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alessiathepirate · 3 months

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Sherlock (BBC)

CROWN JEWELS: Jim Moriarty x fem!reader

Summary: Be careful what you say - especially around a man like Jim Moriarty.

Notes: English isn't my first language. I apologize for any mistake I may have made while I wrote this short story.

I have been working on this since summer and now that it's finally done I think I'm ready to share it with you guys. I really enjoyed writing it and I hope you'll enjoy reading it.

Also a silent thank you for my friend who told me to keep going even after writer's block hit me hard. <3

Warnings: swearing

•••

Jim Moriarty likes to leave a lasting impression.

That was her first thought about him ever since she first met him - ever since she first heard him talk and saw his body language. The man talks with his whole body - especially when he's in an angry or mischievious mood -, expresses himself with his arms' and shoulders' movements and with his many different gestures. The words he uses and the way he builds up sentence after sentence makes one to stop and listen. And he can make all of that look elegant and strangely enough, gentleman-like.

No matter what he does or talks about, how many times you have already met him, he's someone who you can never get fully used to and that alone always burries that lasting impression. It causes many different feelings and thoughts about the man, making the brain work and think about him and his every little gesture and word long after he's left.

But how long can that impression last?

Long enough for her to remember their first meeting weeks after it had occurred. Long enough for her to build up a whole complicated characterization and profile of him. Long enough for her to be able to quote his words exactly as he had said them.

As she sat in her own armchair in 221B Baker Street, watching the news on the telly about Jim Moriarty himself; the remains of that well known charm of his being slowly built up the memories of their first meeting.

She was in the exact same position, sitting in her own armchair - what Sherlock and John thought she finally deserved, so she won't have to sit on the chouch or on the 'chair of shame' (as she liked to call that) when they have a case to solve -; but instead of watching the telly, she was reading, falling head first into the world of the book, enjoying the peace and quiet which occurred pretty rarely in 221B. But despite the fact that she was way too interested in whatever she was reading, she still noticed the noise of a door opening downstairs, followed by the noise of someone coming up the stairs.

She looked up from the book, picking up her bookmark as she listened to the quiet tapping as someone's shoes met with the steps. She has spent enough time in 221B to be able to differ everyone's steps: Sherlock's, John's, Mrs. Hudson's, even Lestrade's and potential clients' - but these steps didn't sound like any of those.

Sherlock was always quick as he came up, too excited about the cases he had to solve and way too happy to be free from boredom. John was either slow when he came up, looking through the letters they've got or quick and angry, done with Sherlock's new case or with the certain experiments he was doing in the flat. Mrs. Hudson's were always high pitched, Lestrade's quick and heavy as he ran upstairs and the clients' were slow, reluctant and quiet.

These steps were slow, that was true, but there was something unusual about them, about the sound when they met with the wooden staircase. These were slow and quiet, but confident and elegant - these were something new and not usual and boring.

She put her book down and looked at the door what was wide open - because no matter how many times either she or John closed it, Sherlock always left it open. They gave up pretty soon, accepting the fact that their only protection against a robbery is Mrs. Hudson and the door downstairs.

The stranger was soon standing in the doorway, looking around the flat so calmly it looked like he owned the place and he most definitely didn't even think about knocking.

He didn't look like a client. He was way too calm and confident, way too elegant to be one. No, he was something new and unique, someone who you immediately notice even in a room full of people because of the lingering elegance and confidence - because even the air changes when he steps in the room.

After looking around the flat his gaze stopped and he looked directly at her for the very first time. She held his gaze, not giving in on the sudden game, but her stomach tightened in fear, a fear she only felt when she was in a room with Sherlock Holmes, knowing he'll deduce her and know about the things she doesn't want him to know.

"Hi..." The greeting was so short and simple for a person like him, that she tilted her head a little in confusion. His voice was also slightly high pitched when he pronounced the 'I', but she quickly realized it was intentional.

"Sherlock isn't home... if he is who you are looking for." she said to him, thinking there was no way this man didn't come here to see Sherlock Holmes.

"I know. That's why I'm here."

For a moment she thought about telling him that John isn't home either, but then decided against it. He clearly isn't here to talk to John Watson. He's here to talk to her...

"I see." she looked away for a moment to think about what to do with him, but no idea came to mind. "Well then please have a seat. Although I wasn't expecting guests."

He accepted the invitation, taking a seat in Sherlock's armchair, while she tried to figure out who he was and what he wanted. Meanwhile the stranger leaned back and made himself comfortable, enjoying the situation and the fact that he is sitting in Sherlock's armchair.

He knows whose armchair he's sitting in - the realization hit her, only making the 'who is he' more interesting.

"Yes, you were." he spoke up so suddenly she had to shake her head a little.

"Excuse me?"

"You were expecting one guest or you were counting on one specific guest at least."

She looked at him again, pressuring her mind to think. He is someone important and he knows that as well. That was obvious. But important for who? Not for John. John wouldn't tolerate him at all - but Sherlock would. Sherlock would even appreciate all this act.

