Mando Mode 🌱 @mando-modep - Tumblr Blog

another human soul

relationship: bobby franklin x female! reader (in the future)

summary: there is another someone else in the backrooms and when she hears screams she finds a broken man at the end of a corridor. saving him becomes a mission that she never knew she could hope for.

author's note: omg hi! it's literally been 2 years since I've last written anything on Tumblr or fanfic related in general (and I also deleted my account lol) but I'm back! I was struck with inspiration because of this movie so I wanted to write a little something for bobby! honestly all credits due to the better bobby series bc it literally inspired me to get back into writing (to the incredible writer I will forever be indebted to you THANK YOU). I hope you enjoy this little brain dump of an idea I came up with, a part 2 should potentially be coming but I'm also open to requests (!) so if anyone wants to send anything my way pls be my guest I would love to hear from you. anywayyyy enough of my rambling, pls enjoy <3 (edit: I FORGOT TO ADD THAT THIS IS MY WORK, COMPLETELY MADE AND BIRTHED BY A HUMAN BEING, NOT AN AI)

content warnings: swearing, mentions of blood and injuries, horror, psychological horror, monsters, death

big-poppa23

Join Me In Death

synapse: In 1978, henry creel glimpses hawkins lab’s oldest and most dangerous secret, y/n, the blood-soaked girl from prom night he never forgot

pairing: henry creel x carrie white inspired!reader

contains: dark romance, religious trauma, blood, death, physical violence

a/n: this is just an idea that’s also based on the succubus idea. i just want to see how it’ll do or if people want it. no, im not gonna stop writing for after class so dont jump to that conclusion. lmk if I should write more. also ik henry was a freshman in 1959 but for story sake, he was a sophomore instead

the-darklings

very important concept that I have to ask you about: does BB like to dance? because what if reader had a Walkman with her or smth and started playing songs for them that would be so adorable I feel like

he would be so delighted by this. by all of it. by the existence of the walkman, by the small sound of music in a place that is normally silent except for the hum. the very concept of you wanting to share something with him that didn't come from him.

the thing about the walkman is that it shouldn't work. batteries die. the backrooms are not kind to electronics. M.E.G. devices fail constantly down here. but yours just... keeps working. it's been working for weeks. and you've stopped questioning why because you have a working theory that involves bb's name and you don't want to look at it too directly. (he is, somewhere, somehow, keeping it alive for you.)

you'd been listening to it alone mostly. headphones in, sitting in the nest, just needing five minutes of something from the real world. and he'd been watching. with that quiet curious head-tilt, that focused-attention thing he does when something about you is new. eventually you'd noticed.

you'd pull the headphones off and hold them out to him.

he'd stare like he's not quite sure what the move is. then he'd come closer. lower his head obediently when you motion, let you slip the foam-padded band over his ears, let you adjust the fit with both hands like you were settling a crown.

his eyes go wide.

not in the human way. in the bb way. the pupils doing the too-fast dilation. his head tilting all the way to that not-quite-human angle, like the music was something he was trying to hear with his entire body and his neck was just trying to help.

he doesn't have a frame of reference for music. he has the hum of the backrooms. he has his own tuneless song. he has the muffled distant echoes of songs that bled through walls in places he watched you and bobby exist. but he has never had this (clean, layered sound made by humans for the express purpose of being beautiful) directly into his ears. into his head. inside him.

and yes. he knows what dancing is. he watched you and bobby do it. when bobby still came around and you were alone at the store, and he would put the music on louder and pull you against him and spin you around. and you laughed and bb watched from the other side and filed it away with the rest of the things bobby got to have and didn't appreciate.

so when the song picks up and you stand up and hold your hand out to him he understands what you're asking. he just doesn't know how to do it.

"i don't—" he starts. quiet. genuinely uncertain in a way he almost never is. "i've never—"

"i know."

"i'll do it wrong."

"that's the fun part."

mando-modep

❤️🥲

the-darklings

𓈒 ˳ ˳ 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐘 𓈒 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 4.

pairing: bobby franklin x f!reader x entity!bobby (bb) contents/warnings: graphic violence, blood, body horror, self-worth issues, internalised blame/anger suppression, mentions of past emotional neglect in relationship. notes: This part got very long so if there's crustiness I'm sorry, but this one is vvv important for overall plot and setting up future stuff. Genuinely thank you SO much for the insane amount of warmth and support on the series so far!

📹 better bobby series masterlist.

You wake up still pressed into his chest.

For a moment, you don't remember why, and then you do. All at once. The grin in the dark, the teeth, the wet, tearing sounds. Your whole body tightens. Better Bobby's hand is already on your back, moving up and down your spine, languid and unhurried, like he's been doing it for hours. Maybe he has.

You don't know how long you were out. Sleep here isn't sleep the way you understand it. It's more like your body surrenders to exhaustion while the yellow hum rocks you under, and when you surface, it's never with the feeling of having rested. Just the feeling of having stopped.

You pull back. Slightly. Just enough to see his face.

He lets you. His hand stills on your back but doesn't lift. He watches you with those pale eyes. They’re Bobby's eyes. Exactly Bobby's, the same shade, the same lashes, the same way they catch light and hold it. His expression remains open and patient under your scrutiny, and he doesn't fill the silence. He just waits. Let's you look at him.

You've never studied him this closely before. You've been careful not to. Because looking too hard at Better Bobby means seeing the places where the seams should be and aren't. Confronting how good the copy is, how flawless. The earring sits in his lobe at the exact same angle, and the chain drapes across his collarbone with the exact same weight.

Even the small scar on his jaw from when real Bobby walked into a cabinet door at nineteen is right there, a perfect replica of a wound that happened to someone else's body.

You sit up. Put distance between your body and his. Not much—a foot, maybe less—but enough that the air between you becomes a boundary instead of a shared warmth, and you see him register it. The slight tension at the corner of his mouth. The way his hand hovers where your back was and then settles, open-palmed, on the blanket beside him.

He doesn't chase you. He lets you keep your distance.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asks.

mando-modep

This in amazing.... So excited to read more 🤭

sosa2imagines

Can't escape my love... Part 2

Warning- None for this part, age reveal of reader, banter.

You were being dragged. Not literally, but given the sheer disparity in your stride lengths and the absolute, terrifying urgency of the man you were chained to, it certainly felt like it.

The London rain had shifted from a miserable mist to a steady, freezing downpour, washing the soot and grit of the city directly into your eyes. You were stumbling through a labyrinth of narrow, garbage-strewn alleys somewhere behind Soho, tethered to a man who moved with the unstoppable, terrifying momentum of a military tank. The high-tech, magnetic chain linking your left wrist to his right hummed and whirred, extending a few feet when you inevitably lagged, then snapping taut and yanking you forward when the slack ran out.

Your entire world had been reduced to the agonizing burning in the balls of your feet, the soaked weight of your trench coat, and the broad, unyielding wall of expensive charcoal wool that was his back.

And you were losing your mind. As an editor, your primary coping mechanism for extreme stress was verbal diarrhea. You processed the world through words, and right now, the silence of this terrifying giant was more unnerving than the man who had held a gun to your head twenty minutes ago.

“So, what is the plan here?” you panted, dodging a puddle that looked suspiciously like an oil slick. “Are we walking to a secondary location? Is there a safe house? Because if we’re just power-walking around the West End until the sun comes up, I’m going to need to sit down. My arches are collapsing.”

The man didn't answer. He didn't even break his stride. His large right hand, the one cuffed to you, swung in a steady, militant rhythm.

aetherialmuse

The Science of Affection

Main Masterlist Sherlock Holmes Masterlist

My Wattpad📖

Radio's Café☆ - my official discord server! (if it says error my discord is pariposy)

Want to be added to my taglist? Just a few clicks away! -> Taglist Form

Pairings; Sherlock Holmes x reader

Genre; historical fiction, mystery, romance, slow burn, action, drama, character study

Warnings; violence, mild gore, blood, injury, alcohol use, smoking, strong language, emotional tension, intimacy (non-explicit), weapons, threats, misogyny (period-accurate), mentions of death

Summary: When a chance encounter at a London fair pairs Y/N with Sherlock Holmes on a Ferris wheel, neither expects it to spiral into late-night investigations, sharp-witted debates, and a bond stronger than either has known. Between Enola’s meddling, unfinished cases, and secrets neither wished to share, they discover that love—like deduction—is rarely simple, often dangerous, and always worth pursuing.

A/N: Thank you mom for giving me this absolutely lovely idea for a story, this has to be my best work yet since becoming a writer in late of May. I've never been so proud of myself before this story, and I'm thankful for you because you got me to this point I know you're reading this (especially with how much I've harassed you about reading this), I'm so proud of this story and I hope you are too. I love you, mom.❤️

11236 words

The air smelled faintly of roasted chestnuts, sugared almonds, and horsehair. Somewhere in the distance, the shrill wheeze of a calliope drowned out the laughter of children darting between brightly striped tents, their small hands sticky with toffee. The traveling fair had made camp on the broad common of Hyde Park, and as dusk drew its first violet curtain across the London sky, lanterns were being lit one by one like fireflies suspended in midair.

Sherlock Holmes, of Baker Street fame, would rather have been anywhere else.

He stood, hand shoved into the pockets of his waistcoat, his long figure made even more severe by the dark frock coat that hung almost to his knees. He carried with him, as always, his walking stick—a polished length of walnut that had seen more use as a shield or pointer than for any support his still-strong legs might need. His blue eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, flickered across the fairground with practiced vigilance. He catalogued every stall, every vendor’s dishonest gleam, every hand that dipped too easily into another’s purse.

Enola, who bounced at his side with all the irrepressible energy of youth, had insisted—no, demanded—that he accompany her.

“You spend far too many hours in that dim room, staring at pipe smoke and maps,” she had declared that afternoon, hands planted firmly on her hips. “Your mind will rot if it does not breathe fresher air. Come along, brother. You need to stretch your legs and rewire your brain.”

