#YOU BET EVELYN

[thebroken--soul]

Digital copy of an unpublished series of letters between Evelyn Hugo and Celia St James

[iggydabirdkid]

Finally got something I never have before in Fallen Hero Retribution!

Shout out to @just-a-tiny-goldfish for giving me the idea in regards to a high enough subtle manipulation stat to avoid becoming tangled in Hollow Grounds web 😂😂

[fourleafclovxr]

my exams are over! so i'm rewatching the SGE movie (as one does) and oh boy. i could forgive everything else i think i was just annoyed that it veered a Lot off course from the books. but when they revealed that lesso was in love with rafal. that was my breaking point.

[reality-detective]

* * * Hidden History * * *

Unless you are a graduate of the Evelyn Woods Speed Reading Dynamics course you will need to pause it to read several slides. 🤔

I'll bet this would be a deep rabbit 🐇 hole 🕳️

[roguelov]

Scars and All

Summary: For a few years, you have been friends with Trafalgar Law. And for a few years you have harbored a crush on his dad, Donquixote Rosinante. You tried, and tried, to ignore such feelings, but perhaps it’s time to put it all out into the open. No more hiding, you will tell him how you feel. You only hope he will let you down gently.

Word Count: ~8.9k

Reader: fem/afab (reader referred to a sweetheart/sweet girl)

Warnings: SMUT (age gap (reader is in their mid 20s and Cora is 40), breast play, oral (fem!receiving), fingering, praise kink, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, cream pie, dirty talk, small breeding kink, mostly dom!cora), minor angst (denial of feelings), pining, fluff in the end

(Fanart and inspo for the fic by levikra)

The idle rumbling of the car was the only thing keeping you grounded, or was the irritable sensation propelling your already splintered mind into more of a frenzy? You pressed your forehead into the steering wheel. The sun’s ray heated the faux leather, unfortunately not bringing you any relief or comfort. Just more irritation.

This is stupid.

Grumbling, you lifted your head, peering up at the picturesque house. It was simple with a small porch with rickety chairs to recline in, and a worn down welcome mat. Shutters muted by the sun. Its attached garage had its mouths open revealing a sleek vintage car and a motorcycle parked inside.

Plain. Ordinary.

Yet, it was frighteningly daunting. You white-knuckled your steering wheel. Your heart pounded feverishly in your chest. Blood pumped so loud in your ears you could barely discern the jumbled voices from the radio. A song? An interview? Why did it matter? Why were you focusing on such trivial things when -

Dumb. This is so fucking dumb and stupid and - and I should just leave. He wouldn’t -

You banged your head - again - against the steering wheel, growing out in frustration. “What am I doing here,” you asked the rhetorical question in the lone space.

You tilted your head, glancing at your passenger and the reason for the afflictions to your spiraling mind: a plastic container of an assortment of cookies. The container sparkled in the sunlight as if smiling giddily eager to be delivered.

You grumbled to yourself, “Why did I talk myself into this?”

*****

“Ooo, it smells amazing in here!”

You peered over your shoulder, looking back at your friend and housemate, Evelyn. She hungrily eyed all the variety of cookies littered across the kitchen counters cooling and some already packed neatly in containers. Giggling, she snatched up a fresh one, biting into it.

She hummed, smiling at you, “It’s so good.”

Your cheeks warmed and you smiled bashfully, “Thanks.”

She plopped down at one of the dining chairs, happily nibbling on her cookie. “So why’d you make so much? And why did you ask me to help?”

You snickered at her tone and small pout. “Ah well, I wanted to make some chocolate chip cookies but then you saw we had plenty of other ingredients so it just spiraled out of control from there.”

She frowned a bit, deciphering your roundabout words. “Stress baking?”

Your eyes dropped to the side. Caught. “Yeah, kind of.”

“Why?”

You added some cooled cookies into another container. “Well … I was thinking about bringing some to Rosinante .. and I know Law is still doing his shift at the hospital.”

She beamed, finishing off her cookie. “Yeah, I bet they will like them.”

You said nothing, you just closed the container, sealing it tight.

Evelyn watched you for a moment. Your hand nervously patted on your pants, rubbing off the flour and sugar. Your eyes darted around counting and recounting all the cookies. “What’s wrong? What do you think they won’t like them?” She asked.

“Huh? Oh, uh … no, that’s not the issue.” You shuffled side to side. “I thought that maybe I could finally do it.”

She cocked her head. “Do what?”

You fiddled with your fingers. “That … that I could tell Rosinante how I feel.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Really?”

She had known about your crush on him, you had confided in her some time ago. She had even comforted you when a few tears were shed under the veil of night. It wasn’t right to have a crush on your shared friend’s dad. You knew this. You tried to drop it, to let him go, yet with every conversation you had with him you fell a bit more.

“I … I just … I don’t want to keep pretending,” you quietly admitted. “If he doesn’t like me, then so be it … maybe I could finally move on once I hear it from him … it’ll be awkward as hell when we go over there in the future but … I should do this.”

No more delusions or what ifs. Your mind tired of these endless running thoughts every single night.

Eve gave you a reassuring smile. “I’m proud of you.”

You smiled, a small one. You placed a hand on your chest, rubbing the spot over your racing heart.

I got this.

Taking a deep breath, you picked up a perfectly packaged container. You held the container close to your chest, however once you turned to leave you froze.

Seeing your hesitation, Evelyn got up and started pushing you towards the door. “Alright, go.”

You dug your heels into the floor. “But -“

“Nope, now shoo.”

“Actually I - I changed my mind. This is a terrible idea and I don’t want to do the adult thing anymore -“

“It’s a wonderful idea,” she urged you, opening the front door for you. “And he’ll love them.”

And you, she thought.

“I don’t care if he likes the cookies,” you grumbled. “It’s the other thing.”

“You can do it. I know he likes you back -“

You vehemently shook your head, pushing back on her attempts. “I can’t -“

She spun you around, grabbing your arms. Her eyes blazed with determination, far more than your own. “Yes, you can. You said you would do it, so no backing out.”

You hung your head, sighing deeply, “… fine.”

She beamed. “Great! And don’t worry, I’ll keep Law away … for a few hours.”

Your cheeks burned. “Whoa, it won’t -“

With one final shove, you stumbled backwards out the door. She chirped in a cheery tone, “Now, go. And good luck!”

The door then slammed in your face.

*****

Fuck it, just do it!

Shutting off the engine and snatching up the cookies, you hopped out of your car. Every step towards the front door, every time your heart jumped up into your throat. You wanted to turn tail and hide, but how could you go back home? Eve will certainly give you trouble.

I could just sneak inside and hide away in my room.

You muttered to yourself. It was at least a decent idea.

Wrong. All wrong, a voice hissed in the back of your mind. You’re a friend of his kid, why would he even see you like this? You shouldn’t have even entertained this for a second. It’s all wrong.

Your heart ached. You shoved that voice back, locking it in the far recesses of your mind. You didn’t need it whispering in your ear. Again. You just needed to get this all off your chest, you couldn’t bear the weight of this secret anymore. The rejection will sting, it will gut you, and you will cry, but then hopefully you could finally move on.

With a shaky hand, you pressed the doorbell. The chime cut through the silence. You flinched. Glancing over your shoulder, you wondered if anyone was watching this slow disastrous train wreck.

This is a dumb idea. Maybe I could -

The doorknob clicked then opened. You whipped around, staring up at the owner of the home, the father of your friend, and the owner of your heart: Donquixote Rosinante. With a cigarette hanging from his lips, he smiled warmly, “Hey, what brings you around here?”

Matching his smile, you held up the cookies. “I made a bit too much so I thought I would stop by and bring some.”

His eyes lit up. “Really? Thank you, here -“ he moved aside giving you space to step in, “- come on in, you know where the kitchen is.”

You nodded, walking in. Smiling, Rosinante closed the door behind you. You passed by the living room and into the kitchen with Rosinante following behind you. You set down the cookies on the kitchen island. Rosinante circled around the island to the other side. He took his cigarette, flicking the ashes into a small glass tray. His eyes darted over to you. He saw the question written so clearly on your face.

“I know I’m trying to quit. Just please don’t tell, Law,” he said, taking a small drag. “I know the kid is almost a doctor now, but it’s hard to break such an old habit -“ he winked “- it can be our little secret.”

Your heart fluttered. “My lips are sealed.”

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

Joy, unbridled joy and elation, bloomed at the nickname. It brought a warmth unlike any other: sunshine on a snowy winter morning, bonfire on a cool summer night, or a warm blanket wrapped around at night. You couldn’t remember when it started, but you loved it. His deep voice mixed so lovely with the affectionate tone of the name. It was this small insignificant thing that made your heart cling to hope, hope that maybe - just maybe - he felt something.

“Do you mind?” Rosinante pointed at the container.

“Oh! Uh, no please go ahead,” you answered.

He smiled then opened it up. He inhaled the tantalizing decadent aroma. “Smells great.”

He plucked a chocolate chip cookie. Holding his cigarette between his fingers, he took a bite. He hummed. His eyes twinkled with delight. ”This is amazing! You’re a great baker.”

You smiled bashfully. “Thanks.”

Looking at him, your expression softened as he finished the cookie with a smile. However as he ate the last bite, your eyes caught something. “Hey, uh, you have …,” you gestured to a spot on your own cheek.

Rosinante tilted his head. His golden hair swept across his forehead. His innocent face made him appear decades younger.

How can a grown man look so adorable?

You reiterated, “You have some chocolate on your cheek.”

“Oh!” He swiped his thumb across his skin - to where you pointed - then gently sucked the chocolate off. He hummed, licking his lips. “Thanks.”

You kept your voice steady. “No problem.”

He really doesn’t understand what he does to me.

“Any reason you made so many cookies?” Rosinante asked, closing the lid.

You shrugged. “Just wanted some, but then it kind of spiraled into making a bunch of different batches.”

He smiled, leaning on the island. “Well, thank you for sharing. I might eat them all before Law gets a chance to try one.”

You mimicked him, resting your elbows on the island. “No worries, we have plenty back at the house … that is if Eve doesn’t eat them all.”

He snickered and took another drag of his cigarette.

Your eyes skimmed over him. He truly was a golden god, yet wrapped up with some boyish charms. You tore your eyes away. Your heart started to speed up again with the mere thought of spilling everything out in the open. He picked up the cookies, turning his back to you and putting them next to the fridge. It was out of sight, and somewhat hidden for a sweet treat for himself later.

Ok, fuck, breathe. Just - just say it. It’s now or never.

Clearing your throat, you spoke in a shaky voice. “Rosinante?”

He hummed, his back still to you,

I can do it. It’s fine - it’ll be fine.

You took a long deep breath. “I … I have something I want to tell you.”

He froze.

Instantly, he knew where the conversation would go before you could utter another word. The thing was Rosinante wasn’t clueless or oblivious to your infatuation with him. He will admit he didn’t at first, however it all clicked. He saw how you clung to each of his words, how you stared at him when you thought he wasn't watching, how you leaned towards him craving his warmth, or how you always sought out his company. He was surprised, yes, and in heavy denial for some time. But, as weeks passed, his observation and theory only solidified.

He could only hope your crush would pass.

Rosinante twisted around. “Please don’t.”

Most of all, Rosinante hoped and prayed his own attraction to you faded. It started as a small bud in his chest. Yet, the more and more you came around, the more you talked and laughed with him, the more the simple infatuation grew. It rooted its vines deep within his heart, taking hold and control of him. He craved your presence constantly, you were becoming his new addiction.

But, it wasn’t right.

Rosinante sighed heavily. Taking his cigarette, he smothered it out in the ashtray. “I know what you’re about to say.”

You blinked. “You do?”

Does he?

He glanced up, staring directly into your eyes. Why were his eyes so sorrowful? Or … pitiful? “You we’re about to make a confession, were you not?”

Embarrassment. White hot searing embarrassment coursed through you. Your eyes widened like a deer caught in headlights. You quickly dropped your head, hiding your boiling shame. Your hands balled into fists at your sides, nails burying into your palms.

“Please don’t.”

His haunting words replayed on repeat.

Fuck, I was right. Shit -

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing back the tears.

Rosinante frowned. Fuck. Maybe, he shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe, he should have let you speak first. But, he was trying to save you some pain. He moved around the counter, hovering by your side. His hand raised to comfort you. However, when he heard the faint sniffles, his heart clenched and his hand dropped.

Damn it.

“Look, it’s -“

You snapped your head up. You smiled, an awfully forced one that didn’t convince Rosinante in the slightest. Taking a deep breath, you tried to swim faster than the typhoon of emotions hurtling through your mind. “No, you don’t have to explain yourself. I - I understand … I’m sorry, I’ll go.”

It was a long shot, an impossible chance. Why did a part of me believe it would work? How delusional could I be?

You spun on your heels to leave, but Rosinante caught your wrist. He tugged you back. His hands cupped your face, forcing you to stay and look at him. He searched in your frantic eyes to see if he overstepped. But, all he saw was pain trying to be bottled up. “I do owe you an explanation, it’s only right,” he paused, trying to gather his thoughts, “sweetheart, it’s cliche I know but it’s not you, it’s me … I’m … I’m not right for you.”

Your heart - your conflicted heart - flipped. “… what?”

He sighed, “You are kind and wonderful and amazing -“

And everything I could ever hope for, he thought.

“- but I’m broken. I’m old. I’m scarred. I’m - I’m not whole.”

Unlike you.

His words swirled around in your head. Broken. Old. Scarred. “So?” You asked in a quiet voice.

Rosinante’s eyebrows furrowed.

Pushing down your nerves, you pressed on. “Not everyone is perfect and - and without flaws, do you think I am? Do you think I don’t have some sort of scars whether etched into my skin or across my heart?”

He blinked, taken back by your words.

Just spill it all. He … he already knows.

“Only you make me feel like this,” you whispered, dropping your gaze. “Only you can constantly make me laugh and smile, and - and brighten my day. You make me feel seen, heard.”

Rosinante’s heart hammered. “Can - can you look at me?”

Your eyes wearily inched back up. Your eyes were glassy with tears threatening to spill.

He smiled sadly, brushing his thumb across your cheekbone. “Hey, don’t waste your tears on this old fool.”

“Why not?” You muttered, desperately keeping your voice calm. “You’re amazing … why can’t you see that?”

Because I have a complicated past, he bitterly thought. I’m old, past my prime. You deserve better.

“Sweetheart -“

“Please,” you cut him off. “If - if you don’t like me, want me, or - or see me in this way then just please let me go. Don’t make me stay here any longer … but if you do … if you like me in some way … then …”

Your voice trailed off, leaving it up to him to interpret. An admission of his feelings? A kiss? It just had to be some obvious sign. You were trying not to crumble before him.

Please, just let me go.

Rosinante licked his lips. His heart raced sporadically in his chest. What should he do? What was the right thing to do?

To let you go.

To save you - one of his son’s friends - from this broken old man.

But what did he want? What did his heart yearn for?

You. He wanted you, he always wanted you. And maybe this was his only chance at happiness.

Why shouldn’t he at least try?

He leaned down slowly as if waiting for you to run, for you to get out while you could. But, you stayed firm. His face hovered inches above yours. His eyes bore into you searching and deciphering any signs, or tells, that meant regret. He couldn’t. He only saw hope, hope that this wasn’t a fantasy, hope that you could finally love and cherish him as you believed he deserved.

His eyes slid down to your lips, so soft and waiting so patiently. He swallowed a nervous lump in his throat. His eyes flickered back, locking with yours. “I want this, but tell me,” he whispered desperately; his hand now wrapped around the back of your neck holding you firmly, realizing he didn’t want you to run away now, “tell me you want this. I - I just need to hear you say it.”

You hesitantly reached up, touching the side of his face. His chin was slightly prickly unlike his usual kempt appearance. Your hand traced upwards, threading through his blonde locks - that nearly covered those beautiful rustic red eyes of his. “I want this,” you breathed out. “I want you, scars and all.”

Rosinante crashed his lips against yours. He claimed your lips, pouring all this untapped love into it. He wanted - needed - you to know how much you meant to him, how much he wanted this, and how long he had deprived himself of it. His lips parted, darting his tongue along your lips pleading for entrance. You shakily parted your lips, still surprised this was truly happening. Rosinante hummed, slipping his tongue inside. You whimpered faintly. With your head tipped all the way back to accommodate his height, you were truly at his mercy.

And you loved it.

He eagerly explored your mouth, swirling his tongue wanting to taste every part of you. You clung to him, feeling your knees about to buckle. Chocolate and hints of nicotine blossomed over your tongue. His tongue commanded your attention, yet so did his hands. His dexterous hands glided down your body. He awkwardly hunched forward, but he didn’t mind. He had you, he could hold you, touch you. His hands greedily roamed over you, mapping out the curves and lines of your body. He sneakily cupped your rear and thighs, making you gasp. Rosinante smirked against your lips. A quick squeeze and jerk urged you to jump.

And you did.

The ex-marine lifted you up quite easily. Your legs wrapped so wonderfully around his waist, and you threw your arms over his shoulders. However, he couldn’t make it quite far. Taking only a few steps, he stumbled into the wall. You were far too distracted by his lips and touch, you hadn’t noticed his quick reaction: one of his hands cradled your head, protecting it from the wall.

He pulled away from your lips, mumbling, “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you panted.

He smiled, wide and beautiful, making his eyes crinkled in an adorable way. He was enthralled with you, and this moment. How could you truly be here in his arms, in his grasp? It was a dream, a dream he didn’t want to ever end. “Can we keep going?” He asked, nudging his nose against yours.

“Please,” you answered.

He captured your lips again, but slower. He wanted to memorize the shape and feeling of your lips. There was precision to his movements, a dance. The ex-marine knew how to maintain control, and how to draw everything out. Each stolen breath, each push and pull of his lips, each slow drag of his tongue, each teasing nibble left you clinging to him.

One of his hands slipped under your shirt, skimming up your back. You shivered at his cool calloused fingers. He murmured, “Soft.”

His fingertips drew nonsensical patterns, or so you thought. He purposefully drew hearts and spirals, carving his unspoken love. His hand moved upward before dragging his blunt nails across your back. He so desperately wished to mark your skin, to put his scar on you.

“Can I take off your shirt?” He begged into your swollen lips.

You didn’t answer. Using the wall as leverage, you haphazardly wiggled out of your shirt and tossed it randomly onto the kitchen floor. Excited and dazed, you didn’t bother to wait for him to ask about your bra. You unhooked it, adding it to the pile. His eyes widened, staring down at your breasts with his slightly mouth agape.

Fuck, this is really happening, he thought.

You nervously bit your lip. Your mind began to second guess his silence.

Shit, did I go too far? What if he didn’t -

Rosinante quickly hoisted you higher up then craned his head down. His lips wrapped perfectly around your breast, sucking on it. You sighed, arching your back to better help him. Your fingers slipped into his hair, holding his head close. Heat pooled in the pit of your stomach. His tongue circled around your nipple. Your lips and mouth had just learned his sensual dance. Every swipe of his tongue, your body shuddered. He teasingly nipped at the bud, making you gasp. He removed his mouth with an audible ‘pop‘ like he wanted you to know how good you tasted, how much it pained him to break away. Yet, he couldn’t neglect the other. He kissed along your chest, hungrily capturing your other breast.

“Rosi,” you breathed out.

Fuck, he loves how that sounded. How could his name send such intense pleasure skyrocketing through his body? His cock jumped in his pants. Gods, he needed to hear it again, and again, and again. His hands squeezed your ass both trying to hold himself back and as if you forced it out of you.

And it worked.

You whimpered.

Faint, yet so sweet.

Pulling away from your breasts, he rested his forehead against yours. Your chests heaved in an odd symphony. The thinnest space separated your lips, your shared breaths mixed together. His air was yours and your air was his, souls were mingling in such close proximity. His eyes shone, all his emotions now officially and completely bare.

No, more hiding. No more denying.

He stole your lips once again, unable to get enough of them. Humming, you arched your back, pressing your now spit covered breasts into him. The tiny bit of friction of your perked nipples across his rough shirt sent sparks of pleasure down your spine. However, and unfortunately, he broke the kiss far too quickly. You eagerly chased after his lips, needing them. Rosinante hid his amused smile. He kissed down your neck, swiping that devious tongue of his over your sensitive skin. He whispered, “You taste like sugar.”

“I - ah - I may have made a mess earlier,” you admitted. “Butter and sugar got everywhere.”

He chuckled. He wanted to say he expected no less from his sweetheart. Sweetness seemed to always pour from you, and he always wanted to drink from you - to always have a taste. For a fleeting moment, he contemplated taking you here. He could lay you across the kitchen island, pour honey across your skin, especially your breasts, and have his way with you. But, he shelved such an idea.

Not today, another time, he promised himself.

“Upstairs?” He asked into your neck.

“Up - fuck.” Rosi nipped at your skin, gently sucking and soothing the spot. His lips curled into a smirk, a smirk you felt burned into your skin. Your head tipped back into the wall as he continued his sweet assault. How could such a kind, sweet man be so conniving, so sly?

“What was that, sweetheart?” He teased in a low tone.

“Upstairs.” You breathlessly added, “Please.”

“Of course.” He pushed off the wall, delicately carrying you up the stairs.

However, since he was so focused on carrying you, you decided to return such delightful favors. You started by peppering his face in adoring kisses from his cheeks, to his nose, then his lips.

He chuckled with a growing smile, “Sweet girl, you need to stop or I might trip.”

“We’ll be fine,” you brushed him off.

Your lips trailed soft butterfly kisses along his prickly jaw and down his neck. Your sweetness turned sinister. You placed a single open mouth kiss on the crook of his neck. He let out a soft pleased sigh. Your teeth then grazed over his skin. His grip on you tightened. You lightly bit him, feeling a shudder run through his body. Smirking, you sucked - viciously and without remorse - on a sensitive spot ensuring you left your mark on him.

His reaction was perfect. He groaned and stumbled backwards into the wall by his bedroom door. The thud resonated through the still home, so much so a few pictures wobbled on the wall threatening to fall. “Shit,” he hissed.

You continued your attack listening to his heated swears under his breath. Once you felt satisfied, you pulled away, eyeing your red spot with a triumphant grin. It will only darken with time, a lovely reminder. Looking into his eyes, they were blown wide with lust and desire which mirrored your own. Smirking, you teasingly nipped his bottom lip. He swore again. Using one hand, he brought your head closer, attacking your lips with new energy. He pried himself off the wall and rushed into his bedroom. He used his muscle memory stumbling and swaying into the room until his shins hit the edge of his bed. Carefully, he laid you down on his sheets.

So gentle, so delicate.

His lips skimmed down to your heaving chest, between your breasts and to your hips. His fingers followed after his lips, tracing down your sides. Your breath stuttered at his feathery touches. His breath fanned over your lower stomach, hitting the waistband of your pants. His eyes flickered up, peering through his eyelashes.

“Can I?” He whispered in such a loving tone.

You nodded, unable to muster up a single syllable.

He undid the buttons of your pants and tugged them down while you lifted your hips to help. He bit the inside of his cheek. So beautiful. His hands traveled up your legs, squishing your thighs. She’s really here. He then spread your legs a bit, and didn’t miss the dark wet patch on your underwear. His chest burned with desire knowing he was responsible. His finger hooked around the band of your underwear. If he could, he would have torn them off already.

“Can these go next,” he asked, continuing to ensure he had your consent with every step.

Your heart skipped. “Y-yeah.”

He pulled them off as calmly as possible, and tossed them aside. Your cunt was dripping. He swore his mouth started to water. Swallowing, he silently drank in your figure, still reeling you were here. He wanted to ravish you, he wanted to make love to you, he wanted to do it all.

However, for you, the silence pressed on for too long. His blank stare morphed into disinterest in your mind. Insecurities bubbled up as it dawned on you how you were now completely naked before him. Your hands covered your chest and you snapped your legs closed.

What am I -

Rosinante’s eyes widened at your sudden change. He immediately climbed onto the bed, over top of you, and removed your hands from your chest. “Please, don’t,” he breathed out. “I - I’m sorry … you’re just so beautiful.”