She tilted her head a little in realization.

"Moriarty? Good to know that now that name has a face." she noticed how his expression didn't change, even if he smiled at her realization - he was expecting it, for her to realize who he is. "May I know why you wanted to see me?"

"Just wanted to meet the ordinary people Sherlock keeps around."

"Ordinary?" she laughed. "You think ordinary people could live with Sherlock Holmes?"

"That doesn't make you less boring."

"Nor does it make you less annoying." she quickly answered, leaving the annoyance out of her voice. "Playing around with Sherlock, coming here uninvited. Next time send a message at least so I can prepare some tea."

His eyes shined up for a second as if for a short amount of time he was looking at something more interesting.

"Doesn't he annoy you? Keeping you from living on your boring, ordinary little life."

"Not really. I'm never bored at least. He keeps the boredom away."

"So loyal. Ordinary people can be so amusing, I should get myself one."

She just smiled at that.

"You really like to get under people's skin, don't you?"

"Of course I do, I mean that's the funniest part, isn't it?"

That's when she first noticed how he uses his body language when he's having fun - how his arms and shoulders are moving with him.

"I guess you're right. That can be funny, you should try it out more with Sherlock. It's enough if you play one note wrong on the violin."

But that wasn't his only memorable visit. No, all of his visits were more than memorable if she wanted to be honest. She could tell all of them apart, she could tell in which month they had accured...

He visited her many times, but he always sent her a message beforehand. A short one. Something like: 'I'm a street away dear.' or 'I hope the tea is ready.' But later on they became something more: 'I'd like to see you today.', 'I have a gift for you.' or 'You'll be out tonight.' She didn't dare to ask how he knows her number, how he knows so much about her - where she'll be, what she likes. It would've been unnecessary words and she wouldn't have gotten an answer.

So she kept her questions to herself - and she also kept their meetings for themselves. Even if Sherlock noticed the change in her behaviour and happily pointed it out, causing John to ask who she's meeting up with. Even if Mycroft pointed out that she had been out at night. Even if Mrs. Hudson nearly jumped out of her skin in happiness when both brothers accused her of dating someone.

But the most interesting one--

... the most interesting conversion they've ever had was special. Oh so very special.

He came without telling her about it beforehand, just like the first time they'd met. She was sitting in her armchair with her laptop in her lap, going through a victim's personal data to make a profile while Sherlock was too busy working on a much more interesting case. Apparently a triple suicide in one place isn't that interesting, at all.

She didn't hear him come in, but she noticed him standing in the doorway - because the door was once again, wide open. He just stood there in his Westwood suit, gloating in the fact that he had the element of surprise.

She looked up at him as she raised an eyebrow.

"You didn't call this time."

"I had business around here. I just decided to come in."

"Liar." she accused as she put the laptop aside and offered him Sherlock's armchair. "You knew they went out on a case, otherwise you wouldn't have come here. You enjoy working behind his back too much."

He took the offered seat and after he leaned back, he started to talk:

"Remember what I told you when we first met? About the loyal ordinary people?"

"Of course I do." she answered, half-offended that he thought so little of her. "You wanted to get yourself one."

"Yes, well you see dear, I changed my mind." once again, his body moved with his mood. "Maybe I shouldn't get myself an ordinary one, I mean they would bore me so easily. I think I'd be perfectly fine with a not so ordinary one."

She looked at him, trying to read him like she did so many times before that, but this time other than that smirk, she couldn't find out anything else. So she turned to examine his words, that's what was also interesting about Jim Moriarty, what he said and how he said it.

A not so ordinary one. How on Earth will he get one?

And then she realized that for Jim Moriarty, the hierarchy of the world is about ordinary and extraordinary people - and in that momemt he added the not so ordinary ones to the mix too. Even if he didn't like Sherlock, he accepted that he was like him - too clever, extraordinary. John was only, simply ordinary. Nothing more, maybe less. But he talked to her a lot. A whole lot without getting bored, without thinking about speaking to Sherlock directly so he could annoy him instead of her. He didn't gloat that he knew her and talked to her daily. For him she was middle class, she was that not so ordinary person.

She chuckled and stood up, deciding that she couldn't sit that through without moving.

"Oh no, you can't possibly think that I'd leave Sherlock for you." she shook her head in disbelief. "I mean I wouldn't be loyal, would I? What happened with loyality?"

"Ordinary people are loyal and loyality is boring." he leaned forward to pour some tea for himself, not really caring that Mrs. Hudson prepared that for John and Sherlock, and most definitely not him.

"Well then I must be really boring, because I won't just leave Baker Street."

"You don't have to leave to show you aren't loyal, darling, we've been talking for months without you telling about it to them." he leaned back again and took a sip from the tea.

"Yeah, well it's still a no thank you very much." she said as her chest rose and fell rapidly, her brain working as she thought about what he just said.