He had muttered something about the absurdity of such phrasing—brains were not telegraphs to be rewired—but here he was nonetheless, his youngest sibling’s insistent tug pulling him toward the very sort of frivolity he most despised.

The Ferris wheel towered above the fair like some monstrous cog plucked from the belly of an infernal machine. Its seats, no more than small wooden carriages suspended by bolts and faith, creaked as they rose into the violet sky. Young couples clutched hands, children squealed with terror and delight, and the entire construction seemed, to Sherlock’s eyes, like a spectacular opportunity for an accident.

He was about to say so when his gaze flickered to the line that had formed at its base. There, standing with a tentative air of hope, was a young woman who did not belong. Not because she lacked ticket or coin, but because her very posture betrayed the sharp angle of disappointment.

You.

You had joined the queue in a small rush of bravery, coins clutched tightly in your hand, only to be halted by the carnie’s dismissive shake of the head. The Ferris wheel, he declared, required two to a carriage. It was policy, for balance, for safety. One rider alone could not be permitted.

You had stepped aside, coins still warm in your palm, and tried—unsuccessfully—to mask the way your face fell. The lantern-light caught your features in soft relief: the slope of your cheek, the faint furrow of your brow, the lips pressed together in a thin line of resignation. There was no companion at your side, no friend, no sweetheart, only you against the swell of laughter and coupled joy around you.

Sherlock noticed. He always noticed.

And—true to his nature—he ignored it.

He turned his head, intent on directing Enola toward the exit with the firmest of older-brotherly admonitions, but Enola was already watching you. A spark lit her clever brown eyes, the very sort of mischievous glimmer he had come to dread.

“She is beautiful,” Enola said, quite without preamble, as though remarking upon the weather.

Sherlock stiffened. “She is… standing in a line.”

“She is standing alone in a line,” Enola corrected, looping her arm through his. “And you, brother dear, are standing alone beside me. Two alone people, how fortunate.”

“Do not be ridiculous.” He tugged his arm free. “I have a case to finish.”

“You have had a case to finish for four months,” she retorted, too loudly. A pair of passersby turned their heads; Sherlock glared until they moved on. “It will not crumble to dust if you allow yourself one evening to smile.”

“Smiling,” Sherlock said dryly, “is a pastime reserved for those with nothing better to do.”

“Then let me put it in the language you understand,” Enola said, her tone bright with mischief. “An experiment, brother. If a notoriously grim detective were to partake in a fairground amusement, what effect might it have upon his psychological disposition? Would it, perhaps, untangle the cobwebs of his reasoning?”

He rolled his eyes heavenward, silently cursing his own decision to ever admit kinship with this girl. “If you are so intent upon experiment, why not volunteer yourself? Go with her.”

Enola sniffed, crossing her arms. “I would, but I am not the one who requires rewiring.”

And before he could argue further, she placed both hands firmly against his back and shoved.

Sherlock stumbled forward, his polished boots striking the packed earth with a graceless thud. His shoulder collided with yours.

You gasped softly, steadying yourself. He caught the briefest whiff of your perfume—something subtle, lilac and ink, the kind of scent that belonged to a reader who tucked sprigs of dried flowers between the pages of well-loved books.

“My apologies,” Sherlock said at once, straightening to his full height. His voice was smoother than you expected, with a resonance that hinted at intellect honed to a blade’s edge. “I was not looking.”

“No harm done,” you murmured, though your fingers tightened around your unused ticket.

Sherlock hesitated, his mind already crafting half a dozen possible retreats. And yet—perhaps it was the stubborn shove of Enola’s hand still tingling between his shoulder blades, or perhaps the flicker of disappointment he had seen in your eyes—it stayed him.

“May I…” He cleared his throat, unused to the awkwardness of such words. “That is to say, would you allow me to make amends for my clumsiness by accompanying you on the Ferris wheel?”

Your eyes widened, uncertain. His gaze did not waver. For all his reluctance, for all his aloofness, he extended the invitation as one who recognized a debt owed.

After a heartbeat’s pause, you nodded. “I would like that.”

Sherlock inclined his head, as though sealing a bargain, and offered the barest curl of a smile that barely reached his eyes. He presented his arm with the mechanical grace of a man fulfilling social obligation. You, with a soft laugh of surprise, accepted it.

Behind you both, Enola grinned with the self-satisfaction of a chess player watching her pawns align.

The two of you stepped into the carriage. Sherlock, always mindful of habit, rested his walking stick against the opposite side of the seat, the polished wood lying neatly beside his knee. You sat across from him, hands folded primly in your lap, and for a moment there was only the groan of gears and the rising hush of the fairground below.

Sherlock Holmes was many things—detective, observer, cynic—but he was not often at a loss for words. Yet as the Ferris wheel carried you both upward into the night sky, lanterns shrinking beneath you like scattered constellations, he found himself strangely suspended between silence and curiosity.

And thus the conversation began.

The Ferris wheel jolted once, protesting the strain of its own iron bones, and then began its slow, inexorable ascent. The voices below softened, folded into a tapestry of laughter and music, the faint cries of hawkers urging customers toward fortune wheels and shooting galleries. Above, the sky deepened into indigo, flecked with stars barely strong enough to pierce the haze of London smoke.

Sherlock sat with his hands braced upon his knees, every inch of his posture screaming restraint. He was accustomed to coaches, to steamships, to long railway journeys across the countryside, but something about this creaking contraption of timber and bolts unsettled him. His mind calculated weight distributions, torque, tensile stress—too many calculations for something meant only for amusement.

You, sensing his tension, tilted your head. “You look as though you are preparing to interrogate the Ferris wheel itself.”

His blue eyes flicked to yours. There was, to his faint surprise, humor dancing in them, the kind that invited rather than mocked. He exhaled through his nose. “It is not interrogation but observation. These machines are marvels of poor engineering. I give it twenty years before half the fairground collapses in some dreadful accident.”

“Then I am fortunate to be riding with the one man who could deduce precisely how to escape,” you replied.

The retort came smoothly, easily, as though you were accustomed to meeting cynicism with wit. Sherlock’s lips curved—barely, almost against his will—into the ghost of a smile.

“Most people,” he said slowly, “would find such talk alarming.”

“Most people,” you answered, “do not carry a mystery novel in their bag for idle moments in queue.”

That caught him. His gaze darted, quick as a falcon’s, to the leather satchel resting beside you on the seat. Peeking from its clasp was the worn spine of a book. The title, though half-hidden, was familiar: The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins.

Sherlock’s brows lifted a fraction. “Collins,” he murmured. “A curious choice. Considered by some the first true detective novel, though I would argue its methodology is riddled with flaws.”

You gave a soft laugh. “And yet I find myself returning to it again and again. I prefer to forgive the flaws for the delight of the puzzle.”

He leaned back against the wooden panel, regarding you more keenly now. “Do you often occupy your mind with puzzles?”

“Whenever possible,” you admitted. The Ferris wheel swayed gently, the world tilting below, but your voice remained steady. “I have always thought the world more bearable when viewed as a mystery to be solved rather than a tragedy to be endured.”

Something in that phrase struck him—quietly, unexpectedly. Sherlock was a man who lived by puzzles, who carved meaning from chaos, who kept despair at bay by reducing it to data. And here you were, a stranger, speaking a truth he had rarely heard beyond the echo of his own mind.

He cleared his throat. “Do you confine yourself to mysteries, or do your tastes wander further?”

“To science fiction as well,” you said, with a smile that betrayed a certain shyness, as though confessing a guilty pleasure. “Improbable journeys, impossible inventions. I find them… liberating.”

“Liberating,” Sherlock repeated, tasting the word. “An interesting sentiment. I had always considered such tales frivolous.”

“Perhaps they are,” you allowed, “but is it not refreshing to imagine worlds unbound by the rules that govern ours? Science as it might be, not merely as it is?”

He regarded you for a long moment. The Ferris wheel reached its apex, and the city sprawled beneath like a living map—ribbons of lamplight tracing the streets, the river gleaming faintly as it snaked toward the unseen sea. Sherlock should have been cataloguing the skyline, should have been marking chimneys and counting carriages. Instead, he found himself studying the way your eyes reflected the lanterns, bright with thought.

“You speak,” he said quietly, “as though you have read Wells.”

Your smile deepened. “Twice through The Time Machine, once through The War of the Worlds. I even attempted The Invisible Man, though I found it more chilling than the others.”

Sherlock’s gaze sharpened, not in judgment but in recognition. He himself had read those same works, often in restless nights when his own cases had stalled and he needed something to prod his imagination. Few ever admitted to such indulgences.

“You surprise me,” he said at last.

“I hope in a good way.”

The Ferris wheel shuddered as another carriage was loaded below, then resumed its slow descent. Lanterns swung gently, their glow catching on the polished head of Sherlock’s walking stick.

For a stretch of silence, they sat. But it was no longer the silence of strangers. It was the silence between paragraphs of the same story, a pause pregnant with possibility.

Finally, Sherlock spoke again, his voice lower, as though reluctant to break the spell. “And tell me, Miss—” He faltered. “Forgive me. I do not know your name.”

You offered it, and he repeated it, turning it over like a clue.

“Miss Y/N,” he said. “What compels a young lady to ride a Ferris wheel alone?”

You considered, then answered with candor. “I was curious. I have read of such things but never experienced one. Curiosity is reason enough, do you not think?”

Sherlock inclined his head. “Curiosity is the only reason worth heeding.”

When the carriage touched the ground again, he surprised himself by feeling almost reluctant. He rose first, retrieving his walking stick, and then—ever the gentleman, though rarely for amusement’s sake—offered his hand.

You placed yours in his, and he steadied you down each wooden step with a care that felt oddly deliberate, as though guiding you from a much higher precipice.

The moment your feet touched earth again, you half expected him to release you with a curt nod. Instead, he lingered just long enough to raise your knuckles to his lips, brushing them with the briefest kiss.

It was not gallantry for display’s sake. It was a promise, unspoken, etched into the press of warm breath against your skin.