Your cheeks and chest flooded with heat. You quickly turned your head to the side, hiding.

He cupped your cheek, turning your head back to him. “You are. Please don’t hide from me.”

His soft expression and kind smile eased back the fears. You slowly nodded.

“Good. Here, it’s only fair.” He leaned back and removed his shirt, adding it to the pile on his floor.

Your breath hitched. Your eyes darted all over, taking him all in. So many scars. You propped yourself up on your elbow, reaching out. You carefully traced over each of them, outlining the rigids and harsh ragged shapes. Rosi watched you intensely. A shiver ran down his spine. You were so delicate, as if he were made of glass. Your face filled with some kind of concentration, one he didn’t fully understand.

You asked softly, “Can … can you flip over?”

Stunned a bit, yet Rosi complied. He rolled onto his back into the squeaky mattress. You swiftly straddled his hips. Before he could ask, you bent down kissing one scar by his ribs. His heart leapt up into his throat. You then methodically kissed every single scar - no matter the size nor how gnarly it appeared - all over his chest. You finished your endeavor by kissing the one near his heart, an almost fatal hit. His heart thrummed beneath your lips, and you felt the elated vibrations. You peered up to see his cheeks flushed a rosy red and his lips parted as he tried to calm his breathing. You had rendered this man - this near mammoth of a man - into an utter mess. He was putty under such touches, touches he had long deprived himself of.

You smiled, resting your cheek against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, a beat which your heart harmonized with. “I’m sorry, did I -“

“Don’t.” He let out a shaky exhale. “Don’t apologize. I - I just wasn’t expecting that.”

Your hand followed the curve of his chest to a scar on his right shoulder. You, once again, traced the shape. Rosi shuddered. At his reaction, a thought suddenly dawned on you. “Rosi, are your scars sensitive?”

He rubbed a hand over his face, mumbling, “Just a bit.”

Noted.

You held back a devious smirk. Sitting up, you placed your hands on his chest. Your nails raked down.

Maybe I could have some fun -

Rosi’s hands suddenly gripped your hips. He yanked you all the way up his body. A sharp gasp left your lips. Your hands flung out and collided with the wall for support. Your eyes - wide and somewhat confused - dropped down. You now straddled over his face, your knees on either side. His hands wrapped around your thighs and squeezed, letting the fat pool between his fingers. Most importantly, his grip indicated one thing: he was unwilling to let you go.

“Fuck.” He groaned, looking up at your dripping cunt like it was a meal.

Your heart sped up, “Wait, Rosi - I -“

“Sweetheart, I dreamt of this so many times,” he whispered. His breath, each puff of air, sent jolts through your body. “Please, can I have this?”

No one had begged before.

Trying and failing to keep your voice steady, you stuttered out, “I, uh, y-yes - ah!”

Rosinante eagerly yanked you down, unable to wait another second. Humming, his lips wrapped around you. The tip of his tongue swept over your folds, collecting and tasting you. Sparks burst through you.

“Rosinante,” you moaned. How could one single motion left you so vocal?

He smirked at your reaction as he weaved a spell over you. He moaned as he started devouring you. His tongue teasingly traced your folds. You shuddered. He did it once, twice, then pushed his tongue inside of you. He curled his tongue, hitting your spongy walls. You whimpered. Your hands balled up into fists, clawing at the wall. His tongue - long and thick - moved with precision. His age and experience truly showed in his moment. He knew how to work it, how to render you in his beautiful mess.

He hummed. The wondrous vibrations made you moan loudly and unabashedly. A noise you never expected you to make. One of your hands instinctively shot down and latched onto his hair. Mindless on your growing pleasure, you tugged on his strands, making him groan. More vibrations, more dizzying sensations, more of your juices coated his lips and face.

Rosinante nearly rolled his eyes back. Fuck, this was better than his measly dreams. His cock twitched in his pants at each of your sounds. And gods if you tasted and felt this amazing just around his tongue, then how would it feel to be buried inside of you? Precum spilled in his pants at the mere thought.

Pleasure built deep in your stomach. As his tongue expertly moved and curled in and out of you, you lowered yourself more and greedily rocked your hips to chase after the pleasure. He moaned. His fingers dug harshly into your thighs, possibly leaving bruises.

“That’s it, sweetheart, ride my face,” he purred.

Shit.

Rosinante’s eyes darkened. Your walls fluttered around his tongue at his blunt words. He watched your head tip back as a sweet whimper hummed in the back of your throat.

“Dirty girl,” he murmured with a devious smirk.

His words added to the insatiable heat burning you from the inside out. You bit your lip, trying to hold back the pornogrpahic moans daring to escape. He continued to watch, unwilling to tear his gaze away. He loved how your breasts bounced, tempting him to feast on him again, how your back curled so elegantly, how your thighs slowly squeezed around him minimizing his world so it was you and you alone, and how your hips stuttered losing concentration at his words, his pet names, and his merciless tongue.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” his voice was low and commanding, drawing up such a tone from his former marine days.

You shakily glanced down at him. Your eyes drooped with lust and desperation, your chest heaved gulping down air, and your mouth hung open as whimpers and moans poured out. To him, you were picture perfect, a sight to behold and cherish.

He turned his head, kissing your thigh. “Good, now can you lean forward for me?”

With a tiny nod, you tipped your hips forward.

”That’s it, good girl.”

Your whole body pulsed. Such praise, such simple words shouldn’t set your body ablaze, and yet you nearly crumble. You already wanted to hear that honey tone pour from his lips again.

His lips wrapped around your swollen clit, sucking on it. You inhaled sharply. His hand then caressed down between your thighs. It trailed down with such a light tough until one of his slender fingers dragged slowly through your soaked lips. You lurched at the feeling. He gingerly pushed his finger in. You shut your eyes tight and bit your lip, almost drawing blood. His finger moved painstakingly slow, both wanting to be careful yet also wanting to tease you closer to that edge.

“More,” you begged, already pushing your hips back. “Please.”

Rosinante happily and easily added a second finger. The wet sounds echoed in the room from him hungrily sucking and licking at your clit, to his fingers being drenched in your juices. It was all too much. You pressed your forehead into the wall, closing your eyes. It held all of your support. You were panting, nearly drooling as pleasure claimed your whole body.

Fuck, Rosinante could come at the sight of you like a horny teenager. His cock ached to be free, to be buried within your walls, to be stroked by your delicate fingers, to be wrapped around your tongue, or perhaps to be smushed between your breasts. He wanted it all. But, he also wanted this. He needed this just as much as you did. His pleasure can wait, he wanted to devote all his energy onto you. He hummed again.

Another moan fell off your lips.

Cracking open your eyes, you were greeted with Rosinante’s red glowing eyes beneath you. He then kissed your clit, softly as if giving one a kiss on the cheek, and cooed, “Be a good girl and come all over my face.”

“Fuck,” you swore. He chuckled, a rich laugh. He crooked his finger, hitting a certain spot. You gasped, seeing stars. “T-There, fuck, right there.”

Rosi immediately zoned onto that spot. His fingers bullied into you with new purpose. Each curl, scissoring, of his fingers snatched your breath away. His tongue and mouth, however, could not be forgotten either. He sucked and swirled his tongue, guiding you closer to the edge. You tightened your grip on his hair, nails scraping along his scalp. And he could only moan. Pleasure and pain tangled so well together.

You mewled, “Rosi, I - I about to come.”

“Give it to me,” he growled.

The pressure built and built, and you quickly abandoned all caution and care. You began to grind back on his fingers, practically humping his face. A fog was casted over your mind, only able to think of your pleasure. Rosinante moaned, fueling your end.

Yes, use me, he thought.

A few more pumps of his slender fingers, mixed with his constant attack on your clit, you cried out his name gushing all over his face. The edges of your vision blurred with stars. Rosinante swiftly pulled out his fingers and greedily drank you up. He groaned, enjoying every drop. He feasted until your legs were shaking, ready to topple over and you were whimpering and jerking from the intense overstimulation.

He thankfully - and finally - stopped. He lifted you up and off his face, laying you down on the bed. He then littered your heavy tired body with kisses as you came back to your senses. He kissed your cheek then forehead. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you muttered, tossing him a lopsided smile. “I’m good.”

Great. Fantastic. Amazing.

He smiled, giving you a short kiss. He continued his conquest kissing down your neck and chest. You sighed dreamily, threading your fingers through his hair. Your desires, however, were being reignited by every kiss. You still craved more, you wanted him all.

“I want you,” you whispered softly.

He lifted his head with some hesitancy behind his eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” You hadn’t been more sure in your life.

“Ok,” he smiled, giving you a quick peck on your lips.

Standing up, you finally could drink in the full sight of him. The years had been so kind to him. He was like a Greek god: golden hair kissed by Apollo and Helios, a rugged physique that battled Ares’s, a booming laughter rivaling Zeus’s own thunder, a voice so rich and luscious like ambrosia poured directly from Dionysus’s cup, and all of it wrapped together and blessed by Aphrodite’s touch.

He was beautiful, more than beautiful he was ethereal.

He tugged down his pants, along with his boxers. Your eyes trailed down to chest, to his stomach, to the thin patch of darker blonde strands to his hard cock - long and thick, matching his already intimidating height. His tip red and swollen as precum leaked out, a sign of your effect on him.

You swallowed nervously.

Would he fit?

Rosinante’s ego inflated at your stunned reaction. He kicked aside the clothing, unfortunately his clumsy curse returned momentarily. Getting tripped up, he toppled sideways, crashing to the ground. You immediately sprung up. Before you could think to ask if he was okay, he propped himself up. His cheeks flushed slightly with embarrassment. He huffed, resting his chin on the edge of the bed.

Smooth, he sarcastically thought to himself.

You bit your lip then bursted out into laughter. You know you shouldn’t, yet you shouldn’t have expected anything less. He perked up, and smiled at your infectious laugh. You crawled over to him, sitting back on your knees. You cupped his face, bending down kissing him softly. Pulling away, Rosinante looked at you as if you brought upon his salvation, as if you were an oasis in the desert of his life.

“Are you okay?” You asked, still concerned about him.

“Yeah,” he smiled.

“Good.”

Still holding his face, you gently drew him with you, urging him back on the bed. He listened to your silent command. You fell backward, scooting up the bed while he slowly crawled over top of you.

“Are you sure?” He repeated.

You threw your arms over his shoulders, bringing him down. “Yes, I want you. Like I said, scars and all.”

His heart melted. He kissed your nose. His hand slid down your side, sending ripples of anticipation. He guided your leg over his hip. He gave your thigh a quick reassuring squeeze. He will happily take the lead in this dance, he will ensure you are cared for. There will be no misstep.

He lowered his hips, brushing the tip of his cock over your dripping folds. You shivered at the size and warmth of him. He teasingly rubbed through your folds and over your clit, enjoying how his precum mixed with your first orgasm. Your nails sunk into his skin. Crescent shapes adorned his body with more marks to come.

“We’ll take it slow, ok?” He whispered.

“Ok,” you mumbled, beginning to lose yourself all over again.

He reached down grabbing the base of his cock, and slowly pushed the head of it in. You bit the inside of your cheek. It stung. The stretch was unlike anything you had experienced or felt.

“Talk to me, sweetheart,” he spoke, reading your expression and feeling the tenseness of your body.

You panted, ”Keep going.”

You wanted this.

Listening, he pushed in further. A sharp hiss left your lips. You clawed at his back, red ribbons added to the jagged pale scars. Rosinante almost stopped, fearfully he was hurting you too much.

“Don’t stop,” you begged. The sting had begun to subside as pleasure whisked you away.

Rosinante again listened to you. He may lead this dance but he had a partner he must be attentive too. You whimpered, shutting your eyes and adjusting to his size. Your heel dug into the meat of his calf, pleading him to keep going. With one final push, Rosinante was completely in filling you to the brim. He panted heavily over top of you. He watched as your face contorted from minor pain to absolute pleasure. Opening your eyes, you were met with pure unfiltered love, a culmination of months upon months of locked feelings, of denial and heartache.

It was finally all unburden, and unchained.

Breathless, you both stared at each other unmoving. Neither of you could. You both desperately wanted to stay here, to preserve such a memory and feelings. He filled you, your senses utterly overwhelmed by the sensation of him. And your body welcomed him in return.

It was as if you were made for each other.

Rosinante hid his face in your shoulder, exhaling shakily. Shit, I feel like I could come right now.

“I’m going to move now,” he grunted into your neck.

“Please.”

Taking a deep breath, he slowly moved his hips. His thick cock dragged through your walls before thrusting back in.

You whimpered.

“I got you,” he whispered. “If anything hurts, tell me.”

“Just - just please don’t stop.”

He let out a breathy chuckle. His hips increased in speed, spurring stars to burst in the corners of your eyes. Your mouth hung open as a silent moan spilled out. His cock stretched and filled you leaving nothing but pleasure in its wake. You wrapped your other legs around his hip, clinging to him. You were immediately becoming drunk and desperate on such pleasures. And Rosinante wanted to give you everything, to have you consumed by pleasure. He curled over you, pressing his forehead against yours. Lifting your hips, he hit a new angle, deeper and far more intimate.

“F-Fuck, Rosi,” you moaned. You clawed harshly at his back. An apology sat on your tongue, but every thrust left you mewling. You could only babble his name or curses.

Rosinante glanced down, seeing your stomach bulge at the size of his cock. “S-Shit, sweetheart,” he moaned. “You’re taking me so well. Look.”

You peered down. The debauchery sight left you speechless. His hips slapped deliciously against yours. Your stomach bulged every time his cock disappeared back in. And when he pulled out, you saw how his cock was slick and coated with your mixed juices. Not to mention at this new angle, the tuft of his snail trail rubbed wondrously against your clit only furthering your pleasures.

Fuck.

Whimpering, your head fell back into the bed. You bucked your hips, matching his thrusts. Rosinante whimpered, almost unnoticeable. “Fuck, just like that.”

He grabbed your hands, prying them off his back and pinning them to the bed. His fingers interlocked with yours, and squeezed your hands. He captured your lips, kissing you sweetly and pouring all of his love into it. His mouth, his hands, were passionate, and yet his hips were so sinful. The trio constantly stole your breath, leaving you in such a messy state.

Breaking the kiss, he smiled down at you. Still boyish, despite the years on him. Hearts danced in his eyes, and you knew you were the same. Every movement, every thrust, every shared breath, every touch - no matter how minuscule - was written with love.

And he was beginning to love watching you squirm on his cock.

He bent his head, taking one of your nipples in his mouth. Your eyes rolled back. The stretch of his cock, the grinding on your clit, the swirl of his tongue on your breast, each sensation brought you closer and closer to the edge. Each delicious friction melted your mind, and your body could only react. Your own well-timed thrusts started to waver as desperation sunk into your bones.

You whined faintly, “Rosi, so close.”

He popped off your breast. “I know, sweetheart, come on. Come around my cock.”

You shivered, lolling your head to the side.

“Be my good girl,” he purred into your ear, rolling his hips. “Come on, sweet girl, come on my cock.”

Your walls fluttered around him, warning him. He gritted his teeth, holding back his own pleasure. He needed to feel you come first. He snapped his hips with new fever, hitting the perfect spot. You gasped loudly. Blinding pleasure covered your senses. Rosinante saw your beautiful reaction and continued to hit the same spot over and over. His pace was unwavering, he needed to see and feel you come.

“Make a mess on me,” he moaned.

You tightened your grip on his hands, digging your nails into him. You squirmed and writhed on his cock. You whimpered as your orgasm approached quickly. Rosinante groaned in your ear, whispering such sinful things. You bucked your hips up just as he snapped his hips, and it all came crashing down.

Shutting your eyes tight, you walls clamped down as you cried out his name. He kissed you, swallowing up your moans and cries. He then kissed your cheek where a tear glided down, to your forehead, and finally nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck. “I got you, sweetheart.”

His hips continued to pump into you, letting you ride out your orgasm. It was a beautiful sight. Your body convulsed as pleasure consumed you and as each additional pump stole your breath. Your eyes fluttered open to see your god still hovering above you, giving you everything.

But, it was his turn now.

“Fill me,” you muttered weakly drunk on pleasure.

“W-What?” Rosinante’s eyes widened and his hips stuttered at your words.

Freeing your hands, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders. You dragged him down pecking his lips. “I want to feel you, Rosi,” you whispered.

His cock twitched inside of you.

“Please,” you begged softly. You arched your back, trying to take him deeper. Your hands glided down his back, pressing into his chest. Your hands roamed touching his scars, the ones you had memorized only moments ago. Your thumb grazed over his nipple, making him hiss. You nibbled on his ear, “Fill me, Rosi.”

His jaw clenched. He kissed you heatedly, pushing his tongue inside to re-explore your mouth. His large hands grabbed your hips, most likely bruising them in the process. But, you didn’t mind. He guided your hips, matching his new pace with more vigor and unrestraint. You moaned, drawing your nails down his chest.

A mere taste of this side of him was addicting. He could be loving, but he could be a monster. A monster you wished to learn in full some day.

Abandoning all his resolve, he pumped wildly into you. He couldn’t help it. Your words let a fire inside of him, and he had been holding back for so long. He muttered out an apology, afraid he might be hurting you. Yet, you took it all. You smiled up at him as he used you.

“Please, Rosi, I want to feel you,” you moaned.

He shuddered. Fuck, how could someone so sweet be so sinful? With a few more deep thrusts, he came, moaning out your name. He slowed down his pace until he buried himself deep within you, coating your walls.

Just like you asked.

Taking a second, you both stared at each other sweaty and out of breath. Rosinante carefully removed himself, and you squirmed at the abrupt emptiness. He rolled off of you, flopping onto the bed. But, he snatched you up, bringing you with him. You yelped, surprised by it. He settled you onto his chest, and your shock vanished. Sigh deeply, you nuzzled into his chest savoring this moment. A lazy smile tugged at the corners of your lips, listening to how his heartbeat slowly evened out. His fingers soon skimmed up and down along your spine.

It was peaceful, it was heavenly.

You each shared one thought: mine. Each of you unbeknownst to the other swore the same vow, to always make sure the other smiled and is to be loved for eternity. Perhaps, later down the road, such vows will be spoken aloud. But for now, you kept these secret promises to both of your chests.

Unfortunately, serenity was short lived for you. A thought, a more drastic one, occurred to you. Lifting your head, you nervously said, “Rosi? I - I think there’s still one thing we should at least talk about.”

He hummed, peering down at you.

“… like how are we going to tell the others? Especially Law?”

Rosinante flinched. He sighed heavily. His arms wrapped around you, firmly drawing your head back down. “We can worry about that later, I just want to stay right here a bit longer.”

You smiled, cheeks warm. You buried your head back into his chest whispering, “Ok.”

Your eyes spotted a scar near your face, specifically the one by his heart. You began to trace over it, memorized by the feeling and knowing you alone could do this.

“I like them,” you admitted quietly.

His heart skipped. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you breathed out. “It means you survived and you’re here.”

With me.

He gave you a gentle squeeze. His lips brushed over your hair, kissing the top of your head. “And I promise I won’t go anywhere.”

Closing your eyes, you smiled and kissed his scar. “Good.”

*****

“Law, please!”

Law huffed as Evelyn tugged on the back of his shirt. She had called him after his shift, asking him to come over. He wanted to go home, and into his bed, but she kept insisting. He agreed, however, as time dragged on doing little to nothing at her home, he decided to leave.

And for some reason, she decided to join him.

She begged the whole time to turn the car around, to go somewhere else, but he kept on driving home. He didn’t care, she could catch a ride back to her own home. Once parked, Law hopped out of his car, marching up the driveway with her bizarrely pleading.

“Look, I’m tired and …,” he paused, spotting a familiar car. One he didn’t see at her home, but oddly was parked here. “Why is she here?”

Eve flinched.

Law peered over his shoulder, staring down at her. But, she avoided his piercing gaze. He glared at her obvious guilty expression. She knew something. “What do you know?”

She blurted out, “Nothing!”

He tsked, “Lair.”

Law shook off her grasp then opened the front door. Stepping in, Eve quickly darted around trying to push on his chest but to no avail. Law walked further into the home. He didn’t see anyone, and nothing was out of the ordinary.

“Where …,” his voice trailed off when he stepped into the kitchen. His eyes instantly spotted something on the floor: a shirt and bra.

Eve whipped her head around. Her eyes widened at the pair of clothing, both shocked and happy for you.

Law’s face, however, scrunched up in disgust at the thought of what his dad had been doing. He huffed, clicking his tongue, “Idiots better not have done anything in the kitchen.”

Scanning the floor, he luckily couldn’t find any pants which brought some relief. Sighing, he spun around, heading back towards the front door.

Eve blinked, “Wait, you’re leaving?”

“Do you want to stay and find them?” He asked, raising his eyebrow.

She blushed, “Um, no … not really.”

“Figured, now let’s go.” He glanced back at her. “You can buy me dinner.”

She gasped, “I will not.”

“I’m driving, so either you stay here and find them or you pay.”

She pouted and grumbled, following after him. However, Evelyn sent you a kind thought as she left.

I’m happy for you.

[mitchellnman]

UPTOWN GIRL / DOWNTOWN BOY.

Request from @slytherincursebreaker

Prompt: Reader all happy and bubbly college student received a text from her boyfriend which her friends were like excited who it was the mystery man like is he handsome or is he a student, the reader describes him tall, sweet, no he's not a student, he's working ( nothing illegal ) and he's handsome, so manly. Her friends are like excited. Then they pointed the bloke who the popular guy in college and has a crush on the Reader and they were excited, until Reader said what no not him oh there he is, she pointed which is Martin which her friends are like wtf, or is she blind or she lost a bet. When she hugged Martin and kissed him.

Word count: 727

Genre: fluff

Warnings: swearing, a slightly shitty friend, she/her pronouns, no beta reader we die like my brain cells scrolling through twitter

A/N: hi hello if you'd like a sequel I've got a few ideas for their date! Hope you enjoy, and have a good day!

—

You loved this time of year. The trees had began to shift from green, to yellow, to orange. The skies were always cloudy, the air was crisp and cool - which meant you could wear your boyfriends windbreakers and hoodies as often as you wanted. Which, was every day, and sometimes to bed if you were particularly lonely.

They smelled like him, and in moments when you thought no one was looking, you would duck your head, and tuck your nose into the collar. He was so supportive of you, and so achingly sweet, it was hard not to miss him every second if every day.

You were both busy now, that was the only downside to this time of year. You were in a good college, studying hard, and he was working. He hadn't told you yet, but you had overheard a phone call he had made to a friend, talking about how he was saving up to buy a slightly bigger place so that you two could live together after you graduated next year.

He was so thoughtful, you mused, as a dreamy smile splayed upon your lips, like a child thinking about their favorite candy bar.

"Hey, space cadet." One of your friends teased, waving her hand in front of your face. "Your phone just went off."

You blinked, your cheeks heating up. "Thanks, Sam." You pulled your phone out, your boyfriend's pet lizard as your screensaver. It was a text from him, and you grinned, brighter than the sun.

M: almost there love <3

"So?" Sam asked, leaning forward on the table the four of you were sitting at; a lovely outdoor cafe, on college grounds. It looked like something off of Pinterest, honestly. "Who is it?"

"My boyfriend, he's picking me up for a date tonight."

"Come on, you have to give us more than that!" Jackie protested to your right. Evelyn nodded in agreement to your left, and they all leaned in conspiratorially.

"Is he a student?" Sam asked.

"Is he tall?" Jackie asked.

"Is he handsome?" Evelyn asked.

You laughed, and covered your face with your hands in an effort to hide your fluster, your skin blisteringly hot under your fingertips. "He's not a student, um, he's fairly tall, and he's... beautiful. Yes, handsome, does all of the manly things you'd expect, opening doors, fixing things, reaching stuff on the high shelves, but - he's so sweet." You said, peeking out from between your fingers. “He's an utter dream.”

