’t bother you, not bothering you in the slightest. However, your sister, who still remained blissfully unaware of your true identity, does.

The confines of the trains and carriages during your journey had taken a toll on your body, leaving your muscles stiff and your feet itching to be free. The moment the carriage finally came to a halt, you wasted no time, springing out with eagerness and leaving your sister behind. The huff of her exasperation echoed in your ears, prompting you to wince and turn back to assist her. “Sorry, cousin dear, I was itching to get out of there,” you said, your attempt of mimicking Benedict’s accent spilling out rather awkwardly, making her narrow her eyes in question.

“It’s no trouble, Benedict,” she replied, her tone sharp yet laced with concern as she hopped down with your help. She stepped aside, allowing the coachman to retrieve your heavy trunks from the carriage and set them on the ground before he turned to leave. Unease pricked at you as you felt her gaze linger. “Are you feeling alright?” Her voice was filled with worry as she glanced at you. Instinctively, you moved out of her line of sight, only to feel the intensity of her gaze follow you.

“I am well, sist—cousin,” you coughed, hiding the fact that you almost slipped and called her sister. You adjusted your sack coat, feeling yourself sweat under her scrutiny.

“Ah, Mrs. Bridgerton,” a gravelly voice called out, and you sighed inwardly, relieved to be interrupted by a stranger. 

“Please, Mister Smudger, it’s only ‘miss’ for I am not married yet,” your sister corrected swiftly, her face brightening as she approached the older gentleman with spectacles that sat atop his nose, a smile gracing her lips as you followed behind her, feeling the awkwardness of the moment dissipate slightly.

While they conversed, the sound of another set of carriages rolling to a stop at the university’s entrance drew your attention. You could hear the low murmur of two men talking even before you caught sight of them.

“Sadly, none of the founding colleges would take you. So—”

"I suppose I'll have to endure the clumsy modernity of 1458 then?" the man near the quarter window quipped. Intrigued, you squinted towards the sound, straining for a glimpse, but your sister’s voice snapped you back to the present as she beckoned you over. As you turned away, the remnants of their conversation faded into the background of the courtyard.

You approached, trying to compose yourself. “Benedict Bridgerton at your service, sire," you said, extending your hand toward Smudger, only for him to place an apron in your palm. You stared at it before looking at him in utter disbelief.

"You're in great hands, Bridgerton," Smudger said, his smile unwavering as he attempted to pat your shoulder, but you instinctively dodged away, resulting in his hand connecting with nothing but empty air. Eliciting a discreet cough from Eloise, who swiftly smacked your arm as punishment for your rejection.

"I have my doubts," you replied, managing to maintain a small, polite smile while ignoring your sister's warning look.

Footsteps approached from behind, and you turned to see a tall figure standing near your sister. "Ah, Smudger," the newcomer greeted with amiable familiarity. Your sister gasped softly, her eyes widening as she recognized him.

"Mr. Holmes," Smudger replied, and instinctively, you stepped aside, tucking your hands behind your back. You had little desire to engage with strangers; your mind was set on settling in and finding answers.

"Sherlock Holmes?" Smudger called, acknowledging a young man standing next to the gentleman with a mustache. 

"That’ll be me, sir," Sherlock replied, his demeanor composed as he approached. You noticed how he glanced at you for a brief moment before shifting his gaze away, while the man with the mustache turned to your sister, causing your eyes to narrow in protective suspicion.

"Eloise," the man with the mustache greeted with an air of familiarity, prompting Sherlock's brow to furrow in confusion at the familiarity between them.

"Mycroft, it’s a pleasure to see you here," Eloise answered softly, and upon hearing his name, you felt the flicker of intrigue mix with your protectiveness. "And I see you have brought your.." Her voice trailed off, leaving silence that was broken by Mycroft.

"My brother, Sherlock. Sherlock, meet Eloise... a friend of mine.” The way Mycroft stressed the word “friend” made you squint your eyes at him.

“And who might this young man be?” Mycroft asked, his piercing eyes fixed squarely on you now. The intensity of his stare made you bristle, and you shot him a disapproving look—why did it feel like there was more beneath the surface of this friendship than mere camaraderie between these two? before you shrugged the thought aside happily; you were grinning ear to ear that he didn't even notice off in your disguise while your sister beside you glanced at you in confusion at your sudden shift of mood.

"My cousin—" Eloise began, but you quickly cut her off, thrusting your hand forward to shake Mycroft's eagerly, feeling Eloise’s exasperation cut through the air.