And then he let go.

Above, unnoticed, Enola leaned against the iron rail of a nearby stall, eyes wide with astonishment. She had seen the gesture, and it was enough to send a wicked grin blooming across her face.

Sherlock Holmes—the man of logic, the man of solitude—was unraveling, one thread at a time.

The ground beneath the Ferris wheel was uneven, trampled by thousands of feet over the course of the day, and strewn with straw meant to soak the damp. You stepped carefully, the faintest tug on your skirts to keep them from brushing against the mud. Sherlock, still holding his walking stick in his left hand, hovered close enough that his right might extend again if you faltered.

You noticed. Of course you did. He was not the sort of man whose gestures passed unnoticed.

“Do you always guard strangers so attentively, Mr. Holmes?” you asked lightly, when he steadied you past a knot of children racing underfoot.

“Only when they demonstrate a propensity for distraction,” he returned, without missing a step.

“Distraction?”

He glanced at you sidelong, his mouth twitching with the barest suggestion of amusement. “You have the look of a woman cataloguing every sound and scent of this place, rather than minding her steps. You smell of lilacs, but the faint ash on your glove suggests you live near a factory chimney. Your shoes are well-polished, though the leather at the sole is thinning—a sign of long walks. You are observant, inquisitive, but perhaps not so mindful of uneven ground.”

You blinked, caught between indignation and delight. “You deduced all of that at a glance?”

“At several glances,” he corrected, tapping his walking stick once against the dirt as though punctuating his thought. “A glance, after all, is never enough.”

For a moment, the fair seemed to recede—the barkers calling out prizes of ribbons and tin toys, the squeals of children, the hiss of fireworks being prepared for later. What remained was the sharp edge of his gaze, dissecting the world with merciless clarity, and the surprising warmth beneath it.

“Very well,” you said, recovering with a smile. “Then allow me my own deduction.”

Sherlock arched a brow, intrigued despite himself. “Proceed.”

“You dislike the fair,” you began.

“A truism,” he said, though not dismissively.

“Not because you disdain joy—though you might protest otherwise—but because you distrust its construction. You have calculated the failure points of every machine here, and you could list the dozen ways a careless vendor might cheat his customers. Yet,” you continued, emboldened by the flicker of surprise in his eyes, “you came. Which suggests not a man enslaved to disdain, but one compelled by family.”

Sherlock stopped mid-stride, turning toward you fully. For a heartbeat, the corners of his lips betrayed him—they curved upward.

“You are not unskilled,” he admitted, a concession he would not have granted lightly.

You inclined your head in mock solemnity. “I should hope not. The Moonstone does not reread itself, after all.”

The two of you moved again, this time more in step. A string of colored lanterns guided your path through the fairground, their light gilding the air with warmth. To your left, a shooting gallery cracked with the sharp pop of rifles; to your right, a fortune-teller’s tent spilled incense and mystery into the night.

Sherlock’s gaze lingered on the fortune-teller’s painted sign. “Charlatanry,” he muttered.

“And yet,” you teased, “many find comfort in the illusion.”

He made a low sound of disapproval, but did not argue further. His attention had already shifted to a pickpocket slipping too close to an unsuspecting man’s coat. With a single, sharp glance, Sherlock sent the thief scurrying into the crowd.

“Do you ever stop observing?” you asked softly.

His grip on the walking stick tightened. “No. It is… impossible.”

Something in the way he said it—neither boast nor complaint, but weary fact—softened you. You wondered how often such a gift felt like a prison, chaining him to details others could blissfully ignore.

“Then let me offer a reprieve,” you said, gesturing toward a vendor selling roasted chestnuts. “Observe me no more for the space of five minutes, and simply eat.”

He stared at you as though you had suggested he juggle fire. Yet when you pressed a warm paper cone of chestnuts into his hand, he accepted.

For the next few minutes, the two of you walked in companionable quiet, the chestnuts cracking softly between your fingers, their steam rising like ghostly ribbons into the chill night. The simple act of eating seemed to ground him, and though his eyes never ceased flicking across the crowd, he allowed the corner of his mouth to soften.

Behind a booth stacked with sweetmeats, Enola crouched like a cat on the prowl, eyes gleaming with mischief. She had followed at a distance, half for amusement and half for curiosity, and what she saw now made her grin so wide it nearly hurt. Her brother, the great detective, was eating roasted chestnuts beside a woman who made him listen.

She nearly skipped with glee at the sight.

Sherlock, of course, noticed her shadow a moment later. His eyes flicked past you, narrowed, and then dismissed the sight with a faint huff. He would not give her the satisfaction of being acknowledged.

“You are smiling,” you remarked suddenly.

He blinked, caught unawares. “Am I?”

“Only barely. But yes.” You tilted your head. “Do you find it so terrible?”

Sherlock looked at you for a long time, the lamplight carving silver into his eyes. At last, he said, very quietly, “Not tonight.”

The fair stretched on, but for both of you, the world had narrowed to the rhythm of your footsteps, the warmth of roasted chestnuts, and the curious alchemy of two minds meeting where they least expected.

The fair had begun to thin. Lanterns burned lower, their oil nearly spent; children were gathered by yawning parents; vendors counted coins with the weary haste of men eager to close. Overhead, a scatter of fireworks was being prepared—an explosive finale promised by posters nailed across half the city. But you and Sherlock found yourselves drifting away from the noise, toward the quieter edge where the crowd frayed into the dark lanes beyond.

It was not a deliberate path, at first. His stride was purposeful, but unhurried, as though he had resigned himself to escort you toward the street without yet admitting that was his intention. You matched his pace, aware that the world beyond the fair’s boundaries was emptier, lonelier, less gilded with distraction.

“Do you attend fairs often?” you asked, partly to prolong the walk, partly out of genuine curiosity.

“Never,” Sherlock replied with such certainty that you nearly laughed. “I am here under duress. My sister,”—his mouth twitched—“believes I require what she terms rewiring.”

“Perhaps she is correct,” you teased.

His blue eyes slid to you, one brow arching. “Do you imagine me some broken automaton, in need of repair?”

You shook your head. “Not broken. Wound too tightly, perhaps. A man forever measuring springs and cogs may forget to wind himself with anything other than work.”

That silenced him. For a few steps he stared ahead, the walking stick ticking softly against the packed earth, before he murmured, “You speak as though you have studied me.”

“Perhaps I have,” you said, lips curving faintly. “Perhaps I read people as I read novels: searching for motifs, contradictions, hidden meanings.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched again, not quite a smile, not quite a frown. “And what have you read of me?”

You paused, choosing your words with care. “A man who cloaks himself in reason because emotion is untidy. A man who sees too much, yet allows himself to feel too little—save when he cannot help it. And tonight…” You hesitated, then added softly, “A man who is not quite as alone as he imagines.”

The words seemed to hang in the cool air. He did not answer at once; his jaw worked, as though testing the fit of a thought he had not expected.

You feared, briefly, that you had gone too far. But then his voice, quiet and low, reached you: “I do not often permit myself the luxury of being seen. It is… disarming.”

You smiled gently. “Then I consider it an honor.”

By now the fair’s edge loomed ahead. A wooden fence bordered the lane, with steps leading down to the gravel path that would carry visitors back toward the main road and the waiting carriages. Lanterns flickered here too, though fewer, their glow softened by the night.

Sherlock paused at the top of the steps. His figure, tall and dark against the glow, seemed for a moment carved from the very shadows. Then, with a deliberateness that made your breath catch, he turned toward you and extended his hand.

The gesture was not perfunctory. It was precise, deliberate, offered as though you were descending from a throne rather than a splintered step.

You placed your hand in his. His palm was warm, his grip steady, the strength there restrained with care. He guided you down the first step, then the second, his attention fixed not on the crowd, not on the shadows, but solely on your footing.

At the final step, when your shoes touched gravel, he did not release you. Instead, his thumb brushed lightly against your knuckles, and before you could draw breath, he lifted your hand.

The kiss was brief—so brief you wondered if it had been imagined—but it lingered like the echo of a struck bell. His lips, warm and firm, pressed against your skin with a reverence that was at once startling and tender.

You froze, heart quickening, the fair forgotten.

“A real date,” he murmured, his voice low, certain, as though uttering a vow. “If you would permit me the honor.”

Your breath caught. “You—” Words tangled in your throat. “You are certain?”

Sherlock’s eyes held yours, clear and unwavering. “I have never been more so.”

The world spun quietly around you: fireworks sputtering in the distance, laughter fading into night, the faint clop of a horse’s hooves on cobblestone. Yet in that moment, there was only the weight of his promise and the curious, inexorable pull between two minds that had found each other against all odds.

At last, he released your hand—but only after one final brush of his thumb, as though reluctant to sever the connection entirely.

You stepped back, breath unsteady, and managed a smile. “Then I suppose I shall look forward to it.”

His answering smile—small, rare, but real—was enough to make your chest tighten.

Behind you, unseen but not unheard, Enola stifled a gasp of astonishment. She had lingered long enough to witness every moment: the careful descent, the kiss upon your hand. Though she had not caught every word, she needed no transcript. The look in her brother’s eyes had said enough.

Her grin spread slow and wide, a conspirator’s triumph blooming across her face.

The fair, the evening, the city itself might fade. But this—this was a discovery worth far more than any case.

If one were to consult the annals of history—or at least, the poorly written pamphlets so often sold at train stations—Sherlock Holmes was a creature composed entirely of logic, calculation, and smoke. He was to be admired, perhaps, for his genius, but feared for his aloofness. One might be forgiven for assuming that beneath his waistcoat and his greatcoat there beat no human heart at all.

Enola Holmes, however, had never believed such nonsense.

Her brother might wish the world to think him carved of marble, but Enola, youngest of the Holmes siblings, had seen the cracks. She had seen him pace rooms at three in the morning, muttering to himself, eyes alight with restless fire. She had seen the slant of loneliness in his shoulders when a case dragged on too long. She had even seen him laugh once—properly laugh—when she had beaten him in a game of chess (though he had promptly accused her of cheating).