"Aww." Jackie said. "He sounds so nice. What does he do?”

“Well,” you said. “He works at a music store, and he has a few hobbies, and he does a recreational sport, for money.”

“Oh, interesting!” Jackie said, genuine invested in this. “I've got to meet him—”

A car pulled up alongside the curb, and a handsome man stepped out; tan, blonde, the star quarterback that was bringing a lot of attention to the college; Tommy.

Sam gasped as the man walked over to them. "Him?"

"The whole school knows he's got a crush on her." Evelyn said, raising an eyebrow. "It's so obvious."

It was, painfully so. He always tried to talk to you, chat you up - but it always came off more like a puppy begging for attention than anything else.

Tommy walked right by you with a wink and a wave, but you shook your head, and pointed. Martin had pulled in alongside him. His resting gloomy face lit up like a Christmas tree when he saw you, and he jogged over. You stood up so fast that you nearly knocked your chair over.

"Did you lose a bet, or something?" Evelyn sneered as she pulled her phone out.

"Don't be such a cunt." Jackie said, flicking cookie crumbs at her.

You didn't care. Martin met you halfway, and picked you up by your waist. He spun you around once, and you kissed him, aching for the warmth of his lips against yours.

"Hullo." He whispered, his hands cupping your flushed cheeks. "You taste like cinnamon."

You smiled. "Apple cider donuts. I was going to get some to go." You whispered, happily ignoring the chatter from your friends behind you.

"Good idea. Are you ready to go?" He asked, his voice soft. He brushed his nose against yours, his wild black hair tickling your cheeks.

You nodded. "With you, always.”

[libraryofgage]

Addams Family B-Side (2)

Part of: Steve Deserves Good Parents, Actually Debbie and Fester Addams One | Two (you're here!) Rick and Evelyn O'Connell One 10th Doctor and Rose (on the way! might take a little, I have plans for this one)

Hello, and welcome back to Addams Family B-Side, where I take my Addams Family Steddie idea and flip the cassette tape

This is part of a larger series in which I give Steve Harrington good parents from different shows/movies/etc. If there are any other people you think would make good parents for Steve, let me know! I'll take them into consideration and see if inspiration sparks :D

Also, there's a meme at the end, so enjoy that hfjks

As always, if you see any typos, no you didn't :^)

---------

Just because Steve finds Eddie Munson fascinating, that doesn't mean he's going to immediately move to wooing the guy. Well. He would, but his mother has some reasonable yet strict rules about these things, the first of all being that Steve can't like someone just for a pretty face. Or sizable personal wealth. He's got to talk to the person to figure out if they can stand each other before commencing the romancing.

Steve doesn't see himself getting a chance to talk to Eddie anytime soon, so he morosely (and it's not even fun this time) puts his fascination on the back burner for the rest of the day.

Then school ends, and Pubert has some after-school commitment, so Steve waits for him in the grossest bathroom he can find on campus. It's near the fine arts hall, has a flickering light above the mirror, and sports mold in one corner that Steve is tempted to harvest for Grandmama. He bets it'd make a great ingredient for something.

He's just about to scrape some of the mold away when the door slams open. Steve looks up in time to see Eddie (his eyes wide and somewhat terrified, and Steve is briefly angry and consumed by the thought that he's the only one who should be making Eddie scared like that) slip across the tile and crash into the wall on the far side of the bathroom.

Steve is momentarily stunned by Eddie's appearance, his heart lurching in his chest and the sudden urge to hide behind something rearing its head. In the back of his mind, he remembers his father describing the first time he saw Debbie; how he clammed up and was so in awe of her that he couldn't say a thing. Steve finally gets it. If he tried to speak right now, he'd probably only mumble or mutter something unintelligible.

Steve is about to try anyway when the door slams open again and three other boys walk in. They're wearing letterman jackets, and Steve recognizes one of them from lunch. He wasn't the boy who called Eddie a prick, but he was sitting at that table and looking particularly annoyed. Now, he just looks taken aback by Steve's presence, and the feeling is mutual.

"You're that new kid, right?" he asks, his lips pulled back in a sneer as he looks Steve up and down. "Get out."

"I was here first," Steve says, frowning slightly as he glances from the boys to Eddie. "What are you doing?"

"We're teaching this dipshit a lesson for disrespecting us," the guy says, cracking his knuckles and narrowing his eyes at Steve. "So, unless you want your ass kicked, too, get out."

Oh. This is bullying. Steve blinks, a sudden glee building in his chest. He glances at Eddie. "Were you planning to fight back?" he asks, figuring he won't take that fun away.

Eddie stares at him like he's clinically insane, and Steve is a little flattered. "Are you fucking kidding me?" Eddie asks, throwing a hand out and gesturing at the guys. "They're brick shithouses."

Steve hums softly and nods, swinging his backpack off his shoulders and opening the main pocket. As he's rummaging around, he hears the ringleader of the jocks (that's what they'd be called in a movie, he thinks) scoff at him. "Are you fucking dumb? Or are you that eager for a ride in an ambulance?" he asks.

Finally, Steve finds what he's looking for and smiles. "Oh. No. I just had to get a weapon," he says, pulling his travel mace out of his bag. He presses a button and spikes release from the ball on the end. Steve looks up at the jocks with an eager smile. "Who first?"

"What the fuck is that?!"

Steve blinks, a little worried about the public education system. "It's a weapon. A mace, to be exact. There's three of you. This evens the odds," he explains.

The three take a step back, looking at Steve like he's clinically insane, and this time he's disgusted by the gesture. "You're fucking crazy," the first one says before turning heel and leaving the bathroom. The other two follow closely behind, and Steve has to stifle the sheer disappointment.

He sighs and retracts the spikes, placing the mace back into his bag. "Are you disappointed you didn't get to fight?" Eddie asks, pulling Steve's attention back.

Eddie is noticeably more relaxed now, and he's looking at Steve like he's an enigma. That's not quite as good as clinically insane, but it's still flattering nonetheless. Steve swallows down the nerves that suddenly appear again, trying to channel his mother's calm confidence instead. "A little," he admits, zipping up his bag before slinging it back onto his shoulders. "I'm Steve, by the way. Steve Harrington."

"Oh, uh, Eddie Munson."

"I know. I saw you at lunch."

Eddie perks up a little, a smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah? And what did you think, Harrington?" he asks.

Steve stares at him for a moment before taking a step forward, the faint scent of weed and cheap body spray making its way to him. He makes a quick mental note to look into colognes for one that would fit Eddie best (perhaps something crisp and harsh like a wild blizzard with inescapable winds). "I think," Steve says, holding Eddie's gaze, "that you've got incredible conviction."

"Uh, thanks?"

"You're welcome," Steve says, studying Eddie a moment longer. "Let me know if they bother you again. I can pull out a bomb next time."

Before Eddie can respond, the door swings open for a third time. Steve looks over his shoulder and pulls back when he sees Pubert. "Ready to go?" Pubert asks, glancing between the two. "Or am I interrupting something?"

"Not interrupting. And yeah, ready to go."

"Wait, how do you know Pubert Addams?" Eddie asks, looking between the two with a frown. The emotion in his eyes is recognizable if only because Steve has seen it in his mother's eyes when someone beats her to a sale or happens to be wearing a nicer necklace. Jealousy, plain and simple.

Steve grins at Eddie, ready to soothe his jealousy when Pubert cuts in. "Save it," he says, grabbing Steve's hand, "we're gonna be late." With that, he pulls Steve out of the bathroom and down the hall.

"What was that for?" Steve asks.

"I've got to get my entertainment somehow," Pubert replies, smirking as he drops Steve's hand. "Watching someone be jealous will do for a while."

-----

When Steve gets home, leaving Pubert on the sidewalk without another glance because he's too excited to get inside and tell his mother about the crush that he's talked to, he finds only his father in the kitchen. Without needing to be asked, Fester says, "Debbie and Morticia went to get their nails done. It was an emergency. Apparently, Debbie couldn't tear open letters as easily anymore."

Steve nods once and drops his bag onto the island. "I'm in love," he announces.

His father freezes, a tray of roasted vegetables in his hands. A few moments pass before Fester fully processes Steve's words, and he asks, "Have you talked to them? You know your mother's rule."

"I have," Steve says, unable to help a grin, "and he's perfect."

Fester drops the tray onto the stovetop, and Steve suddenly finds himself lifted into the air and spun around. "In love! Oh, I hope it's miserable for you," Fester says.

Steve laughs, nearly tripping over his feet when Fester sets him down. "I haven't decided how to approach him yet," he admits, grabbing onto the counter for support.

"Tell me about him," Fester says, grabbing Steve's shoulders and staring intensely at him. It's like he thinks he'll be able to read Steve's mind if he refrains from blinking long enough.

Steve pushes his father into one of the chairs at the kitchen's island. "His name is Eddie Munson. He's got this wild look to him. Like, his hair is all wavy and kinda poofy like he got half-electrocuted. And his eyes are the most beautiful swamp-mud brown I've ever seen. He speaks with conviction and has a shirt with a demon head on it and has all these rings and spikes on his vest. And he looks incredible when he's terrified. I mean, if I hadn't been so angry, I would've proposed right there," Steve gushes, the words falling from him in a breathless rush.

"What made you angry?" Fester asks, quickly latching to the last point.

"These...jocks. That's what they're called. Jocks. They were chasing him for stuff he said at lunch. He made this whole speech at lunch, by the way. It was incredible. Way too short and just barely addressing the actual issues and he'd never win a single political campaign. Anyway, these jocks, they chased him into the bathroom where I was, and they had him outnumbered and were muscular, so he was scared of getting beat up, I think. They threatened to beat me up, too, which I was excited about, but they ran away when I pulled out my travel mace. I mean, how rude is that? It's just bad form to run when someone's pulled out a weapon."

"And he wasn't angry about you taking his chance to fight?" Fester asks.

"Not at all! He seemed relieved. I think he might be better with, you know, poisons or something," Steve explains, shrugging slightly. He knows everyone has their specialties; he's a master of physical brawls and fights, Pubert does best with explosives, his mother just has a way with words and manipulation, and his father can give people the creeps just by looking at them.

Fester nods, an eager grin taking over his face. "You've got to start wooing him!" he says, slapping his hand on the island counter and pushing himself out of his seat. "Start small, something to test the waters."

"Oh! I could get him a rat," Steve says, thinking of the ones that like to burrow around in their yard. They're big and fearless, and Steve used them to practice his prowling and hunting when he was young. He's got many fond memories of crouching and pouncing right before they scattered across the yard.

"Wait," Fester says, holding up a hand and thinking for a moment, "we should think like your mother. She's the most romantic person we know."

"She blew you up," Steve agrees, nodding seriously. "She'd probably say that I shouldn't give him a live rat. Because he's, uh, not like us?" Steve looks at Fester, waiting for his father to nod once in approval before continuing, "I think Mom talked about stuffed animals once. So, maybe I can get him a stuffed rat, instead."

"Yes! Good! And then you should...learn about his interests! What does he like?" Fester asks.

"I'll have to watch him to find out. I can probably make him something once I know. I mean, he's probably got normal interests, like bugs and poisons and torture practices, right? That's what most people like."

"Don't forget dancing or music."

"Right," Steve says, "dancing or music. But he'll probably have special interests, too. Like Satanism. I should watch for those."

With something akin to a plan in place, Steve leaves Fester to sneakily poison the roasted vegetables while he plans the first step of wooing Eddie.

-----

Ever since meeting Steve Harrington in the bathroom, Eddie has been feeling eyes on him. Not even the normal kind that are annoyed or just curious about the school's resident freak. No, these eyes are...intense. They're laser-focused on his every move and clearly filled with some kind of intentions that he can't discern.

He just doesn't know where they're coming from. When he looks around to see who's staring, he can't find anyone. It's been driving him crazy for almost a week now, and Eddie is just about ready to scream when he opens his locker and...

And finds a rat.

Like, a real rat.

Well, it's dead, but it was alive once. Eddie blinks, staring at the taxidermied rat innocently sitting on top of the pile of books and papers and folders stacked in his locker. It's big and has a surprisingly shiny brown coat, kind of like someone had given the thing a thorough wash with extra shampoo and conditioner. There's a blood-red ribbon wrapped around the rat's neck, a perfect bow tied behind its head, with a tag hanging from it. When Eddie hesitantly turns the tag over, he finds "Name: Kas" at the top and "Hope you like him" written on the bottom in careful, meticulous handwriting.

It should be creepy. It should be disturbing. Eddie should be paranoid beyond reason because how did the mystery gifter even know his locker combination? Did they stuff this rat themselves? Did they kill the rat themselves? Why the fuck would they give him a rat?

But...it's oddly...sweet? Somehow, Eddie can feel that it's not, like, a malicious gift. And he likes the rat. Kas. He likes Kas. Its fur is surprisingly soft when he picks it up, and Eddie spends a good minute just rubbing his thumb over its back.

Then he feels those eyes on him again. They're even more intense this time, like they're watching him closely to see his reaction and...oh. Is this...a weird secret admirer? Does Eddie "The Freak" Munson have a secret admirer? A weird one, sure, because who the fuck gifts taxidermied rats, but still.

He looks around, taking in the other students in the semi-crowded hallway, trying to find those eyes. He doesn't find anyone staring at him, but he does end up staring himself at Steve Harrington. The guy is leaning on a locker across the hall, inexplicably fiddling with a lightbulb as he talks to Pubert Addams, who's digging around in his own locker. If Eddie squints, he could almost convince himself that Steve's cheeks are a little pinker than normal.

After a few seconds, Steve glances up and meets his gaze. They stare at each other for a few tense moments, something building in Eddie's chest as the weight of Steve's eyes surrounds him. It doesn't feel bad, but he's not used to being the center of someone's attention like this. Normally, people are frowning when they pay attention to him. Or, if they're his friends, goading him on and joining in the joke. But this is different, like Steve finds him fascinating.

And then Pubert Addams slams his locker door shut and looks over his shoulder, eyes narrowing when he sees Eddie staring at Steve. He frowns, throws an arm over Steve's shoulders, and pulls him away. Pubert's shoulders are a little tense, his expression sour as he says something to Steve that results in one last, furtive glance at Eddie before he's out of sight.

Suddenly, nothing is more important to Eddie than figuring out what the fuck is going on between Steve Harrington and Pubert Addams.

------

Tag List (let me know if you'd like to be added!)

@estrellami-1, @itsall-taken, @mugloversonly, @fandomcartographer, @hippielittlemetalhead, @agree2disagre-kicks, @ledleaf, @just-a-tiny-void, @goodolefashionedloverboi, @ink1177, @maya-custodios-dionach, @littlebluejane,

And now, a meme for your viewing pleasure:

[makeyoumine69]

Till Death Do Us Part (Chapter One)

PAIRING: Patrick Bateman x Innocent!Fem!Reader; [no y/n]

SUMMARY: After moving in with Patrick Bateman in his luxurious Upper Manhattan apartment, it didn't take long for you to get into trouble, as your future husband couldn't stand anyone being bossy in his own home.

CONTAINS: Arranged marriage & enemies to lovers trope, explicit sexual content, violence, mild gore, dub-con, Patrick being a dick, drugging, toxic behavior, dirty talk.

WORDS: 3.3k

A/N: Here's the first chapter of the writing project I've been working on for the past few months! I hope you enjoy the journey!

LINKS: [MASTERLIST]; [SERIES MASTERLIST]; [AO3].

Life is such an amazing thing.

Sometimes it can bring us challenges that seem impossible, but what doesn't kill us makes us stronger. Do people always say things like that? Well, maybe they do, but in your case, that was exactly what your family told you the day you found out that you had to marry Patrick Bateman—a ghost from your past, a boy who used to bully you, then an arrogant Harvard student best known for the number of girls he fucked.

Not to mention how much you hated him and everything associated with him whenever your mother tried to start a conversation about the good old days when you were a kid playing with Patty, ah, the childhood nickname you used to call him. It all felt like memories from your past life, not your present one.

How you were going to survive it all now, only God knew.

1987, New York.

Patrick stared down at your sleeping form on his couch, a plastic cover over the expensive fabric you slept on. It had been a few days since you had moved into his apartment. The man remembered clearly when his mother told him about the arranged marriage. It had happened a few days after she had told him about his breakup with Evelyn. The whole situation made him angry. Patrick never wanted to get married, and if he had to, it certainly wouldn't be to a girl like you. Memories of your moments together during childhood and high school flashed through his mind. They were pretty blurry—just like any other memory of his, but he knew that there weren't any positive memories. 

Patrick ran his hand over his face, an exasperated sigh escaping his lips. He tore his eyes away from you and moved quickly into the kitchen, tying his robe tighter around his waist. 'She's not even blonde,' he thought bitterly as he began his routine of brewing a fresh pot of expensive coffee.

The sudden sound of the coffee maker made you jerk back onto the couch, but the moment you opened your eyes, a bitter realization washed over you like a tidal wave—this was not a dream and you were really in Patrick Bateman's apartment. And you were about to marry him, which was actually the worst thing that could happen to you.

Carefully, you got up from the soft furniture and went to the kitchen to check on your future husband, trying to pretend to be a good fiancée, just like your family wanted you to be. "Good morning," you mumbled as you watched him take the ice mask out of the fridge. "Did you sleep well?"

You bet he did, because unlike you, he slept in the big comfortable bed while you slept on the couch, although it was your choice, but at least you expected him to be a gentleman and offered to take his bed, which never happened.

Slightly annoyed, Patrick kept his focus on the coffee pot, his gaze fixed on the way the coffee grounds turned to liquid. He tensed noticeably when he heard a second voice and turned to look at his future wife. Blegh. 'Actually, I didn't sleep at all, Rebecca. I spent all night chopping up a hard body in the back alley of Barcadia,' he thought to himself, his face stoic. "I slept well." He spoke, his voice steady with a hint of annoyance. 

The pot banged, letting him know it was ready. He mechanically grabbed a mug from the cupboard and poured himself one, dropping two Xanax pills into it before taking a sip. The bitter liquid slid down his throat, calming his nerves and replacing the usual mask he wore. The man spun around to face you. "There should be some oat bran in the top cupboard…but I think you could stand to skip a few meals." He smiled, his eyes remaining empty as they bored into you.

Frowning, you rolled your eyes at his comment and turned to leave the kitchen. "I'm not hungry."

‘What a fucking arrogant bastard,’ you cursed and went back to the living room where you noticed a magazine with wedding dresses. God, now you remembered that you probably fell asleep reading that stupid magazine with the ugly dresses—they really were ugly and you didn't care if they were high fashion.

When you saw him join you in the living room, you tried to ignore him at first, but then you heard the sound of clothes being taken off—the sight of Bateman's perfect body clad only in white underwear embarrassed you, but you still didn't move.

"I had a thought—maybe we can postpone our wedding a little?" You asked suddenly, looking at him as he began to stretch out on the floor. "I have exams in my internship and I need to prepare for them."

For a while, the only sound in the room was Patrick's heavy panting as he began to do crunches, the way his muscles tensed with each movement, stirring something strange in your core that made you claw at your skin to distract yourself.

"No, negative." Bateman spoke, not bothering to look at you. "Your family and my family were very specific about the date," the man said before moving onto his back and doing crunches. He huffed as he moved, his abdominal muscles tensing and flexing. As he worked himself up, he suddenly stopped and huffed, moving to sit on the floor. "Why don't you make yourself useful and put in that Texas Chainsaw Massacre tape?" He asked, pointing at the TV; his eyes then drifted to the magazine. "You might as well pick something. If you don't, we'll just dress you in a cinched garbage bag. An expensive garbage bag."

With a wry smile, you scoffed at his statement about the wedding and dressing up in an expensive garbage bag. But the last thing you wanted to do was argue with him when you had to work and study today.

"Garbage bag doesn't sound bad from what I've seen in this magazine," you commented briefly, getting up to turn on the TV. "I don't understand why this wedding is even necessary. I'll survive if I don't get my picture on the front page of the Times." Your muttering was soon interrupted by the sound of the movie.

You looked at the cover of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre tape for a while—it looked pretty scary, but cool, and you were genuinely curious why Bateman was so obsessed with movies like that.

"Do you watch anything else besides horror movies?" Your tone was artificially friendly because inside you didn't really care. "I mean…I don't think it's weird, just…asking."

Bateman watched you move before quickly grabbing the remote from the table. He started tapping the forward button and watched as the scenes on the TV flashed by. Frowning, the man sighed when you started complaining again. "The wedding is necessary because both our families want it. Why is that so hard for you to understand?" He asked condescendingly, his focus shifting from the TV to you. You were attractive, he supposed—nice tits, a full ass, an…okay face. But he knew he could do better. 

Patrick looked back at the TV before it played his favorite scene—near the end of the movie where the final girl screamed bloody murder as Leatherface wielded a chainsaw over her head. The sound was like music to him. He paused the tape to answer your question. 'Porn,' he wanted to say, but instead he said, "I don't know…maybe…not really." Then he turned off the TV and got back on the floor. 

Something about the scene seemed to rile him up, because he started doing his stomach crunches much faster. Small beads of sweat ran down his temples as he groaned softly until he finished—doing 50 in just one minute. Then Bateman moved over to start doing push-ups, the muscles in his back rippling through his skin. He paused for a moment before sighing and stopping his routine. "Price and Daisy," he paused again, unsure if that was the name of Price's new girlfriend. Maybe it was Carmen? Dalila? He couldn't remember and frankly, he didn't give a shit. "Um, they have reservations for four at Barcadia…tonight at 7:00. So…you know…try to wear something nice."

Abashed, you almost dropped the pencil at your fiancé's request. "Something nice?" You repeated, looking down at your medical book. "You mean wear something that makes me look like a slut?"

With a muffled chuckle, you put the book down on the coffee table and lay back on the white couch. You were completely indifferent to social life, in your opinion it was just a waste of time and money, and you never understood why your family was so obsessed with it.

"Who is Price? I don't even remember all your 'friends'," you grimaced at the last word and kicked your legs in the air. "You can take Courtney instead of me or any of those other chicks you always hung out with."

Memories of the Harvard years flooded your mind without permission. Patrick, surrounded by an endless number of girls, walking in front of the main building. Damn it! Why did you even remember all that shit? But then another memory came to your mind, there was a charity banquet your family attended where you finally met Bethany, the girl Patrick had been dating since they were at Harvard. Bethany was so beautiful and slim, just like the model. 

Caught up in your thoughts, you seemed to miss what Bateman was saying. "If you said something, could you please repeat it?"

Patrick furrowed his brow, the lines in his face creasing slightly as he frowned. "I'd rather have a slutty wife than someone who looks homeless." He scoffed and stopped working out, deciding that he was done with his exercise routine. His face suddenly felt very heavy, as if the small amount of oil was wearing him down. He had to wash up immediately.

"Timothy Price-" Bateman spoke as he quickly walked into the bathroom, leaving the door open to answer any more tedious questions you might have. He casually opened his medicine cabinet and began to scrub his face with his expensive ointments. "A dress will be here in a few hours. I want you to try it on. If it doesn't fit, call my tailor. His number is on my nightstand." The man shouted, put the mask on his face and let it sit for a few minutes. 

When Patrick heard your ranting again, he groaned in exasperation. He quickly stormed out of the bathroom, the shiny mask still on his face. Bateman grabbed your hair in his fist and pulled it, tugging your head back so you could make eye contact with him. "You…get…dressed." He spoke slowly, slowing it down for you. "If the dress doesn't fit, call a tailor." Patrick pointed to his bedroom door and let go of your hair.

Bateman's sudden anger scared you to death, but you didn't even make a sound. It was only after he released you and returned to the bathroom that you allowed yourself to sob barely audibly, covering your face with your hands.

‘I don't want this marriage. Fuck, I should have accepted to marry Vincent when I had the chance, but my stupid family would never allow me to marry an ordinary man, not a fucking billionaire.’