"Benedict Bridgerton," you introduced yourself—or rather your cousin’s, and he grasped your hand firmly. The moment you completed the handshake, you turned to offer the same to Sherlock. “Pleasure to meet you,”

"The pleasure is all mine," Sherlock replied, his British accent smooth. As you withdrew your hand, you felt the lingering gaze of his keen eyes upon you. What’s with him? you thought.

“Ahem, this is yours, sir,” Smudger interrupted, raising an apron toward Sherlock, who stared at th apron as if it were an artifact from a foreign country. Sherlock scrutinized the apron, before glancing back up at the old man in front of him.

“Mmm, come on,” Smudger encouraged, flapping the apron in the air as if it were a prize. Reluctantly, Sherlock took hold of the garment, turning swiftly to converse with his older brother. "Mycroft," he began as he looked at the sky for a moment in disbelief, like it might give him an answer before looking at his brother.

"Yes?" Mycroft answered, his tone light and somewhat amused as he observed his brother's bemusement.

"Why is the head porter proffering an apron?" Sherlock queried, his brow knitting together as he flapped the crisp, blue fabric in the air.

Mycroft merely tilted his head slightly, a playful smirk gracing his lips. “You’re a smart boy. Work it out,” he replied, his tone oozing with a mix of teasing and challenge. You stood beside your sister, sharing a moment of quiet amusement as her wide grin mirrored your own.

“I’m to be a porter, not a student?” Sherlock retorted, a dramatic delight painted across his features. As he held the apron aloft with one hand, he shot his brother a pointed look, as if trying to peer into his older brother's mind.

“Oh, no. You’ve got to work your way up to be a porter,” Smudger interjected, prompting Sherlock to look at Mycroft with another feigned delight.  “You’re a scout, you and Bridgerton,” Smudger continued, feigning casual as he engaged in conversation with a random man behind Sherlock.

“A scout?” Sherlock echoed, his voice dripping with mock enthusiasm as he glanced back at Mycroft, searching for a semblance of reassurance.

"A scout? I thought father opted me to be a porter boy?" you interject sharply, your head whipping toward your sister, for clarification. She simply smiled back at you, while the lack of explanation from her left you frowning.

“And what does a scout do?” Sherlock inquired, momentarily breaking his gaze from Mycroft to glance at you.

“Whatever I tell him to do,” Smudger replied with a confident swagger that made you roll your eyes dramatically.

This left Sherlock looking back at his brother with yet another expression of feign thrilled. “I’m here to serve and not to learn?” Mycroft, however, was unfazed, tapping his polished top hat with his cane while a knowing smile danced on his lips.

“Oh, no, no. You’ll learn, all right,” Smudger chimed, his voice dripping with condescension as he leaned in behind Sherlock and nudged his elbow lightly, hat tucked snugly into his coat. Sherlock shot him a sideways glance.

“Come along, boys, the shitters aren’t going to clean themselves, are they?”His condescending tone made you and Sherlock exchange exasperated glances, your expressions reflecting a shared disbelief, before both eyes darted back toward your own siblings, who seemed to be enjoying the spectacle far too much.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock called plaintively, the disbelief evident in his voice, and Mycroft turned away, turning toward your sister with arm outstretched to her.

"Eloise," you chimed in, the thought of scrubbing a filthy toilet making your skin crawl. No wonder Benedict had been so eager to escape. God, he probably doesn’t even know, you thought bitterly, scowling at the absurdity of the situation.

“Bon appétit, hmm?” Mycroft quipped, a cryptic grin plastered on his face. You weren’t sure if that remark was aimed at you or his brother besides you, which only elevated the stink eye you shot him in return. His only response was a bemused tip of his hat as he escorted your sister toward his carriage.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock called after him again, an incredulous tone lingering in his voice.

“Eloise, father will hear about this!” you shouted, annoyance creeping into your words as you watched your sister—cousin—who simply waved her hand as Mycroft guided her away. What in the bloody hell? You could sense that she was keeping things with Mycroft, and that realization only fueled your discontent.

Behind you, Smudger cleared his throat obnoxiously behind you, drawing your attention back as Sherlock stared at Mycroft's retreating figure.

With a forced act of delight, Sherlock turned to the head porter and said, “The shitters, Sir?” and you felt a mental groan rise up at the ridiculousness of it all.

[4eather]

I just realized I forgot to translate them talking in French!! 😓