Still, nothing—absolutely nothing—had prepared her for tonight.

From her vantage point, half-hidden behind the fortune-teller’s striped tent, she had observed it all. She had seen her brother, usually stiff as a boarded-up library, actually ask a woman onto the Ferris wheel. She had seen him sit in that rickety carriage, shoulders tense at first, and then—miracle of miracles—relax. She had watched his mouth quirk upward in something dangerously close to a smile. And finally, she had seen him kiss the young woman’s hand with such deliberate tenderness that Enola had nearly fainted from shock.

Sherlock Holmes, kissing someone’s knuckles? Sherlock Holmes, promising a real date?

Enola pressed a hand to her mouth now, stifling the laugh that bubbled in her chest. Oh, how she wished her mother were here to witness it. Their mother, eccentric and brilliant, would have cackled with delight at the sight of her eldest son ensnared by something as ordinary—and as extraordinary—as affection.

But it was not simply amusement that stirred Enola. Beneath the laughter, there was warmth. A deep, unexpected warmth.

She had always worried about Sherlock, though she would never confess it aloud. He bore too much alone. He built walls around himself higher than the Tower of London, convinced, perhaps, that solitude was safer than the pain of connection. Enola knew differently. She had learned, in her own tumultuous adventures, that solitude might shield you, but it could also starve you. A mind such as Sherlock’s might survive on puzzles, but a soul required something more.

And tonight, for the first time, she had seen the possibility of more flicker in her brother’s eyes.

She stepped lightly away from her hiding place, trailing a little behind as Sherlock and the woman walked toward the edge of the fair. Enola was too far to hear their words, but she didn’t need to. Words were overvalued, in her opinion. Expressions told her enough. Sherlock’s, usually carved from granite, had softened. The lines of his face, so often tightened with impatience, had loosened. And when he looked at the woman, there had been… well. Something new.

Something Enola could only call hope.

She clasped her hands behind her back as she strolled, humming to herself. If Sherlock thought she would let this pass unremarked, he was sorely mistaken. She would have to tease him, of course—mercilessly, gleefully—because what younger sister could resist such a weapon? But more than that, she would have to nurture this fragile thread. She would have to nudge, meddle, contrive little coincidences. For all his brilliance, Sherlock could be remarkably dense in matters of the heart, and left unattended, he might well retreat into his shell once more.

Not if Enola had anything to say about it.

By the time she reached the steps where Sherlock had paused with the woman, the two of them were parting ways. The woman walked down the lane, her figure outlined by lantern glow, glancing back once with a smile that made Enola’s own lips twitch. Sherlock, meanwhile, stood tall at the top of the steps, his walking stick at his side, watching until she vanished into the night.

Enola lingered just out of sight, arms folded. Her brother was still watching the empty path when she finally cleared her throat.

“You looked almost human just now,” she remarked.

Sherlock did not turn. “Were you spying?”

“Observing,” Enola corrected, sweeping closer with all the innocence she could muster. “It runs in the family, you know.”

He cast her a look over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised in dry suspicion. “And what, pray, did you observe?”

Enola grinned wickedly. “Only that my stiff, insufferable brother just kissed a young lady’s hand as though she were the crown jewels.”

Sherlock’s jaw tightened, but a faint color rose at the tips of his ears. “You have an overactive imagination.”

“Oh, I do not think so,” she sang. “I think my imagination is precisely active enough. Active enough to imagine, for example, you escorting her on a second outing. Perhaps a stroll through Regent’s Park? A visit to Hatchards bookshop? A lecture on—what was it she carried? Ah yes, Wilkie Collins!”

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose. “Enola.”

“Yes, brother dear?”

“Silence.”

But she only smiled, wide and unrepentant.

As the fireworks cracked overhead a moment later, painting the London sky in blossoms of red and gold, Enola glanced at her brother’s profile. He was pretending to be absorbed in the display, but she caught it—the subtle softness around his eyes, the curve at the edge of his lips.

For the first time in years, perhaps ever, Sherlock Holmes looked less like a fortress and more like a man.

Enola clasped her hands behind her back once more, heart alight with secret triumph. Whatever came next, she vowed, she would see to it that this was not the end. Sherlock might protest, might bristle, might barricade himself with deductions and disdain. But Enola Holmes was relentless. She had solved cases, outwitted villains, toppled conspiracies—surely she could manage one stubborn older brother.

Yes. She would meddle. She would meddle terribly, gloriously, until that flicker of hope she had glimpsed tonight grew into something her brother could no longer deny.

After all, every great detective required a mystery. And what greater mystery was there than love?

Sherlock Holmes had solved international conspiracies, infiltrated aristocratic households, and once unraveled a murder by studying the behavior of a parakeet. He had never, however, faced a trial so absurd as this:

His younger sister, sitting in his chair, legs crossed, examining him like a specimen while he attempted to tie his cravat.

“You’re sweating,” Enola announced, leaning back and fanning herself with yesterday’s newspaper.

“I am not.” Sherlock tugged the silk tighter than necessary.

“You are. A sheen along the temples. Very unbecoming.”

Sherlock turned, glared. “Enola, I am preparing for an entirely routine engagement.”

“Routine?” She smirked. “Most men do not polish their boots thrice for ‘routine.’”

He ignored her, selecting a coat from his rack with the air of a general preparing for battle.

Enola tapped her chin thoughtfully. “The navy frock coat? Predictable. Dull. What you need is something softer. Something that suggests you are not merely a collection of angles and sarcasm.”

Sherlock stilled, the coat half on. “You presume to advise me on attire?”

“I do,” Enola said cheerfully. “In fact, I brought you something.” She darted to the corner where she had deposited a package earlier, wrapped in brown paper.

Sherlock eyed it as though it contained dynamite. “What is that?”

“A waistcoat. My tailor owed me a favor.”

“I am not wearing—”

“Oh, but you must. It is charcoal grey with the faintest green thread. Subtle, but warmer than the usual funeral garb you insist upon.” She thrust it into his arms. “Try it.”

Sherlock stared, stone-faced. For a moment, Enola feared he might actually hurl it into the fireplace. But to her delight—and smug satisfaction—he sighed and slipped it on.

When he turned back toward the mirror, she saw it: the faintest shift. The cut softened him, lent him color, drew out the green in his eyes. For once, Sherlock Holmes looked less like a storm cloud and more like… well, a man one might wish to spend an evening with.

Enola clapped her hands. “Perfect! She’ll adore it.”

Sherlock bristled. “I care little for—”

“Oh, hush. You care plenty.”

When the wardrobe battle was won, Enola moved on to the next matter: conversation.

“You must not lecture her for an hour about the migratory patterns of crows,” Enola instructed as Sherlock attempted to find his gloves.

“I have never—”

“You have. I was present. At Lady Rathbone’s dinner.”

“That was relevant to the case.”

“She fell asleep in her soup.”

Sherlock closed his mouth.

“Instead,” Enola continued, “you should ask her questions. About her work, her passions, her life. And then—here is the radical part—listen.”

Sherlock shot her a narrow look. “You presume I have no social skill.”

“I presume you have only the kind that solves murders.”

He said nothing, which meant she was right.

When the hour of departure drew near, Enola found herself nearly vibrating with excitement. She had already arranged—without Sherlock’s knowledge—for the carriage driver to take a slightly scenic route to the bookshop where the date was to begin. A little more time enclosed together, she reasoned, might force conversation.

She had also bribed the florist down the lane to casually “drop” a sprig of white heather near the shop entrance at precisely the moment Sherlock arrived. If Sherlock picked it up and handed it over—well, what woman could resist a detective offering her a token of luck?

Sherlock emerged from his room at last, fully dressed, immaculate as ever, though the new waistcoat softened him. He paused when he caught Enola’s smirk.

“What have you done?” he demanded.

“Nothing.” She widened her eyes. “Well, nothing illegal.”

“Enola.”

She pressed a hand to her chest. “I merely wish you to succeed. Heaven knows the world cannot rely on you to do it alone.”

Sherlock grumbled something into his collar, but he did not press further. He was too preoccupied, Enola noted, with his own nerves—though he would rather leap from a moving train than admit it.

When the carriage pulled away, Enola darted to the window, peering out to catch the look on her brother’s face. He sat ramrod straight, jaw tight, but his hand flexed on the head of his walking stick.

Enola grinned. Sherlock Holmes, the terror of London’s underworld, the scourge of liars and cheats, was nervous for a date.

Delicious.

She scribbled it in her notebook at once: Case File #47 – The Curious Case of Sherlock Holmes’ Human Heart.

Yes, she followed him.

What kind of sister would she be if she did not?

Keeping a suitable distance, Enola watched from across the street as Sherlock arrived. Just as planned, the florist stumbled and the sprig of heather landed near his feet.

Sherlock paused. Enola held her breath.

And then—miracle of miracles—he stooped, picked it up, and when the lady appeared, he handed it over with the faintest bow. She slipped it carefully into the pages of the book she carried, preserving it.

Enola squealed, muffled it into her gloves, and nearly toppled into the lamppost.

Sherlock Holmes, presenting flowers. This was better than any case she had ever cracked.

As they stepped into the bookshop together, Enola leaned against the lamppost, heart thrumming with triumph. Her meddling had worked. Her brother was in there now, perhaps even smiling, perhaps even laughing.

She tapped her pen against her notebook, already planning her next moves.

For though Sherlock might believe he was the one unraveling mysteries, Enola knew the truth. This mystery—of love, of companionship, of proving to the great detective that he was not condemned to solitude—was hers to solve.

And solve it she would.

Sherlock Holmes had entered countless rooms with absolute certainty: the scene of a crime, the parlor of a client, the study of a suspect. He had strode into danger, into deception, into chaos, always armed with logic and deduction.

When they stepped into the bookshop that evening, the hush of pages and the faint scent of ink and dust folded around them. Between shelves lined with poetry, she paused, letting her fingers trail lightly over the spines.