Crying, you stood up on shaky legs, wanting to wait for Patrick to leave and call your ex-boyfriend or maybe your brother. You hugged yourself before slowly sneaking into the kitchen to get a glass of water. Unfortunately, your hands were shaking so badly that you splashed water all over the kitchen counter and floor. A paralyzing fear of his rage made you panic, and you had to quickly find something to clean up. When you couldn't find anything and heard his approaching footsteps, you decided to act desperately and before you knew it, you took off your top, leaving yourself exposed as you were not wearing a bra. Then, you crouched down to clean the floor with your fucking shirt. You didn't care because it was just a piece of cloth; his anger was much more frightening.

Irritated as hell, Patrick went back to the bathroom, his angry expression returning to his stoic one. He hardly thought about his sudden act of violence. It was the only way to get you to listen, but he couldn't deny that he got a little thrill out of it. 

As the man peeled off the mask, he thought about what would happen if he pulled a little harder. If he broke your fucking neck and chopped you up and threw your parts in a river. Or maybe he could nail you to the ground and let a bunch of hungry wild pigs eat you until there was nothing left. He soon finished peeling off the mask, crumpled it up in his hand, and threw it away. 

A short time later, Bateman came out of the bathroom and made a beeline for the kitchen. He noticed that you were no longer on the couch, which annoyed him. The thing that annoyed him most about you living with him was the lack of control he had. You could just do whatever you wanted and go into any room. Touch all his possessions. Patrick stopped in the doorway, his eyes widening slightly at the sight; his eyes trailed down your body, your curves. The man felt a sudden heat between his legs, his boxers suddenly feeling tighter. 'Damn it,' he thought. Aroused, Patrick ran his fingers through his disheveled hair, deciding what to do. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he had an idea. Maybe now he could show you who was really in control. Smirking, he stepped closer to you, his crotch in your line of sight. He stepped on your shirt, stopping your movements. "Worry about that later…if you're going to strip in my house, you should do it in the bedroom." Bateman spoke quietly, pulling up his boxers. "Go." He pointed to his bedroom again.

As soon as you heard his voice, you instinctively covered your breasts and glanced up at his almost naked form—he looked even bigger from that angle.

"Don't touch me," you whimpered suddenly, crawling back a little. "Say what you want, but please don't touch me." You used Bateman's confusion to slowly get to your feet, leaving your wet top on the floor as you didn't dare ask him to let you take it. 

'Gosh, his eyes are literally glowing with rage. Or maybe it's not anger?' A brief thought flashed through your mind as you retreated into his bedroom without turning around.

In the bedroom, you sat carefully on the edge of his large bed, picked up a random robe and tried not to think about how many women had been fucked here, as you were about to throw up from such a realization. Patrick didn't follow, so you sighed with relief, thinking that he would probably leave you alone—finally. And that meant that your plan to call her ex-boyfriend was still relevant.

Meanwhile, after watching you leave, Bateman quickly opened his cupboard, grumbling as he shoved food away. "Where's that…" he muttered before grabbing the drugs he was looking for. Ecstasy. Perfect. Patrick then took out a flute-shaped wine glass and poured his most expensive champagne, placing two pills inside and watching them dissolve. The man knew that you probably wouldn't be very… willing with what he wanted to do—not without help. 

Soon Bateman walked into the bedroom and saw you on the bed. With an artificial affection, he handed you the glass, a warm smile on his face. "Here. It's my most expensive brand. It's a... peace offering for what I did to your hair." The man purred, touched one of your locks, twisted it around his finger and pulled away. "My behavior can be…erratic at times." 

There was something strange about his sudden tenderness, but you felt too upset to think clearly. Scared of his recent rage, you took the glass and before you decided to try it, you gazed at him, knowing that something bad was going to happen, but you didn't really have a choice.

"It's very…very sweet," you commented, looking at the glass and licking your lips. "Is it supposed to be that sweet?" Frowning, you studied him with your big doe eyes before closing them for a moment. The taste of this chapmange was very strange, even after you drank more. "Aren't you going to drink as well?" You asked, feeling your head start to spin.

Snickering mischievously, Bateman watched you drink and nodded. "Of course, but I'm sure you've never had this brand. It's quite high-end." He confidently turned away from you and walked over to the camera on the tripod, pointed directly at the bed. The man pressed the record button, a tradition he had for every session. It didn't matter if it was a random prostitute or his future wife. 

Then he moved to a dresser on the other side of the room and opened the drawer. His finger brushed against the objects inside: three different knives, a bent coat hanger, matchsticks, dildos, vibrators, lube, and a box of condoms. He took the box out, leaving the drawer open for later. "I'm not thirsty," Patrick remarked. "Besides, I have to be at work in a few hours. I really can't get drunk." He smiled and sat down beside you again, running his fingers down your back, feeling your spine through your skin. "You have a really nice body."

Stunned, you shivered at his sudden touch. "W-what are you doing?" You asked, but didn't flinch.

'God, how many times did I imagine us like this in college? How many times had I imagined being his wife? And now my life had decided to punish me in such a cruel way because the boy I'd fallen in love with since childhood was a completely different man, and now I had to marry him.'

Bateman sneered suddenly, his warm expression turning to one of annoyance. "Nothing. Can't I touch my fiancé? Or are you one of those…after-marriage women?" Patrick smiled again. He didn't think he'd ever want to be intimate with you, but you really did have a nice body. Besides, he'd have to get used to it.

"Mmh, I shouldn't drink too, because I have to go to the hospital today…" you mumbled and turned to face him, only to gasp at how close he was. "Patrick…what's in that box?" You pointed at the small box in his hands.

The man laughed and jabbed his finger at the glass in her hand. "You've already drunk half of it!" Patrick murmured in an amused tone. "I'll call for you. I'll tell them you have a cold. Then he looked down at the box in his hand and shook it. "Condoms. You probably don't want to look pregnant at the wedding. It'll ruin the photos and stretch out your dress." Bateman leaned closer to you. "I think you and I should…you know…get it on. What do you think? If you're going to marry me, you might as well get used to my cock."

"Did you say…cock?" You almost choked on your drink. "We...we didn't even share a bed, and you're suggesting we have...sex?"

The champagne seemed to begin to cloud your mind and you didn't even notice that you had finished your glass. Then, all of a sudden, you tried to get up, but almost fell to the floor.

It was over. It was so fucking over.

P.S. Thank you for reading until the end! I don’t have a taglist. You can follow my side blog @makeyoumineagain and turn on notifications to know when I update!

[thedeviltohisangel]

MASTERLIST

ACOTAR

CASSIAN

AZRIEL

All The Things I Did:

(Just So I Could Call You Mine)

Canon Universe:

"The most beautiful part is, I wasn't even looking when I found you."

Chapter One: All The Things I Did

Chapter Two: It's All Around, It's All The Time

Interlude: A Sight For Sore Eyes

Chapter Three: Don't Leave Me Alone

Interlude: A Feeling I Want To Get Used To

Chapter Four: The Only Thing That I See

Chapter Five: I Hope I Don't Lose You

Chapter Six: All's Well That Ends Well

Chapter Seven: I Thought About Thinking It Through

Chapter Eight: That Girl Is Going, Going, Gone

Chapter Nine: It's Not Fair To Make Me Feel This Much

Chapter Ten: Together We Can Get Somewhere

Chapter Eleven: Love Me To My Bones

Chapter Twelve: I Bet You Want Forever

Interlude: I Want To Give You The World

Interlude: I'm Such A Fool

Interlude: All I Brought Back With Me

Interlude: Wave Goodbye to the End of the Beginning

Interlude: The One Thing I've Been Wanting

Interlude: I'd Give Up Forever To Touch You

Interlude: My Little Bunnies

Interlude: My Little Loves

Interlude: Happy Birthday, Flyboy

"Souls don't meet by accident."

The Modern Era: John x Cass Modern AU

You'd Have to Stop the World Just to Stop the Feeling

"It terrifies me what I would do for you."

The Princess Era: Knight!John x Princess!Cass AU

I Would Be Your Only Dream

I Love You, It's Ruining My Life

"And then she knew, that you could become homesick for people too."

Special Editions:

Four Times They Speak About Each Other And One Time They Spoke To Each Other

"Darling, you are all I ever wanted love to be."

Misc.

Cass x John Blurbs

"The day I met you I began to forget a life without you."

For A Fortnight There We Were:

(Forever Run Into You)

Hollywood Universe:

The story of Callum Turner and Evelyn Shaw, the actress who plays Cassandra Cooper in Masters of the Air.

One Shots:

He Got My Heartbeat

What About Your Quiet Treason?

It Fit Too Right

If It's Forever, It's Even Better

"You are too well tangled in my soul."

Misc.

Evelyn x Callum Blurbs/Inspo

"I told the stars about you."

"I want to feel your love on my skin."

Other:

Bradley Bradshaw

Tommy Shelby

Austin Butler

Theseus Scamander

[sam24]

Metal Arm Cupid

Summary: Bucky didn't know what to expect in the 21st century. But he definitely didn't expect cute girls to barge into meeting rooms and beat people up.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

*****

Bucky made no attempt to stifle his yawn as he pretended to listen to the debrief (that was looking more like an argument to him) that was going on way too long for his liking, earning a sharp glare from Steve, but Bucky could tell that deep down, Steve wanted to hightail outta there too.

“Stop taking all the credit, Josh. I was the one who stabbed him. You just sat there and watched like an obese cow.”

Josh (Bucky thought his name was Jack until now) scoffed. “That’s Agent 16 to you, Avery.”

“It’s actually Avril, you little-”

“Agents, you better stop this instantly.” Fury narrowed his eyes at the bickering partners.

“Stop embarrassing me in front of the Avengers, Evelyn, and let me do the talking. Clearly you can’t because of those oversized donkey teeth of yours.” Josh paid no heed to Fury.

The girl (Avril?) gasped and her hand instinctively flew to cover her mouth. “Why you-”

“Okay, that’s enough.” A dangerously calm voice rang through the room.

All eyes flew towards Natasha, you looked like she was going to murder the next person who opened their mouth.

“This is why I don’t go on missions with sensitive baby agents.” She muttered in Russian.

Bucky cracked a smile.

“How come no one listens to me?” Fury grumbled.

“Probably because you aren’t a trained assassin with 20 different weapons hidden on your body, and I bet you also don’t know 5 different ways to kill someone with an oven mitt.” Clint whispered in Fury’s ear.

“It doesn’t matter who stabbed who, it matters what happened in the end. And in the end, I was the one you saved your ungrateful asses, so you can stop arguing like toddlers now.” Natasha growled.

Her eyes narrowed specifically at Josh.

Nobody spoke. Probably because no sane person wanted a bullet from Natasha’s gun in their head.

“You seriously couldn’t have done that 20 minutes ago?”

Of course, though, Tony Stark was far from sane.

“Shut up, Tony.” At least 5 different people said at the same time.

Josh cleared his throat, recovering from his mini paralysis stroke.

“No offense, but-”

Before Josh could get himself killed, loud voices outside of the door made everyone turn.

Honestly, they all probably would’ve turned even to watch a fly so they could ignore Josh’s excuses.

“Miss, I can’t let you-”

“I really don’t care, so move. Now.”

Bruce immediately sat up. “Is that Ace?”

“Oh, thank god.” Tony let out a dramatic sigh of relief. “I’m so bored right now, maybe she’ll make this actually interesting.”

Even though Bucky’s stay at the compound started recently, he had heard plenty of stories about you, the infamous ‘Ace’. To what he’d heard, you worked at the lab with Bruce and Tony, like a daughter to them both. You were an ‘intellectual sage’ (described by Barton), hence the nickname, Ace.

“I said, MOVE!”

“Banner, what is the meaning of this?” Fury ordered.

Bruce furrowed his eyebrows and completely ignored him. “What in the world is she doing?”

“Banner!”

“I SAID MOVE, DAMNIT.” A loud thud followed closely and the door was flung open so hard it practically ripped off of its hinges.

“Lord have mercy.” Bruce buried his face into his hands as you barged into the room, pulling along a terrified looking girl behind you.

Bucky’s eyebrows raised with interest as he took in your purple highlights, Converse High-Tops, and Gravity Falls shirt peeking out from under your lab coat.

“Look, missy, in case you haven’t noticed, this is a private meeting. I’m going to give you 5 seconds to leave before I have you escorted out instantly.” Fury demanded.

“Yeah, that’s cool, Patchy the Pirate, just give me a minute.” You weren’t even looking at Fury as you scanned the room.

“Ha! Patchy the Pirate! Laura’s gonna love this!” Clint smacked his hand on the table and leaned his chair back (and almost fell backwards if Steve didn’t catch it, but that’s not the point).

Fury looked like he was seriously contemplating life as you still didn’t spare him a glance, and your narrowed hawk eyes landed on someone behind Bucky.

He followed your gaze to meet Josh, who had raised two fingers in the air cockily to greet you and the girl behind you.

“Josh, you mother fucker.”

And before Steve could say ‘language!’ (yes, Bucky had caught on pretty quickly after Tony would say it every other sentence), you had crossed the room in what felt like just two strides and socked Josh right in the jaw.

The room erupted in chaos.

“Whoa whoa whoa!” Steve was up on his feet in a millisecond, his Captain America side taking over.

“That’s it, honey! Do it again!” Tony cheered.

“Is this some kind of Midgardian greeting that I have not yet been informed of?”

“Someone tell me what the hell is going on in my own meeting!”

“That was the best thing I’ve seen in my whole life.” Avril grinned.

Natasha didn’t say anything, but her face clearly said ‘girl, me too’.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.” Sam chuckled from next to Bucky.

“Same.” Bucky muttered under his breath.

“Whoa hold up, did you just agree with me??”

“Shut up, pigeon brain.”

“Excu-”

The only thing that stopped Sam and Bucky’s cat fight was another punch to Josh’s precious face, this time right in the nose.

Bruce tried to reason with you from across the whole ass room, practically shouting over all the commotion as Steve tried to pull you away from Josh.

“Ace, sweetheart, why don’t you talk it out instead of going straight to violence? Doesn’t that sound like a better idea?”

“Sounds great, Bruce, but that’s not an option anymore!” You shouted back over your shoulder.

“Look, champ, it’s not right to randomly punch people like that!” Steve was still trying to pry you away from Josh.

“Look, Pops,” You mocked. “It’s also not right to cheat on your girlfriend with some random chick you ran into at a bar!”

Everything stopped.

Except Josh’s struggling from your grasp.

“He cheated on you?” Tony broke the silence, looking like he was going to blast Josh into outer space. “Wait, when were you guys even together? And why in the goddamn world would you date that guy?”

“Not me, dimwit, her.” You point your free hand that was not gripped on Josh’s collar at the girl behind you, looking ready to sprint out of there when all eyes landed on her.

“Just leave it, ma moitié, it’s not worth it.” She said quietly, her words coated in a thick french accent.

Bucky recognized her as the nice agent who gave him a coffee last week after Sam ‘accidentally’ knocked over Bucky’s.

“Just leave it? Absolutely not, hun!”

“Listen to her, Ace.” Bruce pleaded.

“No! This sleazy bastard cheated on my best friend! No fucking way! Literally, who the hell would cheat on a cute french girl?”

“Ace, violence isn’t the right way to-”

“Excuse me?” Josh’s voice rang out, sounding like someone was holding his nose closed shut. “Can someone get me an ice pack?”

You whipped around towards him.

“You. Want. An. Ice pack.” You restated, shooting daggers- no, 7 inch sharp kitchen knives at him.

“My nose hurts.” Josh rolled his eyes. “Y’know, after you turned all Crazy Psycho Lady on me and broke it.”

“You know what?” Your smile dripped with bitterness and sarcasm. “How about I punch it again so it’ll go numb and it won’t hurt anymore?”

You reached your arm backwards to land another punch, but Steve rushed to grab you again, and the chaos resumed.

Tony was instructing you to “kick Steve in the balls and resume beating the shit out of Josh”, while Bruce was very strongly vetoing the idea.

Sam and Clint, meanwhile, were placing bets on how much the medical bill was gonna be.

Suddenly, Bruce rushed over to Bucky.

“Look, man, you gotta help me.”

Bucky looked at Bruce with wide eyes. “Me?”

“Yeah! If you tell her to stop, she would in a heartbeat!”

“Why?” Bucky knew where this was going.

“Because of your metal arm!”

Bucky’s heart sank. Of course you were scared of it. Everyone was. They thought it made him a monster.

So did he.

Even though he was so, so grateful to Shuri for trying to help him feel like a new person with a new arm that wasn’t associated with HYDRA, that bloody ruthless murderer that they made him into never seemed to leave.

He would always be him.

No matter how hard he tried, the memories followed him like a lost puppy, attacking at night when he was trying to sleep.

No matter how hard he tried, he could never shake off the imprint HYDRA had left on him.

No matter how hard he tried or how much Steve told him otherwise, Bucky was still a monster.

A cruel, cold-hearted, evil monster who killed the innocent.

Who killed innocent men, women, and children who didn’t deserve to be killed.

He was the one who deserved to be killed.

“She’s absolutely obsessed with it!”

Bucky choked on his spit.

“Wha-w-what?”

“She adores it.” Bruce rushed. “She says it’s, and I quote, the most beautiful and extraordinary thing to ever be made in history.”

Okay, so apparently Bucky did not know where that was going.

“Still not convinced?” Bruce groaned. “She thinks it’s the most amazing thing in the galaxy. She says it’s the ‘peak of engineering’. You can ask Tony if you still don’t believe me.”

Tony wasn’t extremely fond of Bucky, and neither was Bucky of him, so he decided to take Bruce’s word for it, no matter how much it shocked him.

She likes my arm?

Just because she likes your arm doesn’t mean she likes you, idiot.

“Uh, okay? So, um, what do I do?”

“Tell her to stop!” Bruce lightly shoved Bucky forward when he slowly got up out of his seat.

Bucky hesitantly took a step forward, his mind still trying to process everything.

Bucky maneuvered around Steve, tapping you - who was still out to get it for Josh- on the shoulder after a moment of hesitation.

“Bruce, I already told you, it’s too late-” You spun out of Steve’s grip, but your mouth dropped open when you realized it was not Bruce.

You stared at Bucky with wide eyes. But not out of fear.

Out of adoration.

He was struck with a sudden flash of nostalgia of how his mom looked at him when he gave her a card for Mother’s Day when he was 6.

"Oh, Jamie, I love it.” She had said as she read it with a soft smile.

And that same smile was on your face. “Um, hi there.”

He smiled back.

But not one of those fake smiles he put on to make Steve happy. An actual genuine smile.

And it felt good.

You smoothed out your coat, taking in a breath. “Can I help you?”

Steve stared at the two of you, a grin spreading onto his face.

“I’m not surprised. Those psychos are perfect for each other.” Josh rolled his eyes.

Neither of you heard him.

“Hi, I’m Bucky.”

“She knows.” Tony groaned.

“Shut up, Tony.” Your eyes never left Bucky’s. “Hi Bucky.”

He saw your eyes light up as they made their way to look at his metal arm.

Bruce cleared his throat loudly.

“So, um, Ace. The arm has been giving me a bit of trouble recently. I was wondering if you could maybe take a look at it?” Bucky glanced at Bruce before looking back at you.

“He means now.” Bruce added.

You looked like you were going to faint out of excitement.

“Y-yeah, of course.”

Bruce let out a loud sigh of relief.

“Um, actually.” Bucky started.

Bruce’s head shot up and started mouthing something to Bucky - probably something along the lines of ‘No! Get her out of here before she kills him!’- but he was busy looking at you.

“Maybe you wanna grab a coffee first?”

[litfeathers]

[mariasont]

Our Minds Entwined———————————

ch 1, ch 2, ch 3, ch 4, ch 5, ch 6, ch 7, ch 8

MDNI——————————————————

pairings: aaron hotchner x oc x spencer reid

summary: in which jason gideon’s daughter joins the fbi as the newest, brightest member

warnings: soft dom spencer, sub oc, making out in a bathroom, spencer & aaron being simps, oral f receiving, oral m receiving, fingering, dirty talk, yeah!

Chapter Seven:

Evelyn's eyes flickered open, greeted by the relentless dawn light that pierced the room. The alarm's persistent drone became a mere backdrop to the blissful haze that wrapped around her, a lingering afterglow of the night before that made her thighs clench at the thought. Extending a lazy stretch, her fingers roaming over the sheets, half-expecting to brush against Spencer's familiar warmth. A cool absence greeted her instead that snapped her back to reality, her heart dropped with a dense thud. 

She bolted upright, the sheets clutched to her chest like a shield, her mind a whirlwind of questions that demanded answers. Did he regret it? Was it not as good for him as it was for her? In the quiet of the room, her confusion found an echo, intensifying the sense of abandonment that snaked its way up her spine, panic beginning to take hold. The memories of his touch faded into the hazy idea of a dream, leaving her exposed, her defenses crumbling to nothing.

Evelyn rose, her body moving on autopilot, as she prepared for the day. Securing her badge to her waist, she felt a wave of dread wash over her, the inevitable encounter with Spencer looming over her head.    

Evelyn made her way down the stairs, each step tentative, as she entered the lobby. Morning light spilled through the windows, painting long, somber shadows. JJ was there, her blonde hair reflecting the sun's rays like a halo, her posture exuding her calm authority as she conversed quietly with Hotch. He stood with his back to the light, his sharp silhouette and eyes scanning the room as he spoke.

Evelyn felt a twinge of relief upon noticing Spencer's absence; she wasn't ready to face him. For now, she welcomed the reprieve, allowing herself a moment to gather her thoughts. JJ's observant eyes were quick to detect the change in Evelyn's demeanor. 

"Good morning!" Evelyn announced with a chirp, her tone light and breezy, as she flashed her practiced smile and wave.

"Morning, Evie," JJ greets with a warm smile, her voice carrying a hint of concern, "How'd you sleep?"

 Evelyn's cheeks warmed at the memory, a flicker of awkwardness passing through her. "Oh, you know, the usual--battled my alarm clock, dreamed of paperwork, and won," she smiled, deflecting the attention. "Speaking of dreams, I bet Hotch was up all strategizing about our case, right?"

Hotch eyes narrowed slightly at Evelyn; his perceptive gaze told Evelyn he knew what she was trying to do. "Strategizing is a 24/7 job... and so is paperwork," he began. "Though, I try not to outsource it to the interns."

Evelyn's eyes widened in mock horror, her voice laced with feigned defensiveness. "It was one time! And for the record, I was strategically conserving energy... for more important tasks," she declared, her grin spreading across her face, as infectious as it was wide.

Hotch's response came with a barely perceptible smirk. "Whatever you say," he said, disbelief clear in this tone, yet his expression remained unreadable. "Let's head out."

Evelyn hurried after him, curiosity piqued. "Wait, how did you even know about that?"

Hotch continued forward, seemingly oblivious to Evelyn's struggle to keep up. Evelyn, in her attempt to match his stride, found herself almost jogging. 

"Let's just say, not all profilers need to profile to get their information," he hinted with a sidelong glance. "Some people," his eyes briefly flickered to Morgan, seated nonchalantly in the SUV, "just have a hard time keeping things to themselves."

With an overexaggerated eye roll, Evelyn grumbled, "Morgan and his big mouth," earning a burst of laughter from JJ. "How could he?"

The soft chuckle from Hotch was fleeting, but it was enough to spark a glow in Evelyn's eyes. She really loved that sound. "In his defense, he didn't know I was listening. Now, shall we?" He motioned towards the exit, holding the door open waiting for her to lead the way.

--

They stepped into the station to find it cloaked in a tension, the air heavy with the unspoken urgency of detectives eager for a lead and the simmering frustration of dead ends. 

As they arrived at the station, the atmosphere was tense, the air thick with anticipation and the lingering frustration of a case at a standstill. Hotch guided the team through the precinct's doors, his face an unreadable mask as he moved through. 

They received a nod from Detective Martinez, his features etched with lines as deep as the arid crevices of the desert surrounding them.

"Travers?" Hotch asked, his tone direct and expectant.

Martinez's response came with a weary shake of his head, the furrows in his brow deepening into a map of frustration. "He's lawyered up. Won't say a word without his attorney present."