Sherlock lingered a step behind, his gaze fixed not on the books but on her — the way the lamplight seemed to soften as it touched her.

She glanced back at him, the faintest smile curving her lips. “Sherlock,” her voice soft but steady.

He inclined his head, eyes flicking briefly to the volume she had just picked up. “Good choice,” he remarked, the faintest trace of approval in his tone.

Surprise flickered across her face, followed quickly by a smile that touched her eyes. “I thought you might say that.” She tucked the book closer to her side. The silence of the shop seemed to wrap around them, intimate, unbroken, until she tilted her head toward the rows ahead. “Shall we?”

Sherlock fell into step beside her, hands clasped behind his back, though his gaze lingered on her more than on the shelves. He noted the way her fingers skimmed the spines as if each title was a friend. She carried herself with ease, but when she looked at him, there was a spark of curiosity that unsettled him more than any interrogation ever had.

The bookshop was quiet, the only sound the turning of pages and the occasional creak of the wooden floorboards.

“You brought me to your hunting grounds,” she teased lightly, pausing at the history section.

“I hunt criminals, not books,” Sherlock replied, though his mouth curved faintly.

“Mm. Yet you study them like prey.” She tapped the spine of a thick volume on forensic science. “Every one of these is a weapon in your hands.”

He tilted his head, conceding the point. “And you? What do you choose for your arsenal?”

She smiled, selecting a slim volume of poetry and holding it to her chest. “Words. They cut just as sharply, if one knows how to wield them.”

Sherlock considered her for a long moment, then nodded once, as if she had passed some unseen test.

The café at the back of the bookshop was quiet, lit by amber lamps that made the rain-streaked windows glow like stained glass. A gramophone hummed faintly in the corner, and the smell of roasted beans lingered in the air.

Sherlock sat opposite her, his long frame arranged with practiced precision, as though even the way he held a teacup must obey some internal order. The books they had chosen lay stacked between them—his a dense treatise on chemistry, hers a slim book of poetry.

She stirred her coffee lazily, watching him over the rim. “You don’t do this often, do you?”

“Do what?” he asked without looking up, though his sharp eyes flickered to her reflection in the window.

“This,” she said, her voice warm with quiet amusement. “Sitting still. Letting a moment breathe. Being here without a crisis at your heels.”

He paused, cup poised midway to his lips. Most would have accepted the accusation or deflected it with humor. But she always seemed to force truth out of him, unbidden.

“Idleness,” he said finally, “is a dangerous indulgence. The mind grows restless.”

“And yet, here you are.” She tilted her head, her gaze unwavering. “Is it restlessness that brought you, or something else?”

His hand tightened on the handle of his cup. Honesty was a trap he avoided instinctively, but her question hung in the air like a noose, daring him.

“Because I wanted to,” he said at last, voice quiet but steady.

Her expression softened—surprise flickering into something warmer, something dangerously close to tenderness. “I see.” She leaned back, as if to give him space after the confession, but her smile lingered.

For the first time that evening, Sherlock looked directly at her and did not immediately look away.

She reached for the book between them, sliding it open. “Keats,” she said, pointing to a stanza. “Beauty is truth, truth beauty. Simple. Clean. Do you agree?”

“Not in the slightest,” Sherlock said without hesitation, a wry edge to his voice.

She laughed, the sound bubbling like a secret shared. “Of course you don’t.”

“Truth is rarely beautiful. And beauty,” he gestured vaguely with his long fingers, “is often a distraction.”

“Perhaps,” she countered, her smile wicked now, “you simply haven’t let yourself be distracted properly.”

Sherlock’s lips curved, faint but unmistakable. “A dangerous proposition.”

“Life is dangerous,” she said, leaning closer across the table. “But some things are worth the risk.”

His gaze dropped, just briefly, to the curve of her mouth before he pulled himself back into order, straightening. “You argue poetry with the same precision most reserve for law.”

“Then consider this a trial, Mr. Holmes,” she said lightly, lifting her cup. “And you are losing.”

Sherlock’s laugh was low, quick, almost involuntary. He couldn’t recall the last time someone had coaxed such a sound from him. It startled him—and yet, for once, he did not resent it.

The conversation, once begun, wound on. They spoke of books first—safe territory. She confessed her love of Keats, he argued the superiority of Donne. She laughed at his disdain for sentimental verse, countered with recitations that even he could not dismiss entirely.

From there, it wandered: music, travels, the oddities of London life. He told her, with dry wit, of a case involving a stolen parrot; she nearly spilled her drink laughing. In return, she shared a childhood story that made him laugh—a rare, genuine sound that startled them both.

It was strange, Sherlock thought, how easily the hours slipped past. With most, conversation was an interrogation; with her, it was… something else. Not work, not performance. Something dangerously close to ease.

It was nearly dusk when Sherlock, with all the reluctance of a man conceding defeat in a duel, led Y/N up the narrow stairwell of his residence. His quarters were tucked discreetly above a tobacconist’s on Baker Street, a location both convenient and, in his words, “well-suited to anonymity.”

Y/N trailed behind him, amused by the way he moved faster the closer they drew to the door, as though he might outrun her curiosity if he tried hard enough.

“This is hardly a parlor fit for visitors,” he muttered, withdrawing a ring of keys.

“Guess that makes me safe,” she teased, “since I’m hardly just a visitor.”

That startled him; he glanced over his shoulder, eyes narrowed, but whatever sharp retort he had prepared faltered. He unlocked the door instead.

The room beyond was exactly as she expected and yet entirely surprising. Books sprawled across every surface—leaning towers of leather-bound volumes on chemistry, law, obscure regional histories. Papers carpeted the desk in chaotic drifts, ink smudged and margins riddled with frantic notes. Instruments gleamed faintly in the lamplight: magnifying glasses, scales, vials of powders labeled in his precise hand. The air carried a faint tang of tobacco and something sharper—formalin, perhaps.

Yet amid the clutter, there was a strictness. Each chaos had a boundary, as though invisible lines had been drawn, confining the disorder into purposeful zones. His violin rested on a chair, bow carefully aligned beside it. A revolver sat open on the mantel, polished clean.

She turned slowly, taking it in. “You live,” she said softly, “inside your own mind.”

He set his cane aside with a clatter. “And what of it?”

“Nothing,” she murmured, brushing her fingers along the spines of his books. “Only that I’m honored you’ve let me in.”

The air between them shifted—unspoken, taut. He moved briskly to the desk, as if to break it. “There is work to be done,” he said. “If you are to sit there—” he gestured vaguely at a chair piled with newspapers—“you may as well make yourself useful.”

She laughed and began stacking papers to clear the seat. “What are we working on?”

He hesitated, staring down at the map pinned to his wall. Red threads crisscrossed between notes, photographs, names scrawled in his hand.

“A case,” he said. “One I should have closed months ago.”

“The same one the papers have been talking about?”

His jaw flexed. He hated being reminded of his own stagnation. “Yes.”

Y/N crossed the room to stand beside him. The map was dizzying—a web of connections, half-legible scribbles, dates circled and crossed out. At the center: The Lockwood Disappearance.

“A man vanished,” she read aloud. “Industrialist. August.”

“Arthur Lockwood,” Sherlock said curtly. “Wealthy. Influential. Enemies enough to fill a ledger. One evening he walked into his study and never walked out again.”

“And no body?”

“None.”

She leaned closer, scanning the notes. “You’ve charted associates, motives, geography—but you’re circling, not piercing. You’ve been drowning in detail.”

He bristled. “I am thorough.”

“You are obsessive,” she corrected gently. “There’s a difference.”

He turned his head sharply toward her, about to rebuke, but stopped when he saw her eyes—steady, not mocking, only seeing him too clearly. He swallowed. “Then what would you do?”

She reached out, tugged a thread free from where it pinned two notes together. “I’d strip it bare. Forget the noise, the politics, the red herrings. Start with the man, not the legend.”

Sherlock stared. That was precisely the thing he had not been able to do. His methods, so razor-sharp in their order, had dulled themselves on Lockwood’s labyrinth of associations.

“Sit,” he said suddenly, gesturing to the desk. “Read me everything you can glean from this letter.”

The hours bent around them.

She perched in his chair, eyes darting over correspondence—business letters, frantic notes from Lockwood’s wife, telegrams. She read aloud, and Sherlock paced, interjecting with clipped observations. Where he leapt to grand deductions, she pulled him back, questioning assumptions, grounding him. Their minds clashed and sparked, each correcting and sharpening the other.

At one point, she looked up from a telegram, brow furrowed. “This phrase—‘my work in Whitcombe will proceed regardless’—he writes it twice. That repetition is deliberate.”

Sherlock froze mid-stride, then lunged for the map. “Whitcombe,” he muttered, stabbing the location with his finger. “A town small enough to be ignored, yet—blast it—close to the railway line!”

Her pulse quickened. “So he wasn’t abducted. He left. Voluntarily.”

“Not left.” Sherlock’s voice was low, fierce now, his eyes alight with fire not seen in months. “Moved. Hidden. Whitcombe is the axis.”

Their gazes met. For the first time, he looked at her not as an intruder, nor a curiosity, but as an equal.

“You see it,” he breathed.

“I do,” she whispered back.

When at last they paused, it was long past midnight. The desk was strewn with reorganized notes, threads re-pinned, whole sections of the case reframed.

Y/N leaned back, exhaustion in her bones, exhilaration in her blood. “Well,” she said, smiling faintly, “that’s one way to spend an evening.”

Sherlock stood very still, watching her. His chest rose and fell once, heavily, as though he had run a great distance.

“You’ve done,” he said carefully, “what I could not.”

She shrugged. “You just needed a different pair of eyes.”

But he shook his head. “No. I needed you.”

The words startled him as much as they did her. For a heartbeat, silence pressed between them.

Then, with the practiced composure of a man retreating from a dangerous edge, Sherlock moved to clear the papers. “We leave for Whitcombe at dawn.”

Dawn broke pale and gray over Whitcombe, the sort of town that kept its secrets buried beneath soot and silence. Sherlock and Y/N arrived by rail, a modest carriage ride carrying them into a maze of narrow streets.

Lockwood’s name lingered like a ghost on every tongue. People glanced twice, then shut their doors. Even the innkeeper, who handed them a room key, lowered her voice. “Best to mind your business here. Folk don’t care for questions.”

Sherlock, naturally, asked twice as many.

By midday they had traced Lockwood’s final correspondence to an abandoned mill on the outskirts of town. The building loomed skeletal, windows smashed, iron ribs rusting beneath a blanket of ivy.

Inside, dust clung to the air, disturbed only by the echo of their steps. Sherlock prowled the floor, every surface an invitation. “Note the absence of vagrants,” he murmured. “No rats, no droppings. Someone has been… curating this space.”

Y/N crouched near a stack of crates, brushing away cobwebs. A faint scuff of boot leather marked the wood. “Recently, too. Within days.”

Sherlock’s lips curved, the thrill of the hunt sparking again. “Precisely.”

But before they could press deeper, the sound of boots thundered through the mill.

Three men emerged from the shadows, hard-eyed, shoulders squared. Not common thieves—too disciplined, too well-fed.

“Well, well,” one drawled. “The detective. And his lady.”

Sherlock stepped in front of her at once, cane angled like a blade. “If Lockwood is here, I will have him. Stand aside.”

The leader smirked. “Afraid not. Our employer values his privacy.”

Before Sherlock could react further, they lunged—fast, sharp, coordinated.

Sherlock’s cane cracked against the wrist of the nearest man, a clean strike that made him release his grip with a yelp. But another grabbed Sherlock’s arm, twisting it viciously. The numbers pressed in, pinning him.

What he did not expect—what froze him for a crucial second—was Y/N.

She was a storm given form. One assailant grabbed her shoulder; she twisted with impossible grace, slamming her elbow into his ribs. The sickening crack echoed through the alley. He doubled over, stunned. She spun, launching a punch to his jaw that sent him staggering back into the wall.

Sherlock blinked. Then realization hit. He didn’t need to be the lone hero anymore.

He ducked a wild swing from the man grappling him and swept his leg low. The assailant hit the ground with a grunt, and Sherlock twisted into a kick that knocked another one off balance.

Y/N pivoted, her movements fluid and precise, perfectly complementing his. She caught the leader’s arm mid-swing, yanking him off balance as Sherlock’s cane struck the man’s knee. The leader staggered, more surprised than hurt—underestimating them both.

One of the downed men scrambled, knife glinting in the dim light. Sherlock moved with calculated precision, jabbing the tip of his cane against the man’s wrist, forcing him to drop it. Y/N struck the next one in the temple with a plank she had grabbed, the blow sending him sprawling.

Their movements became a deadly dance. Sherlock feinted left; Y/N rolled right, taking down an opponent with a knee to the gut. Sherlock’s cane whipped in a brutal arc, Y/N spinning under it to deliver a punishing elbow to the jaw of the final attacker.

Breathing hard, hair falling into her eyes, Y/N straightened, gaze sharp, flint-like. Sherlock, cane at the ready, watched her with awe—but didn’t forget to act.

“Sherlock,” she said, voice calm, deadly, as if they had just finished a walk in the park, “are you going to stand there gawking, or help me tie them up?”

He blinked once. Twice. Then, recovering with all the dignity he could muster, Sherlock adjusted his coat. “I was merely… assessing your technique.”

“Assess later,” she said, grabbing a coil of rope from a crate. “Bind now.”

Between the two of them, the thugs were trussed and gagged in minutes.

Sherlock, still processing, glanced at her sidelong. “You fight.”

“Clearly.” She tugged the knot tight.

“Exceptionally.”

She shrugged, wiping dust from her hands. “A woman doesn’t survive long in London without knowing how.”

His gaze lingered, more thoughtful now. “You hid it.”

“You never asked.”

They pressed deeper into the mill, the silence more dangerous now. Finally, at the end of a narrow corridor, they found him.

Arthur Lockwood sat hunched in a chair, thinner, eyes hollow. Not a captive, not chained—but surrounded by papers, ledgers, and blueprints strewn across a workbench.

He looked up, startled. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Sherlock stepped forward, sharp as a blade. “You vanished from London, leaving your family to ruin and your name to rot. Explain yourself.”

Lockwood’s voice cracked. “If they knew—if anyone knew—I was close, they would kill me.”

“Close to what?” Y/N pressed.

He shoved the papers forward, hands trembling. “A design. A machine. An engine that runs without coal. Clean, efficient—revolutionary. But dangerous men would bury it to protect their fortunes. They tried to bribe me, then threaten me. I disappeared because it was the only way to finish it.”

Sherlock scanned the diagrams, his pulse quickening. It was true. Radical. World-changing.

“And the men downstairs?” Sherlock asked.

“Sent to ensure I stay hidden—or dead.”

Before they could question further, the clatter of more boots rang out. Reinforcements.

Y/N’s hand darted to Sherlock’s sleeve. “We need to move.”

He grabbed the papers, folding them into his coat. “Agreed.”

They slipped out a side stairwell, Lockwood between them. The shouts grew closer; pursuit had begun.

Through the mill’s yard they ran, mud splashing underfoot. Two men leapt from behind a cart, blades flashing.

Sherlock raised his cane—but Y/N was already in motion.

She blocked one strike with the cart’s edge, drove her fist into the man’s throat, then spun, catching the second by his wrist and twisting until his dagger clattered to the ground. A brutal kick sent him sprawling.

Sherlock dispatched the other with a crack of his cane, then turned to see her standing fierce, alive, utterly in command.

And for once, words abandoned him.

They didn’t stop running until they reached the safety of the inn, where Lockwood collapsed onto a chair, gasping.

Sherlock stood over him, still clutching the stolen blueprints, but his gaze kept drifting—inevitably—to her.

“You withheld a rather significant skill from me,” he said at last, voice low.

She arched a brow. “Would it have changed your estimation of me?”

“On the contrary.” His eyes burned, unguarded now. “It changes everything.”

The silence that followed was electric, the air between them crackling with more than the aftermath of violence. For the first time in months, Sherlock Holmes’s most challenging mystery was not the Lockwood case.

It was her.

It was Enola who had goaded them into it.

“You can’t spend every waking hour with each other in dusty rooms and not call it what it is,” she’d said, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Go to dinner. A proper one. With tablecloths.”

And somehow, against their better instincts, they had agreed.

The restaurant was the sort of establishment Sherlock despised—dim chandeliers, waiters with stiff collars, a string quartet sawing politely in the corner. Y/N wore a dress in deep blue, and though she carried it gracefully, her discomfort mirrored his own.

They sat across from each other, menus like shields between them.

Sherlock flipped his open, frowned. “Why would anyone pay thrice the price for a cut of beef one could prepare better at home?”

“Because people like to feel they’re part of something civilized,” Y/N said, though her tone was wry.

He glanced over the top of his menu, eyes catching hers. “Civilization is vastly overrated.”

She smiled despite herself.

Dinner arrived—steak for him, lamb for her. The plates were arranged with artistic flourish, though the portions were insultingly small. Sherlock poked at his food with a knife, grimacing.

“Tell me,” he said, “do you enjoy the sensation of being robbed blind for mediocre seasoning?”

Y/N chewed delicately, then set down her fork. “Not particularly. Do you enjoy criticizing everything on your plate?”

“Very much.”

They both laughed, the first true sound of the evening.

Still, conversation dragged. Surrounded by strangers murmuring about politics and investments, Sherlock’s skin itched. Y/N tried to steer the topic to books, but the noise of the quartet drowned half her words. They ate quickly, less for hunger than escape.

By the time dessert was offered, both refused.

When the bill came, Sherlock paid without hesitation, then rose from the table with visible relief. Y/N followed, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth.

Outside, the night air was cool, blessedly free of chandeliers and quartets. They walked side by side down the cobblestones in silence for several steps, until Y/N finally spoke.

“Well.”

“Well,” Sherlock echoed.

She tucked her hands into her wrap. “That was dreadful.”

“Abominable.”

“Pretentious.”

“Insufferable.”

They glanced at each other, then broke into sudden laughter, the sound echoing down the street.

“So much for the proper dinner,” Y/N said.

“Proper,” Sherlock scoffed. “Never again.”

When they reached Baker Street, the lamps glowing warm against the night, Sherlock gestured almost shyly. “Come in. I have a case file I’ve been puzzling over. Infinitely more interesting than lamb with rosemary.”

“Infinitely,” she agreed.

They climbed the familiar stairs, and as the door shut behind them, it was as though the night reset itself. Here, in the clutter of papers and books, both of them could breathe again.

The table was strewn with maps, receipts, and coded letters. Sherlock gestured to a particular scrap of parchment. “Smuggling routes across the channel. Note the faint crease here—”

“Someone folded it hastily, in quarters,” Y/N said, leaning close. “Likely pocketed.”

“Exactly. Which suggests it changed hands often.”

Their shoulders brushed as they bent over the evidence, their voices quickening with the rhythm of discovery. Minutes blurred into hours, the candle gutters low, their conversation a current neither wished to escape.

Sherlock jotted notes in the margin; she snatched the pen from him to underline an insight; he smirked, reclaiming it. They argued, laughed, theorized, disproved, and rebuilt.

And somewhere in the midst of that storm, it happened.

They both reached for the same paper, fingers brushing. Y/N looked up. So did he.

For a moment the world fell away—the maps, the codes, even the cases. It was only his gaze on hers, sharp and unguarded, the air between them charged with the same electricity that had lingered since Whitcombe.

Sherlock was not a man prone to hesitation, but in that second, he stilled, studying her as though she were the most intricate puzzle he had ever encountered.

Y/N tilted her chin, the faintest dare in her eyes.

He leaned forward.

Their first kiss was not tentative, nor overly sweet. It was sharp, inevitable, like a spark striking tinder. His hand slid to her jaw, hers caught his coat, and the taste of him was Lapsang Souchong and steak, restless thought and long-denied want.