Hotch's voice cut through the silence. "Alright, let's regroup. There has to be something we're missing. Evelyn, find Spencer in the conference room. Go through the evidence again with fresh eyes."

Evelyn's heart vaulted in her chest, as if trying to escape. The idea of working in close quarters with Spencer was like standing at the edge of a cliff; it filled her with a dizzying rush of nervous energy that was hard to ignore. Maybe it would be better if someone just pushed her off. She nodded, schooling her face into composure. I can do hard things, she thought to herself, clutching her files, the soft thud of her footsteps accompanying her to the conference room.

The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the projector. Spencer was already there, his slender finger, the same one that had been in her hours prior, was sifting through the array of evidence before him. His brow furrowed in concentration, jaw set in a firm line, eyes narrowed in focus. God, it was hard for Evelyn to stay upset when he looked that good.

Prentiss stood by the window. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, darted from corner to corner, missing nothing. 

Evelyn's heart pounded as the memories of last night flooded her senses his fingers pounding inside her, the feeling of his lips on hers. Spencer didn't even flicker a gaze towards her, his concentration cemented on the sea of papers that sprawled across the table. It was as if nothing had happened.

Swallowing a lump in her throat, Evelyn forced a smile. "So, what are we thinking? Any new angles we might have missed?" she asked, her voice a little too cheerful.

Spencer finally raised his head, his face a blank canvas hiding his thoughts. "We need to reexamine the timeline. There might be a pattern we overlooked."

With a thoughtful tap of her finger against her lips, Prentiss interjected, "And cross-reference the victims' backgrounds again. They all received the remote-control keys shortly before they were killed, but maybe there's more than just the keys linking them."

With a subtle shift in her stance acknowledging Spencer's imposing presence, Evelyn offered him a file. Her fingers brushed his ever so slightly, refusing to meet his gaze. "Look at this," she said. "One of the victims, Mr. Davidson, made several calls to Key Innovations customer service the day before he died. It could be nothing, but it's odd."

Spencer accepted the file, his touch lingering a moment too long. "It could indicate he was having issues with the key. Maybe it malfunctioned, or maybe it was tampered with."

Prentiss leaned in, her eyes darting across the document. "If he called customer service, there should be a record of the conversation. We need to get those tapes," she noted, already reaching for her phone. "I'm going to call the company, see what I can find."

Prentiss stepped out of the room, the click-clack of her heels on the floor punctuating her exit as she moved to make the call. With Prentiss gone, the room shrank, the quiet intensifying around Evelyn and Spencer as they sifted through the evidence, each rustle of paper amplifying the silence.

As Spencer extended his arm around Evelyn to retrieve a file, the closeness of his body sent a shiver of awareness down her spine. His hand grazed her hip in a steadying gesture, and the brief touch causes Evelyn's body to stiffen, stepping back as if she had been shocked.

Spencer's frown was quick to form as he noticed Evelyn's sudden retreat, a crease of concern etching his forehead. "Are you okay?"

Evelyn flashed a quick, wry smile, brushing off the moment. "I'm fine, just practicing my two-step for the next FBI ball," she joked, a lame attempt at deflecting.

"Evelyn," Spencer said, his tone soft yet firm.

Evelyn's response tumbled out in a rush. "So, I wake up and it's just me and the cold side of the bed, which, you know, is a bit confusing. And hey, if that is your way of saying 'it was a mistake,' that's cool. I'm a big girl, I've got my big girl socks on. Just rip the band-aid off quick, okay? I can take it."

Spencer's smirk was a slow slide of amusement. "Oh, I know you can take it," he teased, his voice a low hum that seemed to vibrate through the space between them.

He stepped closer, his presence encroaching on her personal bubble, making her heart race faster than she thought possible. As he backed her up, her hips met the edge of the table with a soft thud, his hands planting firmly on the surface to cage her in.

"I don't regret it at all," he confessed, his eyes locked on hers, "In fact, I've been thinking about it all day."

The air was thick with tension, their faces inches apart, breaths mingling, she could almost taste the mint on his tongue. But then, the sound of footsteps snapped the moment in two, and they sprang apart. Evelyn's cheeks burned with fluster, while Spencer just went back to his files. 

Just then, Hotch entered. "Another victim has been killed."

--

The team assembled at the crime scene, a desolate stretch just off the Arizona highway. The air was thick, not just with the scent of the desolation, but also with the oppressive heat. The sun bore down mercilessly on the abandoned car, its metal body almost mirroring the blaze.

Evelyn squinted against the relentless sun; her hand raised to shield her eyes. "Maybe Travers isn't our guy," she pondered aloud, her gaze methodically sweeping the scene.

Evelyn reached out, her fingers wrapping around Morgan's arm to guide him into position, his broad frame now casting a long shadow that shielded her from the sun's glare. "There, much better," she said.

Morgan raised an eyebrow, feigning indignation. "What am I, your personal sunshade now?"

"Only when you're not spilling my secrets to Hotch," Evelyn shot back, her eyes twinkling with mischief. 

Morgan chuckled, shaking his head. "You're lucky I'm such a good sport, Evie."

"And you're lucky I don't have more dirt on you, Morgan," she retorted with a giggle, her gaze returning to the crime scene.

Hotch stepped in, sending a look of warning to the two agents. "Travers fits the profile too well to dismiss," he interjects, his gaze sweeping over the team. "Intelligent, meticulous, socially isolated, and motivated by a desire to be recognized. We can't overlook that."

The team fell into a contemplative silence, each member lost in thought until Prentiss arrived, her expression serious. "I talked with the company. Mr. Davidson was having issues with the remote. They sent a technician our to repair it," she announced, holding out a piece of paper with the name of the technician.

The team looked in to look at the name Prentiss had uncovered. Evelyn's mind raced. "Two different guys," she whispered, the pieces clicking into place. "One who plans, one who executes. It's a partnership."

--

In the observation room, Evelyn's gaze was fixed on the interrogation unfolding before her. Hotch's deliberate questions and Morgan's intense stare bore into Michael Harris, the technician, the focus of their scrutiny. His posture was rigid, defiant, but his eyes told a different story--a flicker of uncertainty passed through them as he kept his arms folded.

In the sterile light of the adjacent room, Reid's slender frame was hunched over the table, his fingers temped in thought. His boyish features, often softened by an air of absent-minded genius, were now sharpened. His eyes, a clear reflection of his mind's workings, flickered over Travers with a scary intensity. Prentiss stood beside him; her posture unwavering. Her dark hair was pulled back, accentuating her set jaw and calculating eyes.

Hotch stepped out, his eyes locking on Evelyn's. "These guys target what they perceive as privilege--wealth, beauty, the whole package" he explained, his voice a low rumble of contained frustration. "We need to shake him. Evelyn, I want you in there. Your profile... It'll strike a nerve."

Evelyn arched an eyebrow, her lips curving into a teasing smirk. "Awh, Hotch, are you calling me beautiful? Careful, or I might start thinking it's part of the job description."

Hotch's response was immediate, his tone firm yet not unkind. "Agent," he scolded.

Evelyn's smile broadened for a fleeting moment before she nodded. "Alright, alright, I'm going. Time to see if Harris finds me as privileged as you do."

As she spun on her heel, she could practically hear the sound of Hotch's eyes rolling, his silent rebuke hanging in the air. Evelyn swept into the interrogation room, her confidence radiating like the steady glow of a lantern. Hotch's silent figure trailed behind her. Harris's discomfort was unmistakable as he met Evelyn's steady gaze, evident that her presence had unsettled him.

"Mr. Harris, we know about the visits to the victims' homes. You were the last one to see them alive." Hotch stated, the lines of his jaw tightening in sync with the syllables. The muscles in his arms flexed subtly, straining against the fabric of his dress shirt as he leaned forward. Evelyn, observing the interplay of muscle and material, had to mentally nudge herself back to the task at hand.

Morgan's voice was a low rumble, almost feral in its intensity as he leaned closer. "And let's not forget the convenient malfunctions that only you could fix."

With a graceful tilt of her head, Evelyn locked eyes with Harris. "Must be tough," she murmured, "going into those big, beautiful houses, seeing how the other half lives."

Harris's jaw tightened, muscles tensing in a visible display of restraint. "I did my job," he spat, the words forced out between clenched teeth.

"And you did it so well," she observed, her eyes not leaving his. "But tell me, Michael, did you enjoy having that power? Deciding who stayed locked in?"

Harris's gaze burned with a silent fury, a raw, seething hatred for the conventional beauty he believed had marginalized him. Evelyn's presence, her composure, it all seemed to amplify his rage, teetering him of the edge of outburst. And Evelyn knew this.

With a level gaze and a tone that left room for no argument, Hotch laid out the facts. "We know about the partnership," he said, each word deliberate, precise. "You and Travers had a system, didn't you?"

"He creates the problem, you fix it." Morgan stated pointedly, a verbal arrow pointed at Harris. "Only you're not fixing anything, are you?"

Evelyn's smile didn't reach her eyes; it was cold, calculated. "You're just the repairman, right? Or should I say the executioner?"

Harris's composure shattered, a visceral snarl ripping through his throat. "You don't know anything! You think you're something special with that pretty face?" he sneered, venom dripping from every word. "Bet you're just like the rest, sleeping their way to the top? Who'd you fuck to get this job, huh? The big boss man here?" He jerked his head contemptuously towards Hotch, the disdain clear as saliva flecked his lips.

Hotch's frame stiffened, an instinctual guard rising within him, but Evelyn was already one step ahead. Her hand met his chest, a silent signal that she could handle him, her face a mask of cool composure. "Is that the best you can do, Harris? Reduce me to looks? I thought you were smarter than that."

The flush of anger on Harris's face deepened, his rage nearly tangible in the stifling air of the room. "You don't know what it's like! You just waltz through life on your tits and ass, never having to work for anything!"

Evelyn's eyes didn't waver. "Seems like you've been watching too closely. Does it bother you, Michael? Seeing people like me succeed?" Her question was deliberate, designed to provoke him.

With a sudden, explosive motion, Harris stood, his hands slamming onto the table with a force that echoed through the room. "I worked for everything while people like you just got it all handed it all handed to them! Those people deserved it, you hear me? They deserved to burn! Travers and I were only serving justice."

--

The clink of Garcia's glass resonated through the air as she raised it high, her voice carrying over the murmur of the bustling bar. "To the most incredible team, who can solve anything with enough coffee and genius brainpower."

The team had gathered at a cozy pub, just ten minutes from Quantico, to unwind after the case. The warm glow of the vintage lamps cast a soft glow on the group, reflecting off the polished mahogany table. The atmosphere was abuzz with the chatter of fellow agents and the soft hum of jazz playing in the background.

Evelyn, dressed in a red dress that hugged every curve, felt the warmth of Hotch's firm shoulder against hers on one side and Spencer's thigh on the other. The proximity to both men sent a flutter of nerves through her. She took a discreet sip of her wine, hoping to dissipate the swarm of butterflies in her stomach. 

Morgan, ever the charmer, lifted his glass with a roguish smile. "And here's to Evelyn," he announced, "the only one who could get a raise out of Hotch with just her performance review!"

Laughter erupted around them. Evelyn's reaction was immediate; her hands flew to her face, shielding her flushed cheeks from the group. The laughter was infectious, but beneath it, she couldn't help but imagine sleeping with him. Peeking through her fingers, she shook her head in mock display. "I cannot believe he said that," she muttered.

"I think we can all agree that the Bureau's hiring practices are a bit more rigorous than that," (are they though) Hotch said. There was a brief pause as he surveyed the group, his gaze lingering on Evelyn for a moment longer than the rest. "And as for performance reviews, I believe your record speaks for itself, Evelyn. No additional... incentives are necessary."

The laughter resumed, Penelope nearly falling out of her chair. Evelyn leaned in, her voice only meant for Hotch. "Careful, Hotch," she teased, "or I'll actually start believing those rumors about your hidden sense of humor."

Morgan, with a playful smirk, couldn't help himself. "Yeah, the hiring practices are definitely more rigorous," he said, winking at Evelyn. "You just need your dad to be Jason Gideon, and you're in. No big deal, right?" 

Evelyn shot Morgan a playful glare, her voice low but teasing. "Careful, Morgan," she warned, "don't think I've forgotten about your big mouth. I might just have to start bribing you next to keep quiet."

Hotch, with a slight upward twitch of his lips that suggested a suppressed smile, shook his head. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," he said, giving Evelyn a pointed look.

--

The bar's music echoed through the air as JJ, Emily, Evelyn and Penelope found themselves on the dance floor. Their hands were occupied with the chilled glasses, condensation beading down the sides. The pulsating lights of the bar cast a kaleidoscope of colors over them.

With a lightness in her step, JJ danced with a carefree grace. Her laughter, louder and freer than it had been all night, rang out clear. "You know, I never thought I'd see the day when Rossi would be out-danced by Garcia," she said, nodding towards the table where Rossi sat, looking amused yet slightly bewildered by Garcia's animated dance moves from afar.

Evelyn's eyes followed JJ's gaze, and there they were--Hotch and Spencer--barely concealing the way they were looking at her. Their gazes were intense, unapologetically fixed on her. It was more than just a discreet glance; it was an overt appreciation that lingered just a second too long. When their eyes met hers, they looked away almost guiltily, but the message was clear; she was the object of their undivided attention.

The heat of their stares tangible, igniting a flush that spread across Evelyn's cheeks. It wasn't just the warmth of the alcohol coursing through her; it was the unexpected realization that she reveled in their attention. It was a revelation that came with a jolt of excitement--she wanted to be desired by them, liked the way her presence commanded their focus. 

With a twirl that sent her hair fanning out around her, Prentiss joined in. "Oh, come on, JJ" she teased with a wink, "you know Rossi's got moves. He's just... conserving his energy for case."

With a thoughtful sip from her glass, Evelyn relished the drink's refreshing chill amidst the bar's cozy hum. "I think it's more like he's conserving his dignity," she tossed out playfully, her remark sparking a wave of soft giggles among the group.

Penelope raised her glass as if bestowing a royal decree. "To dignity! May we always have just enough to keep us grounded, but not so much that we can't fly!"

A chorus of tipsy giggles erupted once more from the group, their movements unsteady as they huddled close, shoulders bumping and heads nearly colliding. 

Drunken giggles erupted once more from the group as they leaned into each other, nearly knocking heads. Evelyn excused herself from the dance floor, her steps unsteady as she navigated through the crowd to the bar. The dim lighting and the thrum of the music offering a brief respite from the watchful eyes of her team.

As she waited for the bartender's attention, she felt a sudden, unexpected pressure on her hips. A sharp gasp escaped her lips before she could stifle, her muscles coiling tight as she spun on her heel to confront the stranger. Yet, the touch was achingly familiar, and the voice that followed she knew all too well.

"God, Spence, you scared me," she exhaled, relief flooding her voice, her pulse gradually calming to the familiar comfort of his presence. 

Evelyn's inhale turned sharp, a shiver running down her spine as she met Spencer's gaze, his fingertips barely grazing her hips. His eyes narrowed, his lips twisting into a knowing smirk. "Sorry," he drawled, the words dripping with an insincerity that was as disarming as it was uncharacteristic. "You just look so good tonight, Evelyn."

She could feel like heat of his breath as he leaned in, the gap between them closing to a whisper. It was a side to Spencer she rarely saw--confident, assertive, and undeniably hot. Evelyn's surprise was quickly replaced by a rising excitement. 

Evelyn's voice was a hushed whisper, tinged with concern. "Spence, the team is going to see us," she warned, her eyes darting anxiously over her shoulder.

But Spencer seemed unfazed, his eyes never leaving hers. "Do you know how many guys were drooling at you on the dance floor?" he murmured, his voice low and intense. "Do you have any idea how badly I wanted to tell them how desperate and needy you were for me last night."

Evelyn's voice was reduced to a whisper as she felt the moisture starting to gather between her legs. "Spence--"

But he cut her off with a single word, "bathroom," and without another glance, he turned and walked away, his departure leaving her feeling as though the air had been vacuumed from her lungs.

She felt almost pathetic as she trailed after him like a lost puppy, her attention briefly diverted to the team, thankfully engrossed by Garcia's orchestration of a drinking game. She pivoted into the muted glow of the hallway, tucking her hair behind her ear with a practiced motion as she made her way briskly into the bathroom.

She stepped through the doorway only to be greeted by desperate hands at her ass that eagerly drew her in, yanking her into Spencer's familiar body. With a faint gasp, she melted into his touch, her intensity matching his, her fingers instinctively finding and curling into the locks of his hair. Without hesitation, he nudged her back against the sink, a quick tap to her thigh a silent command--a command she instantly obeyed, her legs encircling his waist in a tight clasp.

He murmured his approval, "good girl," he praised, a moan escaping her as she tugged gently at his hair.

His smirk, felt rather than seen, played against her lips. His hands clung to her thighs, pushing her dress up to her stomach. He broke the kiss slowly, savoring the taste before lowering himself to her legs. Spencer began to plant open mouthed kisses to the expanse of her thighs, "So sweet."

"Sp-Spencer-," she faltered, her words barely more than a breathless murmur, "we need ground, ah, rules."

Spencer clicked his tongue, his fingers idly twirling the lining of her underwear, his gaze intimately fixed between her thighs, "like what, sweetheart?"

He deftly removed the pesky shred of fabric, and she observed, her lips parted in awe, as he tucked in neatly into his pocket. Her mind went dumb as he gently coaxed her legs further apart.

His thumb began to draw languid circles against her puffed clit as she squirmed. She muffled a moan against her arm, her hips bucking against his touch. Evelyn's body was begging for more and less at the same time.

"Evelyn, use your words." Spencer chided as he drew agonizingly slow circles on the tender spot. "What rules do we need?"

"Well, for one-," she couldn't finish her sentence as Spencer plunged a finger inside her, his mouth coming down on her neck, his tongue licking long stripes up the expanse of flesh. 

Her body turned to Jello as he continued to pump in and out of her. He whispered sweet nothings into her ear as she desperately tried to ride his fingers. "You like that, baby? Keep riding my fingers, get yourself off, it's okay."

"Spencer, please, please," she couldn't even form a thought of what she was asking for, hands twisting around the curls on his head, pressing her chest flush against his.

"Oh, I know, princess." He coos condescendingly as he grinded his hard cock straining against the material of his jeans, against her body. Her eyes widened as she realized just how big he really was. The familiar tightening became to form in her core, her pants becoming more desperate, her hands clutching his face in an attempt to stabilize herself. "Let them hear how good you take it, baby."

She could feel her resolve crumbling, her eyes rolling to the back of her head as she moaned out a string of nonsensical words.

The words tipped her over the edge, her body shaking with pleasure as she cried his name out. He smirked as his hand pressed down over her mouth, her breath fogging up the flesh as she rode out her high. 

"You did so good, sweetheart," Spencer praised, his hand gently sweeping the strands of hair from her face, as she offered him a blissful, dreamily smile. This man had now given her two groundbreaking orgasms.

She had never come from a man before, let one be given earth-shattering, life altering ones just from his fingers. She peeled herself away from the counter unconcerned with her disarrayed appearance as she sank to her knees. Her long lashes fluttered gently as she lifted her gaze towards Spencer.

A deep sigh escaped him, his head dropped back, fingers pressing lightly against the bridge of his nose as he declared, "Jesus, you're going to be the death of me."

Evelyn took that as her permission, her hands were a blur, swiftly working the buckle of his belt with an almost frantic efficiency.

She quickly liberated his length from the clutches of the confining material. A subtle gasp fluttered from her, barely audible, as his cock sprang to life. Mesmerized, she studied it--red, angry, massive and imposing.

A quick swipe of her tongue combated the dryness of her lips as she grasped the base with a steady hand.  He stiffened in her grasp as he extended his hand, allowing it to come to a soft halt amidst the locks of her hair at the back of her head.

She took a deep breath, trace a path with her tongue from the base to head, testing the waters. Spencer's exhale was a quiet plea, his fingers weaving through the strands of her hair.

Evelyn wanted to relish every moment, to extend the pleasure, and to take her time. Yet, she felt the pulse of Spencer's impatience. She quickly took him in her mouth, a moan enveloping around his cock while his grip tightened on her scalp.

Her lips sloppily dragged up and down the length, her eyes lifting to meet his as she felt him twitch in her mouth. "God, baby, I wish you could see how perfect you look right now."

This only egged her on and she challenged herself to go deeper. An unexpected string of profanities fell from Spencer's lips as she took him.

He cradled her face between his hands, her eyelashes batting softly in his direction. He gently gathered her hair into a ponytail as she continued to take him deeper, trails of mascara etching down her face that he found so perfect. 

"Fuck, sweetheart." He moaned out, his hips beginning to push back against her.

Evelyn's hand clung to his thighs, moisture gathering in her eyes as she continued to take his length as far as she could. She could feel he was close--the way his thighs trembled slightly under her manicured hands, the way his cock twitched ever so slightly in her mouth.

With a quick motion, Evelyn placed her hand on the base of his cock, synchronizing her strokes with her mouth, keeping her gaze locked on his. That's all it took before she felt his hold on her tighten, the hot liquid shooting on to her tongue.

She let out a sound of gratification, settling back on her heels while her tongue swept over her bottom lip. His chest heaved in a steady rhythm, his eyes lowering to meet hers, a weary smile lingering on his lips.

"Yup, like I said that will definitely be playing in my head for the rest of my life," he exhaled, his fingers sifting through his disheveled locks.

Evelyn's laughter bubbled up as he extended his hand, drawing her up to her feet. The moment she was within reach, his lips found hers, hungry and insistent. His smirk lingered as he drew away, her cheeks cupped in his hands, his thumbs tenderly sweeping away the mascara smudges.

"What were you saying about ground rules?" Spencer questioned, his voice soft colored with fatigue and a hint of exhilaration.

"Ground rules right," she said. "Absolutely. Just as soon as my neurons start firing again."

Laughter spilled out loudly, his hands deftly untangling her hair. "So, who's braving the exit first? Do you think they noticed?"

Evelyn shot him a deadpan look. "They're profilers," she reminded, then sighed. "But I'll go."

She spun around the mirror, hastily adjusting her dress and taming her hair into some semblance of order before stepping back into the bar. Evelyn's gaze landed instantly on the group, clearly tipsy, their laughter drowning out the rest of the bar. She quieted the butterflies in her stomach as she approached the rowdy group. Her eyes met Hotch's, his single raised brow a silent question about her appearance. 

"Evie!" The unmistakable sound of Penelope's shriek pierced the air as she threw her arms around Evelyn. "We were terrified, Chica! We thought we'd lost you forever."

Evelyn responded with an embarrassed laugh, "Oh, P, if I had a nickel for every time I 'died,' according to your standards I'd be out buying a yacht."

next

taglist: @nonamevenus @aceofspades190

[silkythewriter]

Hi there I saw that your doing death note and it’s my fav anime so I was thinking for some headcannons for L with a older sister who is the complete opposite of him and comes to Japan to see him when the Kira case is happening and doesn’t take anything seriously and is just flirting with the task force and Misa and knows Light is Kira and says it all the time

(I have a death oc like this and I thought it would be cool)

Thank you bye

✬Being L’s older Sister!✬

Warnings!: grammer, spelling mistakes! May be a bit OOC!

Fandom!: Death Note!

Author note!: AH HELLO!!!! (⊃｡•́‿•̀｡)⊃YOUR MY FIRST DEATH NOTE REQUESTER THANK YOU SO SO SO SO MUCH!!! I REALLY HOPE YOU ENJOY ٩(ᐛ)و

Summary!: Being L’s older flirty sister!(who doesn’t take much seriously!)

✬☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆✬

“if you see my sister Evelyn

Tell that girl to hurry home again!

Where oh where'd my sister Evelyn go?”

✬☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆✬

Everyone was in shock the first time he introduced you, most likely by accident (￣▽￣💧)

Really!, the first time you walked in and hugged L while ruffling his hair made everyone baffled. I mean, L keeps everyone at arms length so to see him let you do it with no expression shocked everyone.

“There’s my favorite little brother!” You cooed as you pitched his cheeks teasingly. “I’m your only little brother Y/n.”

Everyone genuinely just stared, especially light, as you two bickered like, well, siblings!

“ shouldn’t you respect your elders or something!” You said crossing your arms at the dark haired man. “Well, yes, but considering how ancient you are, your probably considered a fossil by now.” He snickered softly.

L, snickering is a rare sight in of itself, L bantering, now that’s a new game feild!

Of course, L takes extra precautions when it comes to you. Especially with his suspicions of light being Kira, and Misa. So he makes sure to use some kind of nickname, or fake name of your choosing.

In all honesty your flirty attitude shocks everyone, especially form how polar opposite’s you and L are compared to each other. From personality wise, to even speaking wise.

MATSUBA WOULD ESPECIALLY BE BASHFUL AND FLUSTER AROUND YOU(��▽≦)

I honestly see L sharing one of his toppings with you, like a cherry or strawberry!, he only does it when you lounge around while he’s looking over the information he has so far. Almost absentmindedly, though for a piece of his actual dessert is harder to have then catching Kira…(¬_¬)

This doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a soft spot for you though!, as you are the only thing he has to consider family, you mean a great deal to him. That’s why he’s wary of having you by his side on your visit due to the risks.

But once proven you can handle your own and not let your real name nor any other info he’d be a bit more willing to have you around the task force!

Adding onto that, you catching on to L’s suspicious of light being Kira definitely helps your case. But it takes everyone by surprise when you casually blurt it out without a care.

“I bet a strawberry short cake light is Kira” you say swiveling around the in the rolling chair as everyone turns to face you. L especially, A bit surprised but not stunned only muttered out a response “Deal.”

Misa is so happy to see another girl around! But not so much about you siding with L, that light is Kira. But she quickly shoved that aside to become friends!

She does like talking a lot so please be warned before you talk to her, especially about light.

She loves some playful flirting!, and she’s willing to do it but also is quick to make sure to tell light it’s nothing serious(like he cares much). She calls you some cute nicknames!, you guys are probably quick to become friends.

As for light himself, he’s quite wary of you at first, are you another L?, we’re you after him too? How’d you suspect him so quickly?. He ‘s put off by you, but at the same time keeps his acts up as the innocent deputy’s son.

He’s not sure if he should concider you a threat or not, you don’t take the investigation seriously much, but as well are quick to point the finger at him. Your on a gray line with him due to this, he keeps his guard up, but tries to play it off so no one gets suspicious.

Even in tense situations during the investigation you still have a way of calming L, mostly by your calm composure. It makes him feel a bit better

And having someone siding with him during the investigation without question is a big comfort as-well!

Going back to the flirting part, I do think L does get a bit wary. Not necessarily with you, but the task force as he wants them to focus on the case. But also as a brother he is protective of you and watching people get flustered by your flirty comments is something he doesn’t necessarily enjoy seeing. But at the same time he doesn’t do much to stop you, just kinda glares with his unsettling wide eyes at the person who is bright red.

“Y/n, please leave Mogi alone, he look’s red” L said bluntly. “Awww, cmon I’m just having some fun” you said waving him off before retreating to your chair to let him get back to work.

Poking at L’s face repeatedly to get him to take a break is a common occurrence, but if he’s coming to a break through he will push your hand away and push your rolling chair as far as he can. (╥_╥)

L loves you a ton, and although his almost unchanging face and beady eyes feel like other wise you read him like a book and can tell he does care!. It’s nice having someone that cares about him outside of watari. This case is probably the most if not only hardest case to come to date, so having som support is genuinely helpful.

Speaking of watari, depending on your relationship with him he’d love you!, of course since you are L’s older sister he will treat you with the same respect he has for L. And will do his best for your safety as he knows what you mean to L.

He does lecture you two about getting along some times though (｡ﹷ ‸ ﹷ ✿)

Honestly most of the task force thought that he was actually the older sibling and you the youngest at first glance.

I imagine after you and L have an argument like any sibling does. Although getting into an argument is hard due to his monotone voice. He makes up by it in sweets, though it’ll probably end up with him stealing some after he finished his.

It’s also nice having a second opinion, like voicing what you think the evidence is leading to, or your thoughts on the investigation so far. It makes a thought provoking experience for him.

Please force this man to get some rest cause with those dark circles under his eyes he looks 10 years older then you 😭

Overall he really does care for you, and sure you may not see it. But due to the Kira case he will keep a closer eye on you, older sister or not. He takes it upon himself to keep you safe!, even if you banter like you were still young! (•̀ᴗ•́)و

✬☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆✬

GRAHHH TYSM FOR BEING MY FIRST DEATH NOTE REQUEST I AM SO GREATFUL PLEASE COME AGAIN!

[the-irreverend]

I bet you're finding it difficult to pick only one.

[draculancer-flow]

Pussy got nuclear cavalier the way I feel my peen burning as things heat up. I killed the ops, then folded them into a cube, then scanned their asses and translated them into omninet code, then turned them into NFTs to make them even worse. Feel free to right click save to multiply their agony. The Krakatoa Thermobaric Flamethrower reminds me of humid summer nights filled with hot sticky fun with women who I didn't love enough. What could I have done to make you stay, Evelyn. I can see every angle of this situation like I'm the Athena NHP. I am not backing down from this Final Clash, and I bet dollars to coke dust that I've got a few more points in hull than you, motherfucker. Ain't no Kobold code that can purify my sick soul, Dog.

[fancyfeathers]

And Then There Were None

(Yandere William James Moriarty x Author!Reader)

Based on this post

TW//serial killing, panic attacks, slight gore if you squint, smoking, usage of drugs(smoking), kidnapping, implied isolation, heavy guilt, heavy depression

And Then There Were None (Yandere William James Moriarty /w Author Darling Masterlist)

Six months, you spent six months, a half a year, in America, New York City specifically, writing and getting inspiration for your next novel. You did not go alone of course, you made the trip with a friend of yours, Alex Pendel, an American novelist who grew up in Manhattan. You stayed with their family during your trip and you certainly learned a thing or two from the very family who runs New York in the palm of their hand, but that all is besides the point now, because now you are home.

Alex took your hand, helping you as you could pick up the skirt of your dress, as you stepped off the walkway that led from the ship to the dock. You noticed as you disembarked the strange looks Alex got from the people all around, you suppose that the suit she wore would certainly draw eyes, you had gotten so used to her family back in America and they were used to her more masculine sense in fashion, her mother even telling you with a fond tone how much Alex looked like her father. But here in London where no one truly feared her or her family that look was bound to draw stares. You also clocked that your luggage was nowhere to be seen as you disembarked which would make anyone else raise an eyebrow but to the two of you, this was just how any other trip would come to its end.

“You wanna bet how many of them came?” Alex asked as you began making your way down the dock, your heeled boots and her slacks making a sharp and dull clicking sound from each of you both as you walked together, arms interlocked. “I bet Réne and Charlotte will be there, I think Evelyn had that family reunion this week.”

“No that was last week, Charlotte I think is up in York, it is her younger brother’s birthday today.” You remarked after Alex’s comment which drew a hum from her as she released your arm to grab a cigarette from her suit jacket pocket.

Réne Drew, Charlotte Basset, and Evelyn Jay, along with Alex Pendel, they all were your best friends. You were all members of a small writer’s club you formed, there were a few other members as well but you all were the founders, you all made the payments for the building in Mayfair, hired the staff, and sent out the invitations to any promising authors, journalists, and poets who may be willing to join your club and they began to pour in. Evelyn and Réne were the ones who were at the club the most out of all of you.

Réne lived a few blocks away in a flat he began renting after moving to London from Marseille, a port city in France. Hisfamily was old money French family who based their fortune in the wine and alcohol industry, but his elder brother was set to inherit everything, so off to England he went, attending Oxford before settling in London and beginning his writing career and becoming a bestselling author know for his works that silently shatter the illusion of humanity in a poignant way by holding a mirror up to us and saying: look at what we truly are, and look at what we pretend to be.

Evelyn was a young heiress from an old money family as well, but one from here in London, titleless, and she was the youngest member of the club as far as age goes, only eighteen when you all founded the club. She is a seemingly innocent and sweet young lady but the human mind can be a very dark place. She often asks, when you all are at the club, questions that truly terrify you, for example…

“Would hunting another person still be considered hunting an animal because humans are a form of animals?”

“If you were being burnt alive would the smoke or flames kill you first?”

“I think there is a murderer in my neighborhood, I keep on seeing traces of blood by the park… Do you think they are burying their victims there?”

She always had the sweetest smile and is honestly quite kind, if not a bit creepy.

Then lastly there was Lady Charlotte Basset, the eldest child and heiress of a noble family, she has more money than she knows what to do with. She moved to London to find direction with her life but instead found strange happiness in her family’s estate there, so she wrote about it and it sold in the blink of an eye. When not at her desk or at the writer’s club, she is often seen taking you all out on the town to spoil you bunch or out with one of her brothers, gambling and drinking. She often takes Evelyn to visit haunted sites all around London so she can get inspiration for her books and scare off suitors with the gossip of the seances she holds in her own estate, which may or may not be true.

“(Name)! Alex!” A high pitched voice called out to you two as you neared the end of the large pier. You looked to where the pier met the land and spotted a young lady with light brown hair and a long yellow dress that lacked any corset and was quite old, no doubt a gift from her grandmother from when she was a girl in the regency era. But that young lady was indeed familiar to the two of you, Evelyn Jay.

She ran over to the two of you, wrapping her arms around Alex first, which was returned with a hesitant hug and sheepish smile from the New Yorker, similar to how an older sister would greet their younger sibling when their friends were watching. Evelyn quickly broke away to greet you, hugging you slightly less tighter than how she hugged Alex. “Oh I missed you two so much! So much has happened! Réne went to Moscow to meet with a publisher and translated there to see if his next novel could be published in Russia first since it takes place there- oh and Charlotte got to meet the queen on her father’s birthday in the spring, and she said Charlotte looked absolutely radiant and-“

“Evelyn!” Alex cut her off with a wide smile across her face as she set a hand on the young lady’s shoulder in an attempt to pry her off of you. “We just got back, give us time to breathe, you can tell us all about what happened later.”

“I know it is just so good to see the both of you.” She spoke in a rush as she slipped her upper limbs away from your torso and then she took a breath and sigh, finally calming down as she looked over the both of you, her gloved hands folding in front of her. “It is… it is just so good to see you, both of you.”

There was something lingering in her voice, something that did not feel quite right but you just summed it up to perhaps your absence over the half a year.

Evelyn led you both to the carriage that she arrived in, and indeed your luggage was being packed up on the back and top of it. While the carriage driver was working on packing up your belongings, you spotted a man in a blue and brown plaid vest with a matching blue tie, his brown hair and eyes matched the brown on his vest while the gold glasses he wore that matched the gold buttons on his shirt and vest. He had a cigarette between his lips and fingers much like Alex did, and this was another familiar face, Réne Drew. He spotted the three of you and waves with one hand while the other pulled the cigarette from his lips.

“I saw Evelyn run off to look for the two of you, I would have gone with her but I just do not have the same energy she has, not with the nights of sleep I have been getting at least.” The French author spoke as a greeting as the two of you approached within ten feet of the carriage. He opened his free hand and arm to you, embracing you in a small hug for a moment, but not Alex since he knows she is not the affectionate type, with the exception of Evelyn that is. “It is so wonderful to see the both of you, truly it is.”

Something was off in his tone as well, now that was strange, Evelyn was one thing, but both Evelyn and Réne, that was how you knew something was wrong.

You glanced over at Alex and you saw a glance that was exchanged with you, silently signaling that she picked up on what you noticed as well.

“Réne, are you alright?” You questioned your friend as he broke away from the hug and he did not make eye contact with you for a long moment, only bugging his cigarette up to his lips to take a long draw from it. “Réne-“

“Sir… and ladies.” You heard the carriage driver call out to you all, hesitating for a moment as he was about to say ma’am but seeing as there were now three women he was addressing he changed his choice of word. “Everything is packed up.”

“Lovely.” Réne responded as he turned to face the carriage driver for a brief moment before looking back at you and Alex. “Let’s… we can discuss this in the carriage.”

Réne helped Evelyn into the carriage first, then attempted to help Alex who simply slapped his hand away and stepped in herself saying. “Réne, do you need help getting in a carriage? The answer is no and neither do I.”

Then Réne reached out to help you in the carriage-

Suddenly you were knocked over as a gentleman walked past you, the heel of your shoe getting caught in between the bricks that formed the pavement below you. You hit the ground, no doubt dirtying your dress that Alex’s mother got for you in America.

“Oh dear, are you alright Miss?” You hear the voice of the man who knocked you over as he reached out a hand to help you up, his voice smooth and calm if not a little worried in your distress. You looked up at him, he was a young man with blond hair and scarlet red eyes, he was dressed in fine clothes, a brown suit and red tie to be specific.

“Yes, I am, just a little fall is nothing to worry about.” You responded as you took his gloved hand with your own as he helped you up, pulling you to your feet. Behind him you saw another gentleman who looked quite similar only the other wore glasses and had a scar that hid itself behind his hair. You looked back to him and smiled, giving him a little nod in gratitude and you extended your hand to him, more socializing was a habit you picked up in America. “Thank you for helping me up.”

“It was the least I could do since I was the one who knocked you over.” He took your hand in his own, giving it a firm shake and squeeze. “I am Professor James Moriarty, it is a pleasure to meet a lady as polite as you, Miss...”

“Oh (Name).” You watched as his smile turned into an expression of slight shock. “Is something wrong, Professor Moriarty?”

“Not at all, I am just a fan of your work that is all.” He responded, shaking his expression away with a slightly embarrassed chuckle and smile.

“Well that is certainly a nice thing to hear after my trip home, I am glad you enjoy my work, Professor.” After your comment you heard Réne clear his throat, reminding you that everyone was waiting on you. You glanced back at your friend before looking back at the professor and giving him one last smile. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Professor Moriarty.”

“You as well.” He responded as you gave him a small wave goodbye as you turned back Réne who had his arm outstretched to help you into the carriage.

You stepped up into the carriage, swinging yourself over into the corner next to Evelyn that faced away from where the carriage was headed. Alex and Réne sat across from you, Réne nearest to you and Alex nearest to Evelyn. You felt the carriage begin to move, most likely off to your home first since you lived closest to the docks, though close would be an understatement, but that was besides the point. As you finally pulled away from the docks as a whole, Alex was the first to speak up.

“So what has you two all fussed? I thought you bunch were supposed to be happy we are home.” Her comment and tone would have normally drew smiles from you bunch but instead worried glances were exchanged between Réne and Evelyn, the silence was louder than anything else in this moment.

“Guys, what is wrong? You are starting to scare me.” You questioned, your own tone turning serious and grim as you looked between Evelyn and Réne who were tucked into their own separate corners of the carriage.

“While you both were gone something happened, at first no one thought much of it, that is until something like it happened again a few months later, about a week ago.” He began to explain, his hands nervously fidgeting with the pocket watch chain that was connected to his vest. “We thought about writing to you both when the first one happened but chalked it up to a coincidence but then the second one happened and you were already aboard the ship by then and thought it best to wait until you were back here to tell you-“

“Tell us what, Réne?” You questioned, drawing a brief silence from the French author again and his words were picked up by Evelyn.

“Well you know your novels, the one with a blinding snowstorm and a homicidal maniac and then the other one where the little girl poisoned her grandfather with eserine?” Evelyn asked you which you responded with a scoff.

“Of course I do, I wrote them.” You watched as Réne reached into his satchel he brought with him and pulled out two newspapers, one was slightly worn and older than the other, a few months if you had to guess. Your eyebrows furrowed, eyes narrowed, and your heart began to pound as he handed them to you.

Then your heart stopped as you saw the headlines.

“Serial Killer in the Blizzard; multiple found dead.”

“Earl of Kent found poisoned with eserine.”

Your lips fell agape as you stared at the papers in your hands, you were so far away from reality in your shock that you did not even notice Alex snatching them out of your hands and begin reading over the paper herself. You must have been in shock for a few minutes because when you came to, Evelyn was rubbing your shoulders and Alex was swearing up a storm and Réne was trying to get her to calm down.

“The deaths were all nobility, but they mimicked your books.” Evelyn commented as she helped you sit up straight from how you sat slouched in your seat.

“And what the fuck is that supposed to mean!?” Alex snapped back at the young lady across from her.

“Think about it, think about all the major murders over the last few years, who has been killing the nobles of the nation or their aliases at least?” Réne asked and she fell to silence once again, minus the barely audible swears slipping from her lips, leaving you to piece together everything in your already distressed and confused mind.

“…the… the Lord of Crime.” Your words were breathy and uneven as you spoke your response but Réne nodded, his expression as grim as it has been since you stepped into the carriage.

“We… No one knows his motive behind choosing your books, but Scotland Yard has ruled you out from being a suspect since you were in America when the initial incidents took place, but they still have no clear suspects yet.” Réne continued on, your shaking form barely piecing together what he was saying. “We thought maybe you coming back to England would bring an end to them… but now thinking about that now it just sounds silly.”

“I… this can’t be true…”

The carriage was drawn to silence after you said those words, confirming that this indeed was reality.

—————————

You stood at the train station a suitcase packed that you carried, you were going to go visit your mother for a few weeks in your hometown, tell her about your time in America and all the parties you went to and things you saw in one of the most amazing cities in the world, but more importantly to find comfort after you heard about those murders and perhaps receive a bit of guidance on what to do.

“You have your ticket, right?” Little Evelyn asks as she bushed out the wrinkles in your coat as the train pulled up to the station. She had accompanied you to the station to say goodbye, but in reality your friends have not left you by yourself unless you were home since you found out about the murders of the Lord of Crime, it has been Almost three weeks now.

“Yes and I will be fine, Evelyn.” You replied to her worry with a smile which she gave a little huff to as the doors of the train opened up and made your head turn. You gave a glance back to Evelyn and she, like always, threw her arms around you and squeezed you tight, like she was afraid you would disappear into dust if she let go.

“Just be careful alright?” She spoke as she buried her face into your neck, muffling her voice slightly, to which you hummed in acknowledgement in response to her. She finally let go of you, her hands coming to rest on your lower upper arm, near your elbow. Her gaze flicked between you and the ground, as if she was scared to meet your gaze. “I will miss you.”

“I will only be gone a few weeks, it is not like I am going back to America.” You teased her which drew a wide smile across her face.

“I suppose that is true, just… be careful, please?”

“You already asked me that.”

“You already said that, but I will be.” You responded as you switched hands that your suitcase was in so that you could grab your ticket with your dominant hand and so that Evelyn would let go of you fully. “I’ll tell my mother that you said hello.”

“Please do- and oh ask her for the toffee she makes, I have been craving it since the holidays.” She added on, cutting herself off as soon as she remembered your mother’s cooking.

“I will.” There was a brief moment of silence between the two of you again that was broken with the whistle of the train blowing, telling you that you needed to board the train or be left behind. You turned your body but your head faced Evelynas you began to walk away. “Well I will see you in two weeks, Evelyn. We can have tea at the club when I get back.”

“That sounds lovely.”

You stepped up into the train proper as it began to move, almost catching you off guard which made you laugh slightly at your own stupidity. You began looking through the compartment, finding one that was free for your use, or in other words empty. Eventually you found one and got settled, setting your suitcase next to you for a brief moment while you pulled out a book to read, an American novel you bought during your time in the states, before you closed your suitcase and set it on the racks above you.

Time slowly drifted by as you made your way through the book, it was good, but time spent reading for you had just gotten short and shorter for you the sharper your mind got, so now the hours you spent as a child reading your favorite books from the library had turned into half an hour if that. You huffed a sigh as you closed the book and set it on your lap, but you slipped your index finger between the pages to save your spot, after all you are not some psychopath. You gazed out the window as the city of London faded into the countryside of England, it felt so quiet which was both strange and welcome since you really have not had a moment of silence since you were back in your hometown before leaving for America six months ago.

“Excuse me, would you mind if we joined you?” A voice from the hall asked, which silently told you that you must have left the door opened. You turned your head, ready to politely dismiss whoever was asking but-

“Oh Professor Moriarty, correct?” Your words escaped your mouth before you could even think about what you were saying, your sight and mouth working faster than your brain could process. Indeed the man from a few weeks prior at the docks was before you on the train, along with the other blonde man who you did not speak to at the docks and a brown haired man with the greenest eyes accompanying them.

“Miss (Name), I did not even realize it was you, what a pleasant surprise to see you again.” You gave William the same smile he gave you and silently gestured for the three of them to come into the compartment, after all the company could do you some good to take your mind off of things. William sat next to you and the other two gentlemen sat across from you both. William gestured to the both of them, specifically the one with brown hair first and then the blonde. “These are my brothers, Louis and Albert.”

“A pleasure to meet you both, my name is (Name). William and I met briefly at the docks in London when I was just arriving home from a trip to New York City.” You explained, though the explanation was more for Albert rather than Louis since you remember he was there despite him not saying away, but they both smiled in acknowledgement all the same. You glanced at William who was sitting next to you, and while your prior meeting was brief, he was the one you were most familiar with. “May I ask where you all are headed to?”

“I happen to teach mathematics at the university in Durham, but Albert is headed up there for business and Louis is managing our estate there.” He explained which drew a nod from his brothers. “And what about you?”

“Oh I am just visiting my mother and spending some time back in my hometown before heading back off into the world of editors and publishers.”

“You are from Alnwick, correct?” You heard Albert ask which caught you off guard and you nodded with a shocked expression on your face to his question which drew a laugh from him. “I just remembered William talking about one of your books and one of them taking place in the Alnwick Garden since that is your hometown.”

“Oh good, for a second I thought I had a stalker.” You laughed in relief which made everyone in the compartment break a smile at the very least, but then you suppose you do have a sort of stalker in the form of the Lord of Crime and that thought made your smile fade away. “But yes I am from Alnwick, but I moved to London when I started writing since my publisher and editor were located there and it was easier just walking to their office than having to take a whole long trip down there just to have an hour long meeting with them.”

“I suppose that does make sense.” William spoke with his own smile fading into a more relaxed expression. There was silence among you all once more for a minute or two before William chimed in again. “If I may ask another question, you just returned from America, I would think you would want to avoid travel for a time and stay in London to decompress and relax.”

“Well I just do not think I can relax there right now…” You answered, your gaze falling down to the book that sat in your lap with your finger wedged between its pages, your hands and palms especially growing a tad clammy. “…Since you are a fan of my books then I am sure you heard about what has happened with the Lord of Crime incidents involving two of them. My friends told me about it on the carriage ride back home and it has just been itching my mind in a way I do not like, so I decided some country air and family would do me some good.”

“I see….” It felt like William’s tone in voice changed slightly, growing darker, maybe drawing more into his thoughts for a moment, but only a moment. “Then I suppose it is a good thing to get away from all the commotion to recover from that shock.”

“I do hope so.”

You spent much of the train ride in silence, reading over the book you brought along with you, and then rereading it once you finished. Eventually the Moriarty brothers excused themselves to go to the dining car, they invited you but you rejected their offer since you would be having supper with your mother when you arrived in Alnwick and your mother would not you spoiling your appetite since she would certainly have company over to welcome your return, your grandparents who were still alive and your siblings if they were around. Besides, you wanted to look through your manuscripts and notes from America to see what you could use for your next novel since your stay in New York City was to force creation and inspiration and you certainly could not pull those out around William since you were told he was a fan of your work, spoiling something like your next novel would be cruel.