When they broke apart, breathless, neither moved away.

“Well,” she murmured, echoing their earlier word.

“Well,” he whispered back.

And then they kissed again, harder this time, papers scattering from the table, both of them laughing against each other’s mouths.

Much later, when exhaustion set in and the case files lay forgotten on the floor, Y/N curled against the chair with a half-smile.

“Better than dinner,” she said softly.

Sherlock, standing at the window with his violin in hand, glanced over his shoulder. His eyes softened in a way few ever saw.

“Infinitely.”

He raised the bow, let the first notes drift through the room. And as the music wrapped around them, both knew it was not candlelight or restaurants that bound them together.

It was this—books, papers, riddles, and each other’s restless, brilliant minds.

And a kiss that had felt, somehow, like coming home.

The Holmes flat was quiet, or at least it should have been. Enola pushed the door open with a caution she had not learned from either of her brothers but rather from years of sneaking in and out of her mother’s eccentric hideouts. The corridor smelled faintly of pipe smoke, ink, and candle wax. Typical.

She expected to find Sherlock pacing with his violin in hand, muttering over an unsolved case, or perhaps—though far less likely—to find him at the table, sharing a civil dinner with Y/N, the only person Enola had ever seen make her brother pause long enough to eat. What she did not expect was silence.

Her boots tapped softly on the worn rug as she entered the sitting room. Then she froze.

The fire in the grate had burned low, shadows flickering weakly across the room. Papers littered the carpet, spilling from the table in a mess of notes, maps, and coded letters. A precarious stack of books leaned against the settee, threatening to topple. And there, right in the middle of the chaos, were Sherlock and Y/N.

Fast asleep.

Y/N’s head rested on Sherlock’s shoulder, her hair spilling over the lapel of his coat. One of her hands was curled loosely around a fountain pen that had clearly run out of ink hours ago, smudges darkening her fingertips. Sherlock’s chin had tipped slightly forward, his usually hawk-like posture slackened into something almost boyish. A stray sheet of paper stuck to his sleeve, its corner fluttering every time he exhaled.

Enola blinked.

“Weren’t they supposed to be at dinner?” she whispered to herself.

She stepped closer, her eyes darting over the evidence of what must have been hours of work. Case files spread in every direction, annotated with Sherlock’s sharp handwriting and Y/N’s equally precise notes in the margins. Coffee cups—two of them, long since abandoned—sat cold on the side table. A candle had burned right down to the dish.

Enola crouched, peering at a half-sketched diagram between them. Clearly, whatever puzzle they had meant only to discuss briefly had consumed the entire evening. She could almost hear Sherlock’s voice now, sharp and intent, countered by Y/N’s firm but thoughtful responses. Dinner had turned into debate, debate into research, and research—clearly—into exhaustion.

Enola tilted her head, a smile tugging despite herself. Sherlock Holmes did not fall asleep easily. He paced, he ranted, he dissected puzzles until dawn—but he did not rest. At least, not until Y/N.

Enola lingered, arms crossed, considering. She could tease them both mercilessly when they woke—“So this is your idea of a romantic evening?”—but something about the scene softened her usual wit. Her brother looked... human. Not the calculating machine of deduction the world admired and feared, but a man worn out by hours of thought, finding comfort in the one person who could keep pace with him.

Her gaze landed on Y/N again. She had kicked off her shoes at some point; they lay beneath the table at odd angles. A notebook rested half-open in her lap, Sherlock’s scrawl bleeding into her tidy shorthand where one had stolen the other’s paper. Their closeness wasn’t deliberate, Enola decided—it was natural. Inevitable. Like two magnets that didn’t realize they’d been moving toward each other until they finally touched.

The clock chimed. Midnight.

Enola sighed, shaking her head in mock exasperation. “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Only my brother could turn a dinner date into an academic collapse.”

She busied herself quietly, tidying in the way Mrs. Hudson might if she were still awake. She gathered the stray papers, stacking them neatly without disturbing the ones in Sherlock’s immediate reach. She righted the books and capped the inkwell before it could stain the rug. All the while, the pair on the couch slept on, undisturbed. Sherlock’s arm, she noticed, had shifted slightly as though even in sleep he meant to shield Y/N from slipping sideways.

Enola fetched a blanket from the hall cupboard—worn wool, scratchy but warm—and draped it over them both. Y/N stirred faintly, pressing closer into Sherlock’s side. He shifted too, his lips parting just enough to murmur something inaudible before settling again. Enola froze, then smirked. If only she could have caught that on record; the great Sherlock Holmes muttering soft nonsense in his sleep.

She straightened, brushing her hands together, and took one last look around the room. The remnants of their “date” spoke louder than words: two people who found comfort in the chase of a puzzle, who would rather exhaust themselves with theories and proofs than sit stiffly at a restaurant pretending to enjoy candlelight conversation. They belonged here—in clutter, in curiosity, in the quiet company of each other’s minds.

Enola shook her head, amused and oddly touched.

“Dinner date, indeed,” she murmured, turning toward the stairs. “You’re both hopeless.”

But her smile lingered as she left them there—two minds brilliant enough to conquer London, two hearts too stubborn to admit that perhaps, in each other, they had already been conquered.

Bonus:

The rain ticked against the windows of Baker Street, soft and unrelenting, the kind of night where the world outside seemed to have folded into shadow and silence. Within, the gaslight cast a warm but uneven glow across Sherlock’s study, illuminating the stacks of case notes, scattered books, and—most prominently—the polished wooden chessboard resting between him and Y/N.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, fingertips steepled, his eyes fixed on the board as though it were a corpse awaiting dissection. He had insisted—smugly, of course—that few in London could withstand him at this game. Strategy, foresight, deduction: all were his terrain.

Y/N, however, sat across from him with a quiet smile, her hair falling in an easy cascade over her shoulder as she moved her knight with deceptive carelessness. She did not gloat, nor did she appear nervous. That, Sherlock noted with the faintest narrowing of his eyes, was more dangerous than either.

“You’re distracted,” she murmured, her voice calm, teasing but not unkind.

Sherlock tilted his head, lips twitching. “I am not.”

“You are. You were so intent on explaining to me why the knight is the most undervalued piece, you didn’t see what I was actually doing.”

His gaze flicked back to the board. For the first time in years, he felt the faintest stirrings of doubt.

The rook slid forward. His rook. Captured.

Sherlock’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Interesting.”

“Isn’t it?” she replied smoothly, already planning her next strike.

The match carried on, the rhythm of pieces clicking against wood filling the room like the ticking of a clock. Sherlock countered, threatened, adjusted. He was brilliant, a creature born of logic and foresight—but Y/N was intuitive in ways he had not anticipated. She played not as though she were calculating probabilities but as though she could feel the inevitable outcome of the game long before it arrived.

Minutes later, the decisive moment came. Y/N’s queen slid across the board with unhurried grace, landing before his king.

“Checkmate,” she said softly.

Sherlock froze, the word settling over him like a verdict. His eyes traced the board, every line of possibility, every move he had missed. He had lost. To her.

Silence stretched. Then, with the faintest huff of laughter—half disbelief, half admiration—he leaned forward, studying her as though she were the most complex riddle he had ever encountered.

“I underestimated you,” he admitted, voice low, his pride yielding to a rare note of reverence.

Y/N smirked, leaning back with unshaken poise. “You did. And now you’ll never forget it.”

Sherlock reached for his glass of brandy, swirling it thoughtfully, his sharp gaze never leaving her face. “I assure you, I won’t.”

And for the first time in far too long, he realized defeat had never felt so intoxicating.

mando-modep

Love it 🫢🩷

yaren23

Me looking at the imaginary camera when there is a plot twist in the fanfic I'm reading

goat-limbs

Where Does The Nose Go? | part one

contents (sfw): Ser Duncan The Tall x fem!mer!reader, inspired by HCA's The Little Mermaid, switching POVs (indicated with dividers), medieval rom-com, love at first sight, witchcraft, body horror, transformation, romantic and sexual tension, mutual pining, yearning, caretaking, non-sexual nudity, there was only one bed(roll), sword of chastity, protective!Dunk, virgin!Dunk, soft!Dunk.

part two ->

synopsis: A mermaid falls in love with a knight praying on her riverbank. A witch gives her legs and three days to make him love her back.

word count: 13K

a/n: Banner is by me, dividers by @strangergraphics and @honeyluvsw! Thank you lovely humans for giving it a read before publishing (@lateknightbites and @siliceousooze). My last-minute mermay offering :') There will be two parts of this story!

The feeling of driving his sword through someone’s chest is entirely wretched. Duncan remembers the cause and what it carries, but every time he takes a life his jaw locks tight and his breath stops in a naïve surge of compassion.

osarina

ঌ LAMENTABLY YOURS

FEATURING: aerion targaryen x fem!reader

SUMMARY: an excerpt of letters exchanged between you and aerion during his time with the second sons. or, a collection of aerion being the fakest idgafer of all time.

WARNINGS: fem!reader. reader comes from Valyrian lineage but no physical traits are mentioned/described. Aerion typical threats of violence and possessive behavior.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: A shorter part today! The next part is likely going to be quite long & rather intense, so it will take a while, please be patient with me!!! I'm considering putting a taglist together for the next part just because I anticipate it will be a handful of weeks before I post it, so if you'd like to be included on that taglist, please comment below! I had a lot of fun with this part because it was different from what I usually write, so it was fun trying to convey both of their deteriorating mental states without any internal narration. BUT WE'RE ALMOST BACK TO WESTEROS!!! I have two more parts planned set in Lys, and then we are heading across the Narrow Sea, and things are going to get #complicated for our favorite toxic couple. Comments and reblogs always appreciated! I hope you guys enjoy!

READ: IKSAN AŌHON, IKSĀ ÑUHON

rubyys-domain

[CHAPTER NINE]

when FIRELORD ZUKO takes a liking to AVATAR AANG'S mysterious new BRIDE.