You read through your old writings and the scene of the city came flooding back to you. Honestly you wished you could go back now, forget about what has happened and just enjoy life, but now it feels like your lust for life has just vanished since Réne handed you those newspapers in the carriage when you and Alex returned home. You sighed, setting your papers, journal, and pen back on the seat and got up, a quick stretch and a trip to the washroom would do you some good. You slipped out from your and the Moriarty brother’s now empty compartment and into the hall. The train was fairly quiet this far into the trip you noted as you walked down the hall and looking around, one of the men in the compartments waving to you as you both made eye contact as you walked passed. The washroom was at the end of the cart while your compartment was at the front, you shut the washroom door after you and turned the lock so no one would walk in. You did not really need to use the bathroom, but you just really needed a change in scenery and a moment to freshen up, fixing your hair and running your hands over your dress to get the wrinkles out.

You smiled as you tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear, remembering a book you wrote a few years prior. It was on a train like this, an American tycoon was found murdered in his compartment, stabbed a dozen times with his door locked from the inside. The victim was actually inspired by one of Alex’s brothers who you met when he came to London to visit her and to attend to work affairs, whatever that may be, you learned not to ask questions when it came to her family and their family business.

You opened the washroom door before you stepped out into the hallway and began to walk back to your compartment. You thought back to your gardens in your hometown, that would be a good place to write if it was a clear day, write a few chapters of your book over the next few weeks before coming back down and handing it off to your editor which would give you some time to relax in London while he works on that, you could probably have time to meet with that new poet who had just become a member at your club while you away in America, they were from Germany to believed and-

Your thoughts were cut off as you stepped in what sounded like a puddle, that was strange, you were on a train, did someone spill their drink? No that could not be it, you were in the washroom for such a short time that they would probably still be here, trying to clean it up. You looked down at your boot covered foot to see what you had stepped in…

“What?”

That cannot be right, the puddle was a dark crimson red, like blood, how was that possible? Your eyes followed where the puddle was coming from, leaking out from a door to your right that you passed while walking to the washroom. You looked up into the glass of the door…

And the scream that ripped from your throat must have alerted the whole train.

Dead, the man you passed by earlier was dead…

No, that was not possible…

You could not have been in the washroom for more than five minutes…

But there he was, dead.

You did not even realize that the train staff was pushing you out of the way as they came running to the scene. They were also taken by their shock and had to hold back their screams as they could handle the situation. One of them stepped forward, and attempted to open the compartment door…

“It’s locked.”

Your eyes widened at that statement.

This couldn’t be-

“Get her back to her compartment, she needs to sit down.” The voice of one of them told another and you felt a gentle hand on your shoulder and guided you back to your compartment. The door opened and the Moriarty brothers were already back and to them you must look like you just met death, and in a way you did. You felt William’s hands come to take you by your forearms to guide you down to your seat next to him while Albert talked to the crewman, but you could not process what they were saying as Louis and William were checking to see if you were alright as far as your physical condition, but mentally…

You were a mess, pale faced, tears rolling down your face, hyperventilating, all things someone should be after seeing a dead body…

Especially a murder based on one of your books.

Stay safe, that is what Evelyn told you before you left, well you do not feel safe anymore.

—————————

It has been months since that incident and you find yourself back in your study back at your townhouse in London. Since then there has been an increase in the incidents based on your books, the last one that happened three days ago was the seventh, and honestly all of this was driving you a bit mad. You had shut yourself in your house most days, your maid running out to the market on your behalf and your assistant running errands to you and dropping chapters off at your editor’s office, the only time you really went out was when you went to the writer’s club, those four walls were a sanctuary for your troubled mind where you pull hear about the stories your friends wrote up or listen to the poetry readings from the other club members.

Your home on the other hand felt as if it grew a frightening aura, the place where you thought up of the tales and deaths in your stories that were an escape from reality became the source of actual deaths and mass murders. Your stories and tales became reality, not the fiction you intended to be.

As for the identity of the killer, no one has even a clue of who the Lord of Crime may be, not even any of your friends or yourself whose job was to write about mysteries and secrets. You all used to get your hands on old unsolved cases from Scotland Yard that were open to the public and solve them for fun as to get inspiration for your books, they were old and the culprit was long dead by the time you got your hands on the file, but this was something else entirely, this was an actual live and real threat.

It was late in the evening and you sat in an armchair in your drawing room, the evening’s newspaper in your lap and a cigarette in between the middle and index fingers of your right hand while a glass of red wine sat on the table next to you, it was an expensive vintage that Réne had gifted to you for your birthday. Across from you sat your friends, Lady Charlotte Basset in the other arm chair with a glass of wine herself along with Alex Pendel laying down your velvet sofa, her head propped up on the arm rest and a cigarette between her lips. Charlotte was a richly dressed woman, dark brown hair and green eyes that were only complemented by the emerald green dress she wore with her white fur shawl that you believed was mink fur. The two of them were going out to a music hall, a cabaret, later tonight but stopped here on the way to check up on you.

“You think this Lord of Crime likes the theater? Cause’ his crimes feel like one big act.” Alex said as she pulled the cigarette from her lips to speak and blow out a large puff of smoke into the air. “Think about it, it is suspected that he is behind the deaths on the Noahtic, and Réne was on it and he told me it literally ended up with them on the stage of the ballet, nearly scared some of the performers half to death apparently.”

“That is certainly one way to make a spectacle of your victims.” Charlotte added as she twirled the glass of red wine in her hand, but her eyes were fixed on nothing in particular, just gazing off as she loses herself in thought. “But you would need other people to assist with all of his little shows, as if the victim and killer are the cast then you would need the crew, the question is who are these allies to this so-called Lord of Crime?”

“Dunno, want me to write to my pop to ask him what he thinks.” Alex’s lips turned up in a teasing grin as she spoke those words. “Eh, but he’ll probably get pissed at the mention of what is happening to your books, I think my parents like you better than me.”

“As much as I love your family, I am not sure I want another crime lord to deal with in London.” You finally chimed in as you set your paper aside on the table next to you where your half finished glass of wine sat. “But honestly moving to America just sounds lovely right about now, do you think your parents will adopt me?”

“Probably.” Alex’s one word answer was responded with laughs from you and Charlotte. Then as silence settled in the drawing room there was a knock from the front door, your maid called out telling you that shade would get it, which allowed you all to continue your conversation. “But I am working on another rough draft for a book, but I am just stuck on the killer’s motive.”

“Oh, and what is your general idea?” Charlotte asked as you heard the sound of distant talking from the maid and your home’s visitor. “Are you going to write another novel with the notes from New York?”

“No actually, it is going to be about ten strangers who are invited to an isolated island by a mysterious host. And then they start to die one by one, leaving the remaining guests to realize that the killer is among them-“

“The problem with that is that the killer would unintentionally out themselves as such when they would be one of the people surviving.” An unfamiliar voice called out, butting in on your conversation. You all looked up to the doorway that led from the front entry into the drawing room and there stood next to your maid a young man, with messy dark hair that was pulled back into a short ponytail and eyes to match, he wore a simple button up and a black suit jacket and pants to match. “It’s just like how in that mass murder case six years back one of the survivors was the killer and they only found out years later when her son found her journal after she died.”

“Do… Do I know you?” You asked the stranger who had been let into your house and both Charlotte’s and Alex’s heads turned to look at him, Alex swung her legs over the edge of the couch so that she was sitting up straight in the presence of a stranger. The man walked up to you, walking past your friends present as if they did not exist and extended his hand to you to shake.

“The name is Holmes, Sherlock Holmes.” You noticed the glances of shock exchanged between Charlotte and Alex from where they sat. This was the famous detective of London, the best detective in the nation if not the world as a whole, and some of his cases did serve as inspiration for your novels. “You are the famous mystery author, Miss (Name), and if I had to guess your two friends are Alex Pendel, the American thriller novelist, based on her appearance on how she sits and the suit she is wearing was made and custom tailored by Catherine Donovan, I recognized it because my brother has suits made by her as well. Then your other friend is Charlotte Basset, another horror author, and she was by far the easiest to identify due to her father’s signet ring she wears on her thumb because it is too big for her ring finger.”

You watched as Alex began looking over her suit and the small brand initials that were embroidered on the cuff of her suit jacket and Charlotte looked down at the ring on her thumb which was indeed her father’s ring that he gave to her when she was a child because she kept on fidgeting with her hair and picking at her nails. You reached out to shake his hand, his rough calloused hands gripping your smaller gloved hands with a firm hold.

“And to what do I owe the pleasure of having the best detective in London in my home?” You asked as he released your hand, letting you sit back on your chair’s armrest. “Let me guess, it is because you found a scene in my book unrealistic like those detectives down at Scotland Yard.”

“Unrealistic, your work? Never, they just have never seen a murder scene like the ones in your books, like about a month ago I murder scene that reminded me a lot of one from one of your short stories, it was not linked to the Lord of Crime incidents as the culprit was of of the staff members but that is besides the point.” He grabbed the paper you had sat on the side table by your wine and pointed at the headline, it was about the murder of a duchess who had been abusing her staff and the crime was believed to be done by the Lord of Crime. “I would like you as my partner in solving this case.”

“Excuse me?” The words escaped your mouth in your state of surprise and you could see similar expressions on the faces of Alex and Charlotte. You pushed the hand that held the paper aside and the detective as a whole as you stood up from your seat. You walked across the room to where you fireplace stood, a small fire crackling in the hearth, above which on the mantle sat a collection of your books, custom hard back books that were bound by a book binder in your hometown who knew you as a child, a gift from the people who inspired you to write in the first place. “Mr. Holmes, I am a writer not a detective and I do not want to get more involved with this Lord of Crime mystery than I already am, it could destroy me.”

“But what if it doesn’t, you truly have nothing left to lose at this point.” You snapped your head around at him when he said that, sending him a sharp glare and you watched him stiff up for a moment before shaking it off, you heard him clear his throat and mention something about you reminding him of a Miss Hudson, whoever she is. “What I mean is you have not made a single public appearance since you returned to London from your time in the states and that is presumably about you finding about the related incidents to your work, then not to mention your physical appearance is a clear reflection of that previous observation, bags under your eyes and the redness around them presumably from you rubbing them shows you haven’t been sleeping. That’s not to mention the thin layer of dust I saw on the shoes and umbrella by the door, which shoes you have not been going out much-“

“I think she said she wasn’t interested and had no desire to be like you, Mr. Detective.” You watched as Alex stood up, walking up to where the detective stood, staring him down, and if there was one thing Alex was good at, it was being intimidating. “So please you can see yourself to the door.”

“But she is already like me, I have heard about you all at your club solving unsolved cases that Scotland Yard could never solve that are twenty, thirty, forty, even fifty years old. I think it is pretty obvious that you all are detectives in your own right.” Sherlock looks down at her as he speaks before snagging the cigarette from between her fingers and taking a smoke himself and you could just watch Alex grow more irritated by the second and was about to blow. “Now another thing I remember about my brother is the last time he stopped by he mentioned something about a certain crime family moving into England.”

You could just see Alex’s eyes grow wide while the rest of her face remained still. She stood there a moment before grabbing her cigarette from her detective and turning towards the entryway. “Cmon’ Charlotte, the show is at nine.”

You and Charlotte shot each other looks of disbelief as Alex made her way to the front door, but you just watched as she signed and downed the rest of her wine before setting her glass down on the end table near her seat before following after Alex, wrapping her mink fur tighter around her. You heard the front door open and close in your state of disbelief, leaving you and the detective alone. You both stood in silence for a long moment before he spoke up, breaking the lingering silence.

“So?”

“…What exactly do you need my help with?” Your question was begrudgingly asked and you just saw his expression light up like a child’s on Christmas when you finally gave in. “I cannot promise any help like I am an actual detective since I tend to approach situations how I would write them, I am an author first and foremost.”

“That’s fine, where is your study?” He was quick and straight to the point and you watched him walk out of your drawing room presumably to look for your study and home library. You watched as he walked to the doorway across from the doorway of your drawing room that was also connected to your entryway and he pushed open the doors to your study. You quickly followed him like you were a parent watching their excited child, trying to keep him wrong from wrecking anything. You cringed as he went behind your desk, looking at your manuscripts and journals that sat on top of it. “So this is where the great mystery author writes her stories. I would be lying if I said I didn’t want to see where you work or your work before it’s finished.”

“Um… yes, just please do not mess with anything, this is my life’s work after all.”

—————————

You have been working with the detective in your free time to try to solve this case, even then he would be showing up in your home while you were in your office writing or even when you were at the club, it got to the point where you maid had to tell him to stop showing up during your working hours since you needed to write in order to have a job and stay in business since you still had deadlines to meet. Your drawing room had been turned into a mess of Sherlock’s and your own clues, pieced and puzzled together, trying to find connections, though the difference between the two of your work was very clear, your clues were tucked in a series of folders, notebooks, and journals, meanwhile the detective’s were in the form of loose and sometimes torn up papers and notes that were now laid out throughout the carpet of your drawing room, you slightly feared that the carpet would stain with ink since it was a housewarming gift from your late father.

Despite all this, everything single clue you came across came to a dead end and led to no clear culprit. Your investigation made you truly realize what Alex meant when she told you one time how crime was truly a game, an act, to make it a spectacle for others to watch while the performers fight for control.

“How is your novel coming along?” Réne asked as you two sat in one of the lounges at the club. He sat on the couch across from your, his back pressed against the armrest so that his legs extended out on the cushions, he had his glasses resting atop his head so that they pushed back his hair as he worked on a sketch in his sketchbook that he had propped up on the thigh of his leg that was on the outside end of the couch that was bent into a V-shape. “Still struggling with that villain of yours?”

“I am afraid so, I have all the events laid out, the deaths and what not and how the killer did it, but I still have no motive for them.” You explained as you watched the maid of the club pour you a cup of an earl gray tea that Charlotte got for you all from a new tea shop a few blocks away from the writer’s club. You sat on an identical couch to Réne, though much more ladylike as you were about to have tea and not to mention the morning’s newspaper, that you had yet to read, resting on your lap. “Every time that it mentions the killer’s motive I just skip it over and leave it blank-“

“Sugar ma’am?”

“Two please, a dash of cream as well.” You answered the maid’s question as she prepared your tea for you before continuing on. “It is by far the worse writer’s block I have experienced to date, it has been weeks since I started writing and it would be practically finished if I could figure out my villains just give him life.”

“It is a him?”

“Yes… I think so anyway- oh thank you.” You cut yourself off as the maid handed you your cup of tea. You held the saucer in your left hand while you brought the teacup up to your lips, taking a sip to wet your throat. “But honestly this case with Mr. Holmes, trying to uncover this Lord of Crime has left me all sorts of frazzled that I cannot tell up from down when I return home at the end of the day, so I honestly think that I have my novel’s villain as some version of this Lord of Crime, a figure who cannot place, so close yet so far, just out of reach… I probably sound like a raving mad woman right now, don’t I?”

“A bit, yes.” Réne answered which grew a small giggle from you. His eyes never lifted from his paper as he spoke, his fingers still twirling around the pencil as he drew. “Speaking of our Lord of Crime problem, how many of your books are left in his little… hm….”

“Recreations?”

“Yes, that is the word I am looking for!” He said with a slight enthusiasm creeping into his voice as he flicked his pencil in the air at your answer. “But yes, how many are left? He has probably covered all your famous works by now.”

“Yes… well let me think….” Your voice faded for a moment as you went over your books in your head, the number of incidents has increased since your partnership with the famous, though not by choice, Sherlock Holmes had begun, but surely there had to be at least three or so books left, right? Well there was- no that was the first incident that happened while you were abroad in America. What about- no not that one either, you remember seeing that in the morning paper when Sherlock came running into your townhouse about it when you first started working. Then there was a moment of realization as you sat there, staring down at your tea, reflecting your face that has grown and probably aged a few years due to these cases. “…no.”

“No? That’s not a number- oh… that… I… I’m sorry.” Réne stopped his sketching in his realization, you could just practically see his expression when the silence was practically yelling at you.

“…Réne, since there are no books left, what if I am next?” Your question was just followed by more silence then you heard Réne’s pencil quickly scribble something on his paper before you heard the ripping of paper and the shifting of limbs as the fabric of his pants rubbed against the velvet couch cushions. He slammed his drawing down on the table between the two of you, where the tea set sat. You looked down at it and it was presumably of a man in a black coat and hat, but his face was covered by a smiling mask, the Lord of Crime, but across his neck was a thick and scribbled line as if he was beheaded. You looked up at Réne and he had a comforting smile across his face.

“Then I will do everything in my power to unmask him and protect you.” He fell back onto his couch, throwing his arms across the back rest, crossing his legs. “You are one of my best friends and he would be fool to think that I would not risk my own neck to protect you, and I know for a fact that Evelyn, Charlotte, and Alex would do the same… hell honestly Alex would be the worse enemy to have, she could make one call to her father and… well it would not be pretty and that is for certain.”

“Thank you, a friend like you is truly a rare thing, let alone four friends like you all.”

“I could say the same thing about you.”

The terrible silence had faded into a more pleasant and comfortable silence, but you looked down at the drawing and into those black hole of the mask where the eyes would be, faceless and unsettling that gave you a creeping feeling up your spine.

God it was unsettling…

It made you feel like you were being watched…

Just please make it stop…

Stop…

Stop…

STOP!

As if by reflex, you sprung up out of your chair and snatched up the drawing from the table, and this drew Réne’s attention to you again as a concerned expression set in on his face.

“Are you alright?”

“Alright… alr- Yes! I am perfectly fine, I… I just remembered I… I meant to send a letter to my mother and I left it in my study back home, I-I just really needed to do that!” A lie, that honestly you did not know why you told it, not even the slightest clue as to why. You grabbed your messenger bag from the ground, throwing it over your shoulder. “I-I should go do that, before I forget to and the post office closes.”

“O-oh, alright?” Réne seemed unsure of your sudden shift in behavior. “Do you need me to walk you home-“

“No!- I… I mean I’ll be alright….” You two once again stood in a tense silence as you looked back at each other with equally confused expressions. “…bye.”

You could only say that as you turned on your heel as you walked to the door of the club, the maid giving you your hand and coat as you were about to leave which you put on in a rush as you tried to get out the door to get out of the gazes of your friends and colleagues.

You stumbled out onto the streets of Mayfair, you did not bother trying to get a hackney, you needed the fresh air that is what you needed, you think. You nervously fidgeted with the strap of your messenger bag as you walked down the street, your eyes darting around at the brick pavement beneath your feet, not bothering to watch where you are going since the way back home was practically muscle memory-

Suddenly you were knocked over as a gentleman walked past you, the heel of your shoe getting caught in between the bricks that formed the pavement below you, an all too familiar scene for you, but you suppose that is what you get for not watching where you are going.

“I am so sorry- Miss (Name), we have met like this before have we not?” That voice was familiar to you, you looked up to see the smiling face of Professor William James Moriarty looking down at you, his gloved hand outstretched to you like that day at the docks on your return home. He cocked his head to the side slightly as he looked over your form as you took his hand and he pulled you up from the ground. “Are you alright? You look rather pale?”

“Y-yes… I-I am… No?…. Maybe- I really don’t know right now, I-I… I can’t think- god what is wrong with me?” You could not get your mind straight, your hands felt clammy and tingly… your entire arms at that… god was it always this hard to breathe? You can’t think, oh god why can’t you think? “I fear I am going mad, Profe- William.”

“You are trembling- oh dear, you are having a panic attack.” You could not process him coming to stand by your side, taking your messenger bag from you and his other hand coming to rest between your shoulder blades. “My family’s estate is only a few buildings down, let’s get you inside and sit down and Louis can make you a cup of tea, does that sound okay?”

“Y-yes, I think.”

“Okay, just take deep breaths.”

Your vision and memory came in flashes between sight and darkness… walking down the road, turning into a Mayfair estate with an iron fence with a red brick base beneath it… William pushing open the door and calling out to someone as he guided you into the drawing room… Him guiding you to lay down on the sofa in the room while someone else came into the room.

You could feel William’s hand held onto yours, letting you have something to ground yourself on, and you could hear William’s voice telling you…

“Take deep breaths, in and out.”

In and out…

In and out…

In and out.

His voice served as your thoughts, allowing you to calm down from the height of your panic attack. You could finally process what was before you, a white ceiling. You could process what you felt, the fabric of your dress, the velvet of the Moriarty drawing room couch, the warmth and leather from William’s gloved hand that held onto your own.

“Are you alright? Do you need anything?” You heard William ask you as you pushed yourself up with your free hand that was not squeezing the life out of William’s hand. “Louis is making you some tea, he nearly got a fright at seeing you in a panic, ran off to the kitchen in a rush- oh just lay down! You are probably light headed or dizzy, just wait to sit up until your tea is ready.”

“O-okay… thank you William.”

“It is the least I can do.”

A few minutes passed before the scent of citrus and spice hit your nose as Louis stepped into the room, setting the tea tray on the low table between all the pieces of lounge furniture in the room. William set a hand on your lower back, helping you sit as Louis poured a cup of tea for you. Louis gave William the cup of tea to hold with his free hand while his other hand rubbed comforting circles on your back, which was wiser than letting you hold it since your hands were shaking violently still.

“I am s-sorry… I-I…”

“There is nothing to be sorry about, my dear.” William replied as your voice trailed off into your scrambled thoughts. “It is natural to experience such fits under stress… which reminds me, if I may ask, what is on your mind?”

“Um… a lot….” You laughed after those two words, laughing at your madness as you ran your fingers through your hair and tugging slightly, your hat had fallen to the ground when William laid you down and Louis had picked it up and set it on the table. “My novel still has no antagonist, at least not one with a motive to kill nine other people- t-then not to mention I have to worry about a detective, who may or not be the love of my life of the bane of my existence but I may just be thinking that because I am going mad, and him appearing in my house at any hour of the day because he think he found a lead with the blasted Lord of Crime case- AND! That’s the other thing, this Lord of Crime, all of my books have been made a horrible reality by him and now there are not any books left and I have an aching fear in the back of my mind that I am next… I… I really am going mad, aren’t I?”

“You are not mad, you are in distress which is only natural, dear.” He said as he guided the tea cup into your hands, his hand coming to rest on the back of your own to keep you from dropping the cup as you brought it up to your lips and taking a sip. “Perhaps the Lord of Crime is just a fan of your work, I doubt he would dare to lay a finger on you.”

“Well he is certainly a fan I do not wish to have.” You said as the cup of tea parted from your lips and William set it back down on the table with a soft clinck. “This all has been driving me mad… honestly working with him has only made it worse, he is like an eager puppy.”

“By he, you mean the detective you are working with who I am guessing to be a Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” William stated but it sounded more like a question so you hummed softly in response. “I have met him a number of times before, brilliant mind, just a bit childish under certain circumstances. Also if I may suggest perhaps a small break is needed, for the sake of your mental health.”

“Ya… huh, maybe I should just quit this author thing.” You felt William stiff up at the mention of that, his hand that was running circles on your back freezing in place, but you honestly did not pay much mind since there was so much going on in your mind. “Or maybe I should just disappear entirely… that is something I thought about before, faking my disappearance, I know how I would do it too. Maybe take a ferry to France, go off and start a new life in Paris- or maybe America, I do have friends there who would probably adopt me into their family since they like me better than their own daughter, Miss Alex Pendel, you probably have heard of her-“

“You are rambling, breathe.” William cut you off, but you did not feel like you were rambling. “I am just suggesting a break, not to disappear, isn’t writing your life blood after all?”

“Yes… b-but I never wanted it to become this… I have created a monster.” You closed your eyes at that thought. You loved writing, it was why you lived, you thrived from it, but people were suffering from your stories… well they were, you have no more stories for the Lord of Crime to work with, if you did not publish another it would all stop, right? It had to. Your hands fell to your lap, clutching your skirt in your hands, as if you were trying to get your body to agree with your mind who has already made its decision. “…I am done.”

“Done? Whatever do you mean?”

“I… I cannot finish my next book, maybe my unfinished antagonist was a sign to stop while I am ahead.” You were facing forward, towards the table, so you could not see the sorrow and pain come across William’s face. “If I stop writing, then the Lord of Crime has nothing else to work with and no one else gets hurt because of me.”

“I… please think about this-“

“I have to go… I need to visit my publisher.” You stood up from the couch with your unsteady legs, grabbing your hat from the table. You did not spare William a glance as you made your way to the door, only words. “I am sorry William, I know you enjoyed my books, but I can’t live with myself if this happens again.”

The estate grew silent as you let, the front door closing being the last bit of sound within the house. Tears fell from William’s eyes and rolled down his cheeks, but his face remained emotionless. There was a few minutes of silence before his eyes fell on your messenger bag you had left behind. He tried telling himself it was wrong to go through your belongings, but what harm could it do now?

He grabbed the messenger bag from the ground, setting it on his lap as he opened it. He pulled out the contents one by one, makeup, pens, pencils, loose notes with plot thoughts of character ideas, but the two that caught his eyes more than anything else was a drawing, the drawing of the faces Lord of Crime from Réne, and a stack of papers that were bound in a leather portfolio, your unfinished masterpiece.

—————————

You stood in your study, tucking old papers and notes away into boxes to put in your cellar. You could not find your unfinished manuscript, you just assumed you must have left it at the Moriarty estate but it really did not matter since that book would never be seeing its conclusion. You had already written to your editor and met with your publisher, ending your partnership with both of them. As for work for the time being you made a enough money from your book sales still that you would be comfortable for a while, but maybe once things have settled in a few months or a year’s time you would accept one of those teaching jobs as a professor that had been offered to you at women's colleges in Oxford or Cambridge. Or your other thought was moving back up to your hometown in Northern England and help your mother with her shop, disappearing into the shadows forever.

You heard a knock at your front door which was followed by the footsteps of your maid as she went to answer it. You closed the lip on the last of the boxes, setting it on top of the stack of the others that had been packed by you earlier, when the doors to your office burst open to reveal the overly eager detective.

“Miss (Name), I think I found-“ Sherlock cut himself off as he stepped inside your emptied study, looking around only to see your life’s work in boxes, ready to be hidden away forever. He was clearly taken aback by all this, looking around the room with an uncertain eye. “What’s all this then?”

“I am quitting, Mr. Holmes.” That was all you needed to say for the detective’s expression to turn to disbelief at hearing your words. “Every single one of my worlds has been tarnished by this Lord of Crime and honestly I do not want to write another book just to give more fuel to the fire.”

“So you are just giving up?” The detective snapped back at you, taking you by surprise now. He was clearly angry and annoyed at your choice, that was certainly clear. “You are just laying down and choosing to die, is that it?!”

“Sherlock, I cannot continue to write when it will sentence people to death!” You yelled at him, gesturing back into the drawing room across the hall where stacks of clues and evidence sat on any flat surface, waiting to be cleaned up next after you packed everything up in the cellar. “Do you know how many people were going to die in my next book if I finished and published it?”

“No-“

“Nine! Nine people and their blood would be on my hands!” You cut him off with a shout, you could feel tears building up in your eyes as you yelled at him. “I can hardly live with myself knowing that my twisted works of fiction have become reality and taken so many lives, the least I can do is spare nine more.”

“We could catch him and you could continue your books-“

“Enough!” You shouted at the top of your lungs, and you watched as the detective grew red in the face as he became more and more angry and irritated at your actions. “I am not doing this anymore, I… I can’t… you are a detective, your job revolves around reality, I am… I was an author, I wrote fiction and I never wanted it to become reality.”

“Damn it all! It is all his fault! God damn this Lord of Crime” He shouted at you before rolling his eyes with the shake of his head and a heavy scoff. He turned on his heel, waving you off as he walked towards the front door of your townhouse. “Find me if you change your mind, but I won’t give up unlike you.”

You stood alone in your office as the front door opened and slammed shut which drew a squeak in surprise from your maid who was brewing tea in the kitchen for you. You leaned back on your desk, a sandalwood desk, a gift you got for yourself when your sales blew up after your first book which secured your position in England’s high society with your new money. The desk cost you what your childhood home cost when your mother and father bought it a few months before they had you. You worked to where you are today, living in an expensive townhouse in Mayfair, an area famous for its affluent residents, upscale shopping streets like Bond Street, world-class art galleries, exclusive members-only clubs, and its reputation as a luxurious and high-end area of London. You grew up in a small town, making flower crowns with your friends and jumping in the nearby creek that was by your childhood home, now you drink wine and champagne at parties held at manors of Dukes and Duchesses and wearing dresses that costed more money than your parents ever had when you were a child. You went on trips to Paris to study the catacombs and watch the Opera and went to New York to experience the nightlife and parties on Long Island and overhear what happened in the back rooms of the mansions of these new money families that controlled the country, divided among these families.

Your books let people indulge themselves into their dark thoughts without it being considered scandalous but rather a new trend, a competition to be exact, and in the words of Evelyn when she first met you…

“Everyone in London wants to know what is going on in that twisted little mind of yours to come up with the things you do.” It was at a high society party when she told you that, pulling you aside into the drawing room of the manor you were in, giving you a joint to smoke that you found out was from Alex’s family that may or may not have had the tobacco mixed with some form of cannabis, giving you both a small high, which definitely made clear where Evelyn’s moments of inspiration for her books came from that were full of pure body horror. “But then again, they all are obsessed with what they cannot fathom and what they are horrified by, it gives them a thrill, like a drug.”

There was a reason why the most popular authors of the age were of the macabre and gruesome, and Evelyn could not have phrased it any better, they were fascinated by what they could not or did not wish to fathom…

Alex’s stories let people see into the world of the mafia of the new world, romanticized in many ways, but the moods they elicit, giving their audiences heightened feelings of suspense, excitement, surprise, anticipation and anxiety, giving them a thrill. Fear of getting caught in a sex scandal or perhaps trying to hide a body before someone finds out that you were the one who rammed a knife into their skull.

Charlotte's novels touch on fundamental issues of human existence: the nature of the soul, the weighty fact of mortality, and the burden of ancestry and history. Spirits represent heavy-handed instruments of supernatural justice, plunging those responsible for their deaths into a living hell where they suffer for their sins. This world and what comes after.

Réne’s books are all about the terror within, not without. His work shatters the illusion of humanity in a poignant wayby holding a mirror up to society and saying: look at what we truly are, and look at what we pretend to be. Under that mask of civility, there is depravity. Under that thin veneer of society, there is wickedness. Under all the trappings of sophistication, are we not all predators or prey?

Little Evelyn had a wicked little mind, her genre examines a universal fear: our own failing anatomies. You rarely think about what goes on beneath your skin. You understand that the organs operate in harmony: the heart beats, the lungs pump air, and the gastrointestinal system labors to supply us with nutrients. But you don't ponder like she does the minutiae. Like whether embryonic parasites encyst in our brains, or what stage of cirrhosis we might be facing, or if tumors bloom deep in parts of ourselves we hope never to see. You have seen a grown man, an inspector at Scotland Yard at that, vomit after reading an excerpt from one of her books.

Your works on the other hand gave the people a taste of psychological suspense and atmosphere, developed as all the characters' innermost secrets are revealed, there is usually also a gradual build-up of tension before the murders actually occur, as if everything could slip at any moment and everyone’s secrets would be revealed and the world would all but crash and burn all around them, and the people along with it. The key factor, though, is that there is usually some ingenious piece of deception involved, just like how the Lord of Crime has been deceiving London with his mask and his show, drawing them all in all along, and now you were about to crash and burn with it all…

You shared Sherlock’s thoughts when he said damn it all…

Your maid was cleaning up the drawing room from all the papers and clues from your useless investigation with the detective when you finally came out of your study, your face stained red and swollen with your tears and six envelopes in your hands. Your maid looked up at you with a worried expression in her eyes as she saw the state of your face.

“My lady, are you alright-“

“Yes….” You took a nervous breath as you approached her, your heeled boots clicking on the hardwood at first which made your heart skip a beat, which was enough in your scared state of mind. You reached out to your maid with the envelopes in that hand, forcing a smile to come across your face as you did. “Could you drop these off at the post? They are to a number of my friends along with my mother and Mr. Holmes. You can head home after that, I think I shall turn in early tonight and I can handle this mess, after all I did make it with Mr. Holmes.”

“O-oh, very well my lady.” She responded as she took the envelopes from your hand, tucking them into her apron pocket. You stood there in the drawing room, swallowing the lump in your throat as you listened to the footsteps of your maid as she grabbed her coat and hat from the coat closet. You heard the front door open and then her voice called out to you. “Do you wish for me to pick up anything for you when I come back in the morning, My Lady? I remember seeing the bakery two blocks away selling a new sampler box of macarons, apparently their new patissier is from Florence in Italy.”

“Thank you, but I shall be alright.”

“Alright, goodnight then my lady.”

“Goodbye.”

—————————

It was a lovely spring day in London, a rare day without a cloud in the sky. William was walking down the street, his eyes fixed on a letter in his gloved hand that he received this morning, it was penned in your handwriting and the messenger boy said it was dropped off at the post office along with five other letters by a woman who matched the description of your maid, who he had met along with Louis when they ran into her by chance at the local bookstore when he was picking up a copy of your latest book, she and your assistant, a young lady who was hoping to be a journalist one day and you had taken her under your wing, were dropping of signed copies that you were donating to the shop, your maid told the brothers that you would have dropped them off yourself but you were leaving for a six month long trip to the Americas, New York City specifically, so you could research something you were curious on with the night life of that side of the world and who ran it.

He spotted the house with the address on the envelope, 600 North Audley Street, which was, as the street name suggested, just north of Grosvenor Square in Mayfair. The house has a number of barricades around it and a number of officers of Scotland Yard along with four other figures, all of them he recognized, Sherlock Holmes with no sight of Dr. John H. Watson, there were also the famous authors Réne Drew, Lady Charlotte Basset of York, and the little miss Evelyn Jay, and all of them, including the detective, held a letter similar to the one William held, but all of their faces were riddled with worry, except Sherlock Holmes, but William knew he would crack in private.

“I see you all have received letters like myself.” William called out to the bunch who awaiting outside of the door of your townhouse, looking around he also spotted your house’s maid and your own personal assistant sitting on the brick stairs that led up to your front door, surrounded by Scotland Yard officers asking them questions which explains why he could not see them from afar, but they were in such a state of shock that neither of them could hardly answer a single question and even if they could, they did not know the answer. William held up the piece of paper he received with a smile. “I see we all know the author.”

“And who you might be?” Lady Charlotte snapped at him, her eyes narrowing. William knew a bit about her and her family, her brother had been suspected of murder a number of years ago, the summer before their writing club was founded to be exact, which while the heir of the family was found innocent this fact about the club led William to believe she had something to do with it especially since the victim was the man she was arranged to be married to. Her face was as rigid as her clothing looked, a scarlet red gown that probably costs more than most dresses women of the town could even afford and her signature white mink shawl. “I do not recall (Name) ever mentioning you before-“

“Well I certainly did not expect to see you here, Liam.” Sherlock cut the lady author off as he laid eyes upon the mathematics professor. “This is Professor William James Moriarty, a friend of mine, but I am surprised you knew Miss (Name). Now I truly wished we all could have met that day on the train back from York, a competition with one worthy opponent is one thing but with two is another entirely! I thought for a time she might be the Lord of Crime if her behavior did not show otherwise and the evidence proved her innocence under every instance-“

“Would you shut up!? Do not mention this whole Lord of Crime bullshit now!” Réne snapped at the detective, seizing him by the collar and bringing his face close to his own as the French author was filled with a rage that was clear as day. William had heard that the famous Réne Drew was normally a calm and composed man, maybe a bit too relaxed due to his occasional indulgence in wine and the arts, but this was a different man entirely based on their behavior. “My best friend is missing and you thought she was was the fucking Lord of Crime?! Was that the only reason you wanted to work with her?! Answer me, damn it!”

“She is what?” William was shocked by this statement by the Frenchman, he must have looked like a surprised cat when he heard his, eyes wide but the rest of his face remaining still, because all faces turned to him, but the young Evelyn Jay was the one who approached him, and she was the one who appeared most unbothered by the situation if bothered at all.

“It did not mention it in your letter, telling you that she is not to be looked for and that no one would find her even if they tried.” She handed William her letter and it indeed had written what she claimed it did, but it was far different than his own which he handed to the young lady to read, which she did do so. He had only really heard rumors about the morbid young author, that she watches illegal awake surgeries as inspiration for her books or that she had been in the habit of paying people to steal dead bodies for her so she could see how the human body would react to various situations that would be highly traumatic on the body so she could use that for her books. Evelyn calmly read his letter silently before handing it back to him. “It would seem that Professor Moriarty received a different letter than the rest of us seeing as he was not informed of her disappearance. But it is indeed true, she went missing sometime last night, her house is an absolute disaster, but Mr. Holmes found that was done by her due to nothing highly valuable or sentimental being damaged, proving there was not a real struggle, but a set up but the reason why is still unknown. Her maid and assistant were the ones to find the staged scene this morning when they arrived together this morning after having breakfast at a nearby bakery, scared them half to death, then the rest of us arrived not long after, rushing here after we received the letters-“

“Sorry I’m late!” A feminine voice with a thick New York accent called out from down the road, the same direction William arrived in. Everyone looked to see Miss Alex Pendel, dressed in her favorite red suit which drew stares from anyone who did not know her. William had heard about her family, a crime family who practically has all of the state of New York in the palm of their hand; the city that shared the name was the heart of their organization. She waved in her hand a slip of paper that did not look remotely similar to the ones the other held, her own was a telegram, so someone had sent for her when they found out she was missing the three other authors present were the most obvious suspects. But the American author was a part of your inner circle like the other three, so why did she not receive a letter? “Seems like everything that I was told is true, she really is missing.”

“Yes, it is good to see you received my telegram, Alex.” Evelyn chimed in, glancing past William to her closest friend. So Evelyn was the one to send the telegram, but the question was how did she know Alex was the only one not to receive one. Evelyn glanced around at the others who must have been coming to a similar conclusion as the professor. “I figured that (Name) may not write to Alex since she had just returned home from a trip from the Netherlands last night, I only knew she was back because I was the one who fetched her from the docks.”

“I see.” William responded to the young lady’s gleeful tone. She twirled around the center of the circle of the geniuses to face William once again with that ever so innocent smile on her face which was almost unsettling in these circumstances which made William think perhaps to look back into those rumors he heard about her before. “If she is missing then what shall we do since she does not wish to be found?”

“A competition! Let us see who can find her first!” The smile on her face grew even wider when she said those words, this was a game to her, just like the aristocrat who perished on the Noahtic for hunting humans for sport, the difference being that she has a good heart beneath all the gore and horror. “I do not know about you professor, but the rest of us are all forms of crime related geniuses both fictional and reality.”

There was a stunned silence among the other authors, and a smile coming across Sherlock’s face in glee at the idea. William heard a scoff from the American author next to him and he glanced over to her to see her with an expression he could not quite place. “Pass, I’m afraid I will be returning to America in a few weeks.”

“So soon? You went on that trip with (Name) a few months ago?” Evelyn’s smile falters into an expression of curiosity as Alex makes that comment. “I remember you telling us how much your family enjoyed (Name’s) company.”

“There is no need to remind me about their favoritism.” Alex snapped back at her friend before quickly calming back down with a sigh. “But yes, I am afraid so, I need to get some papers settled with my father and brothers about some changes to our family’s mansion.”

That day of your panic attack…

“Also if I may suggest perhaps a small break is needed, for the sake of your mental health.”

“Ya… huh, maybe I should just quit this author thing.” You felt William stiff up at the mention of that, his hand that was running circles on your back freezing in place, but you honestly did not pay much mind since there was so much going on in your mind. “Or maybe I should just disappear entirely… that is something I thought about before, faking my disappearance, I know how I would do it too. Maybe take a ferry to France, go off and start a new life in Paris- or maybe America, I do have friends there who would probably adopt me into their family since they like me better than their own daughter, Miss Alex Pendel, you probably have heard of her-“

“You are rambling, breathe.” William cut you off, but you did not feel like you were rambling. “I am just suggesting a break, not to disappear, isn’t writing your life blood after all?”

“Yes… b-but I never wanted it to become this… I have created a monster.” You closed your eyes at that thought. You loved writing, it was why you lived, you thrived from it, but people were suffering from your stories… well they were, you have no more stories for the Lord of Crime to work with, if you did not publish another it would all stop, right? It had to. Your hands fell to your lap, clutching your skirt in your hands, as if you were trying to get your body to agree with your mind who has already made its decision. “…I am done.”

A small smile came across William’s face as he recalled this and looked at Miss Alex Pendel…

So that is why you did not write to her.

—————————

The heat of the summer day had faded away with sunset, leaving the countryside of England to grow quite a chill as you walked through the dark country paths on your way to the train station, if it could be called that since it was more of a platform as there was no building beside the ticket office from where you bought your ticket the day prior, that as a short walk from the small town you were staying in in a house provided by Alex’s family who aided you in stage it your disappearance a few months prior, three months to be exact. Alex had visited you a few day ago upon her return from her brief trip to her hometown to let you know that everything was ready for your arrival, she gave you a boat ticket, and told you that her mother and father would pick you up upon your arrival and then your new life would begin and this life would be eased into nothing but history, a small price to pay to rid yourself from your old life that had been absolutely tarnished. Your time in America had inspired you for another story, it was not a crime, but a romance influenced by the environment you have seen in both England with the old and new money, and then America with the lively atmosphere there. You had not thought much about it besides the name of one of the characters, the flowers outside your cottage door in this small town you had been staying in these last few months were daisies, you always liked those flowers and that name, Daisy.

You walked up the stairs of the train platform and it was very dark, you could hardly see without the lamp posts that guided your way. Now as you stood at the edge of the train platform you could see a distant figure sitting on one of the benches. There was only one lamp that was posted over the ticket office door, so you could not see the details of the figure who sat on the bench. You could hear the distant whistles of the train, it was a few miles away but you could hear it clearly due to the dead silence of the countryside at night. Your boots clicked against the ground as you approached the bench next to the figure who you assumed was waiting for the train. You sat down on the other bench, setting your hard back suitcase on the ground next to you before reaching into your pocket and pulling out your pack of cigarettes and a match, you lit your cigarette that you places between your lips to hold it along with your other hand that did not hold your match and right as you were about to shake out the flame from the match you heard footsteps of the person on the other bench get up and approach you, making you stop and pause. The fire illuminated the person’s features in a flickering light as you looked up at him, and your expression was taken by shock as he smiled down at you with those red eyes.

“Professor Moriarty… What in god’s name are you doing here?” You pulled away the cigarette from your lips as you spoke to him, looking up at his smiling expression with a confused gaze as your eyes were locked with his which reminded you of blood. Something was not right, you had no doubt in your mind that William went to your house after receiving your letter which told him he could keep the unfinished work you left at his home as a gift to him for his kindness to you, but was he looking for you like the others were in their little competition?

“I finished reading the work you left me on the train ride here and I have to say it is by far your best work.” He spoke, completely ignoring the question you asked which gave you a pounding worry and anxiety in your chest.

“Thank you… but I must ask you to answer my questi-“

“Your killer, the method in which they did it truly fooled me, I never expected them to fake their own death.” You could feel the pounding in your chest as you looked up at the professor who still did not answer your question. You could feel the anxiety and worry in your chest turn into dread as you looked in his red eyes, just like blood.

“William-“

“They do lack a motive still, I remember you mentioning that you were struggling with that detail.” You saw him raise his right hand in your peripheral vision, but you could not quite see what he was holding as your eyes were still locked with his own. “But perhaps I can help?”

You were almost afraid to break eye contact with him and look at what he was holding, god you felt sick, but why?! You felt William’s gloved hand turn your head slightly but gently, forcing you to look at what he was holding, it was Réne’s drawing of the Lord of Crime, or as he titled it at least.

Wait-

That was it!

Your eyes widened in shock and horror at your realization…

That question you asked to Réne the day of your panic attack…

“Since there are no books left, what if I am next?”

You turned your head to look at William once again and when his scarlet red eyes narrowed at you in the darkness, only lit by the fire of your match for your cigarette, it sent shivers down your spine.

“You are the Lord of Crime.”

“Correct, I have to say I have been wondering if you or Mr. Holmes would figure it out first, but it seems you beat him to it even if I had to spell it out for him.” The smoke was building up between the two of you as your cigarette was just burning up, and the smoke was almost making it hard to breathe. Your palms were growing sweaty in your terror, correction, your entire body was burning up like your cigarette and the flame on your match and his smile certainly did not help with that. “I first found out about one of your books when an associate of mine was reading one of your novels on the way back from the mission site. While Louis did not fancy it that much, he did recommend it to me and I will say I was skeptical at first but then I have to say I was proven wrong when I opened up one of your books. People read your books to be taken into the mind and the world of someone they cannot fathom or do not wish to, but honestly when reading your works it is finally a world I can understand, a world created by someone who can understand my mind and keep up with me. I wondered if your fictional crimes could survive in the real world so I took a risk and tested my theory and followed your books like a script and I have to tell you my dear that you fooled everyone.”

“You realize I could report you now, do you not? You have not only revealed yourself but the identity of one of your associates with the mention of your brother.”

“Yes, but I doubt that you will have the chance.” Before you could ask what that meant he spoke up again, drowning out the sound of footsteps approaching you from behind between his voice and your loud heartbeat that roared in your ears already. “Question, if I gave you back your unfinished work, would you finish your villain?”

“Not a chance.”

“Shame.”

Your match went out and everything went black.

—————————

You did not like the new weight on your left hand ring finger, it made it far too difficult to hold paper down when you wrote and it made your fingers feel swollen not to mention how it smears the ink, but William insisted you wear it now since you are to be married in a month's time. You cringed at the thought of being married, especially to him, you two had already met with your publisher earlier this week to have your pen name changed to switch to your future last name for any future printings of your novels.

Then there was also the gossip of these entitled little rich girls who romanticize your engagement to him and you heard the gossip as you walked through the streets on William’s arm saying how they wished to be in your place and you just wanted to tell them they could be, it would be a good reality check for them. Then there were your friends, you have not seen any of them in months, Réne, Evelyn, and Charlotte not since before your disappearance, and then Alex you have not seen some you were engaged. You could not make yourself face any of them now, it would make you sick-

“Dear, are you alright? You look rather pale.” William’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts and you were back in the drawing room of the Moriarty brother’s estate in Durham, William thought it would be good for you not to be England when your newest book releases so you could avoid the press and fans, all who wanted their questions about you answered, and needless to say William did not want those questions answered.

“Yes… I just find myself out of it nowadays.” You answered as your eyes were still fixed on the cup of tea Louis had poured for you a few minutes prior. You heard William sigh and close the book he was reading and setting it down where he was sitting to move over to where you were sitting on the sofa.

“You have not touched a single cup of tea since you started writing again-“

“Since you kidnapped me.”

“I did what was best for you, it was eating you alive not to pick up a pen again.” He snapped back to your correction of his statement. William sighed as he places a hand over one of your own that was resting on your thigh and he spoke to you with a tone that almost trickled you into believing he cared about you. “I only want what is best for you and you will only strain yourself if you continue to push everyone away like you are.”

You just rolled your eyes and let your mind drift off again as you thought back on these last few cruel months that started all the way back upon your return to England, you should have just stayed in New York…

Ten little Soldier Boys went out to dine; One choked his little self and then there were nine…

Nine little Soldier Boys sat up very late; One overslept himself and then there were eight…

Eight little Soldier Boys travelling in Devon; One said he'd stay there and then there were seven…

Seven little Soldier Boys chopping up sticks; One chopped himself in halves and then there were six…

Six little Soldier Boys playing with a hive; A bumblebee stung one and then there were five…

Five little Soldier Boys going in for law; One got in Chancery and then there were four…

Four little Soldier Boys going out to sea; A red herring swallowed one and then there were three…

Three little Soldier Boys walking in the zoo; A big bear hugged one and then there were two…

Two little Soldier Boys sitting in the sun; One got frizzled up and then there was one…

One little Soldier Boy left all alone; He went out and hanged himself…

and then there were none….

…you have to live with the fact that your book took nine more lives and had to hope that one day the tenth would join the others sooner than later.