TORN BETWEEN TWO ROADS ! — aang x reader x zuko

PLOT. republic city is finally at peace, and for once, katara allows herself to hope—maybe now, after everything, she and aang can finally become something real. but when aang returns after eight months, he isn’t alone. he comes back with you at his side, introducing you as his wife. suspicious yet helpless, his friends do their best to welcome you, even as nothing about this sudden marriage makes sense. but while everyone else keeps their distance, one person doesn’t. and perhaps Zuko gets a little too comfortable with the avatar’s new wife.

CHARACTERS. AANG and ZUKO.

CHAPTER WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, kidnapping, restraints, sexual assault, character death mentioned, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.

(please check the story masterlist for the story warnings.)

WC. 7.2k

masterlist : story masterlist

chapter eight

a/n: PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER!!!

i have added the following image to the scene so it can be avoided:

You had been sixteen when death first entered your home.

It hadn't been the usual kind, one spoken of during political discussions or mentioned within newspapers; it was the kind that came from within your household and settled itself comfortably without looking to leave.

Over the course of an entire year, you had watched your brother slowly disappear before your eyes.

Every physician your father summoned arrived bearing different methods, different medicines, all kinds of promises wrapped with their politeness, yet all of them eventually carried the same expression on leaving Renji's chambers.

Some attempted to preserve their dignity through silence, while others spoke gently to have patience and rest.

But a few had remained honest to avoid all false hope.

None of them knew how to save him.

Your father had refused to accept that truth.

rubyys-domain

taglist [3/4]:

@justlindsey @frawstedbunni @awkwardnesshabitat @weirdlyraggedwatcher @anongirl007

@fancypeacepersona @stxrrielle @strawbrry-kisses @s3afs @icarusgloom

@littlefairybrooke @s4rangh0e @missgirlypoppp @berry-cotttage @rambinru

@gangdiscipleklla @talilosha @jayszz @1uvvmi @peachysaki116

@annie-johns @tronnily @gabriahhenry-blog @mando-modep @httpswilloww

@datfangirl @qb48xnap101nr @megumuro @moonlightttfae @sullybrothersmate

@buheheh @littlemochix17 @mcufan2031 @pandakchuu @capsi-cuminme

@rizecia17 @lonelyhourpoetry @patita-n @iwaizumehajime27athletictrainer @kenjisfirstcow

@weepingwillowws @violentrayof-sunshine @stardust0709 @berriblissful @barbielatt

@thecrazyone2007 @mushythemushroom04 @xochyw @idkmyuser06 @juicedpeach

tomriddlehyperfixataion

Oblivion || Part 3

Tom Riddle x Reader

Summary; Tom has yearned for one woman for 12 years, the last of his soul, the beating of his heart. But he hasn't seen her in 10 years; evading him, though he searches relentlessly, endlessly. Finally, he finds her; hurt by the very system he'd created.

Damn two parts within a day?? wowza.

Warnings for this part: Voldemort-themed government takeover, Muggle suppression, classicism? uh, pureblood supremacy, Tom's fucked up morals, lotta exposition in the first quarter; explaining how and why Tom toppled the ministry and replaced it with his own. Human trafficking, the objectification of humans/woman, sexism, blood, gore, murder, horror themes. sedation, forced drug use, panic attacks, non-sexual nudity, starved body description.

enjoy? i guess? idk help

Part 1 Part 2

It’s been 12 years.

12 years after losing her, 12 years after fracturing his soul beyond repair, 12 years after beginning the unforgivable acts that led him down the path he was now.

Out of all of that, he only regretted one.

Losing her.

When he closed his eyes, all he could see was her horrified look-and he’d been too slow to stop her from running away from him, too slow to obliviate her memory, too slow to keep her by his side.

rubyys-domain

[THE MASTERLIST]

when FIRELORD ZUKO takes a liking to AVATAR AANG'S mysterious new BRIDE.

TORN BETWEEN TWO ROADS ! — aang x reader x zuko

PLOT. republic city is finally at peace, and katara allows herself to hope that maybe now, after everything, she and aang can finally become something real. but when aang returns after eight months, he isn’t alone. he comes back with you at his side, introducing you as his wife. suspicious yet helpless, his friends do their best to welcome you, even as nothing about this sudden marriage makes sense. but while everyone else keeps their distance, one person doesn’t. and perhaps Zuko gets a little too comfortable with the avatar’s new wife.

CHARACTERS. AANG and ZUKO.

WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, smut, angst, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps. reader is 21, dark themes, mentions of rape (not aang or zuko dw), established relationship, yearner aang, infidelity, depression, mentions of suicide, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not canon compliant to legend of korra, wip.

masterlist

CHAPTER ONE

WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps. reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang but follows the characters, not canon compliant to legend of korra, not proofread.

CHAPTER TWO

WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps. reader is 21, established relationship, mean sokka (no hate for him please, i am just a bitch hahah), little arguing (lowkey fight), fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.

CHAPTER THREE

WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, some 'arguing' with zuko, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.

CHAPTER FOUR

WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, smut, angst, hurt with comfort, small argument (i don't think it even counts), penetration sex, no protection (do they even have protection?), my own version of plan b used, pregnancy talks, slightly insecure reader (regarding katara), takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, kinda proofread.

CHAPTER FIVE

coming soon...

louloucake

that you might never be forgot pt. 2 ⊹⟢

aerion targaryen x wife!reader

-after many many letters sent to aerion in lys, he returns to find things are not in fact as he left them...angst angst (you die) ᥫ᭡

osarina

ঌ STARFALL

FEATURING: aerion targaryen x fem!reader

SUMMARY: the golden company arrives in lys, and aerion is forced into unfortunate situation after unfortunate situation in his attempts to avoid capture. but he realizes that he is not the only one the blackfyres are here for, and he does not know how to cope with the fact that he might lose you for good.

WARNINGS: fem!reader, reader comes from valyrian lineage but no physical traits are mentioned/described. the high valyrian is not properly translated because we don’t know the words for the words I needed so bear with me LOL. aerion's narration is well aerion aufhsduhf LOL he has fantasies of violence and love in the same breath. implications of valyrian exceptionalism from reader/jaenys with how they talk about targaryens/blackfyres but it's not explicit. mentions/references to pegging/aerion "unwillingly" fantasizing about it LOL. aerion is forcibly drugged at one point. brief reference to/mention of abuse of sex workers in lys. choking. there are implications of rape/torture in the first scene when reader & aerion are talking about what could happen if the blackfyres get their hands on him or realize what she's doing. brief self-harm (aerion holds the blade of a dagger against his hand too tight trying to ground himself). switch!reader, switch!aerion (as always).

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Yayyyyyy I hope you guys enjoy this part. It's the longest so far and will probably be the longest generally, I don't see myself ever writing an installment as long as this one LOLL (except maybe when they get married we'll see). But my god this one was a total beast and gave me so much trouble LOLLLLL. I have my first exam on Friday and another Monday, so wish me luck euhuhuuhhuhuhuh. I left one longer note at the end because I don't want to spoil anything that takes place in this part. Also here’s an art I got done of some of the more notable Volantene universe ocs, if you guys are curious. Anyway, comments and reblogs always appreciated! I hope you guys enjoy!

READ: EPHEMERAL

konalis

ㅤㅤㅤ✟ VENUS AS A BOY : aerion 'brightflame' targaryen !

⋆˚࿔ finn bennett as aerion x actress! reader ꒰ ✟ ꒱ … you are an actress playing a prostitute from Lys, and Finn is so committed to giving his best on stage that he makes you wet, and you lose control between the acting and the desire. — based on this ask.

warnings ⟢ +18 (MDNI) ⋆ smut ⋆ p in v ⋆ oral sex (cunnilingus) ⋆ rough sex ⋆ praise kink ⋆ consensual ⋆ anal play ⋆ intense orgasm ⋆ fluff and smut ⋆ masturb. ⋆ you're not just acting. ⟢ words count: ~11,1k

notes ⟢ I'm in my ovulation era, and this was the sun of Icarus in my life heheh writing this was a perfect dose of any drug. — please like & reblog if you enjoyed !

⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆ AKOTSK TAGLIST ⋆ TIP JAR ⋆

hightowerrose

READING THIS WHILST LISTENING TO THIS>>>>>>

konalis

OMG, YES!!!!!

osarina

ঌ EPHEMERAL

FEATURING: aerion targaryen x fem!reader

SUMMARY: you and aerion spend a day on the shores of lys. you do not know that the quiet will not last for much longer, but you take advantage of it anyway.

WARNINGS: fem!reader, reader comes from valyrian lineage but no physical traits are mentioned/described. the high valyrian is not properly translated because we don’t know the words for the words I needed so bear with me LOL. mentions of alcoholism (daeron & reader’s brother). casual mention of slavery in volantis by reader. reader & aerion are not morally good people LOL (when one of them does something wrong, the other’s reaction is very usually ‘oh that wasn’t so bad’ even though it definitely was LOL). aerion's narration is well aerion aufhsduhf LOL he has fantasies of violence and love in the same breath.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Next part!!! This one is a bit lighter plot wise, just reader and aerion bonding a bit more before everything comes crashing down LOLLLLL. The next part is going to be very long and plot heavy I can't wait for you guys to read. Anyway, comments and reblogs always appreciated! I hope you guys enjoy!

READ: RȲ ĀNOGAR SE PERZYS

da2019

My Only Peace Was You

Pairing: Prince Aerion Targaryen X Stark!Reader X Prince Valarr Targaryen

Summary:

Aerion Targaryen loved her first. The realm gave her to Valarr anyway. Now one prince haunts her nights, the other shares her bed, and the dark is beginning to answer back.

Warnings: dark romance, angst, love triangle, forbidden love, unrequited love, requited love at the wrong time, doomed love, emotional infidelity, marriage of duty, obsessive love, possessive behaviour, toxic devotion, haunting, grief, dark Targaryen men.

mando-modep

😭❤️

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