"No?"

"No. I mean why would I?" the question was left unanswered. "I'd only consider it if I'd-- own the fucking Crown Jewels."

She tried to think about something unrealistic to say, to show that her decision is unbreakable. But looking at him, she clearly chose the wrong thing.

Moriarty looked pleased instead of angry - and that grounded her into reality. She said something wrong. She could basically hear the cogs turn in his head.

"Well, in that case," he said as he got ready to leave. "I'll see you around, darling."

She was left there angry and sad, but the thing she didn't think about?

That a few days later she'd get a letter.

•••

"Goddamn it Sherlock, I told you to put the microscope away! I almost knocked it down and that's the only one we own!" she shouted as she put the said thing aside, saving it from a disaster.

"He's not home!" came the answer from John, who was sitting in his armchair watching the telly - or rather trying to find a channel worth watching.

"He's not?" she asked in disbelief. "And he went without either of us?"

"You know him. Once he wants to go somewhere he goes there with or without us."

She opened one of the cupboards to find two clean cups - the kind which hadn't met with blood, eyeballs or some kind of acid beforehand - and once she found some, she began to make some tea.

"Is the forest fruit one okay? We ran out of black tea."

"Yes, thank you."

"You owe me." she threatened jokingly. "Anything worth watching? We could watch some crime show now that Sherlock isn't here to spoil it." she offered.

"Good idea." came John's answer - she enjoyed watching shows and movies with him since he was the only normal person in the flat - him and maybe Mrs. Hudson, but even Mrs. Hudson's life was extraordinary. "One'll begin after the news."

"Fantastic." she said as she finished preparing the tea and walked into the living room with a silver tray.

And then John turned the news on - and she almost dropped the tray.

There he was. On the screen, in handcuffs as the officers took him away and he was smiling - more like grinning. It only took her a second to realize where he was - the Tower of London, where the damn Crown Jewels were kept.

God damn him. Both of them. Both Moriarty and Sherlock -- even John and Mycroft. All of them had to mess up her life and make it more exciting and interesting instead of boring. God damn her that she liked it.

The Crown Jewels. What did she say to him the last time they met? 'I'd only consider it if I'd own the fucking Crown Jewels.'

John looked surprised too. Not as much as she was, he didn't know she had been talking with the enemy. He didn't notice her shock thankfully and even if he did he must've thought it was a normal reaction.

"Moriarty-- that's Moriarty." he explained.

"I know." she said without thinking.

Before John could ask her how, she heard Mrs. Hudson call out her name from downstairs. She put the tray down quicker than usual, some tea was even spilt, and she was out of the flat in a heartbeat. She ran down the stairs, her heart beating fast.

"What is it, Mrs. Hudson? Did something happen?" she asked.

"Oh, not at all dear, it's just my hips. John was kind enough to give me some painkillers, but I couldn't really walk up the stairs right now." the woman explained with the usual enthusiasm. "But a letter arrived for you a few seconds ago. The postman must've forgotten about it in the morning."

And there it was, in Mrs. Hudson's hand. An envelope, a beige coloured one - the very elegant kind.

She took it from her quickly and just by the envelope itself she knew who sent it. The penmanship was perfect. Her name was written on it in black ink, the letters were slim and long.

"Who is it from dear?"

She tore it open, her fingers ripping the paper and she took the folded letter out. With uneven heartbeat, she began to read it:

'My dear,

I hope you'll enjoy the show I put on in the Tower, I know I'll most certainly do.

The diamonds in the envelope are from the Crown Jewels, forgive for not being able to give you the whole thing, but otherwise the police would be knocking on your door. Still, now you own parts of them. Nine diamonds to be exact, I sincerly hope all of them are in the envelope - otherwise I'll have to skin someone after my trial.

A promise is a promise. Now consider my offer. I'll pick you up at 7 p.m. as soon as I'm out.

- J. M.

P.S.: I hope I'll see you in court.'

John shouted her name from upstairs, wondering why she ran. She ignored him and looked inside the envelope.

Nine diamonds. Nine of them, some bigger than the others, were shining in it.

Mrs. Hudson saw them too and she gasped in surprise.

"Oh my, you didn't tell me you had found yourself a man dear."

"I didn't know it up until now either, Mrs. Hudson."

"What is it?" John was standing on top of the staircase, looking at them with confusion.

"She has a boyfriend." Mrs. Hudson said happily, clapping her hands together.

"She has a what?"

"I don't have a boyfriend." she argued, her eyes still on the diamonds.

"What is it then?"

She didn't know how to feel or what to feel.

Deep down she felt like a real woman. A woman someone, a very special someone, wants to court. A woman who's looked at as someone interesting, important and worth stealing for. She was flattered. Truly.

On the other hand she felt scared and confused. Jim Moriarty was still Jim Moriarty, and she was still the girl from Baker Street. With him she'll never feel completely at ease or safe, there'll always be a wall standing between them what they'll never be able to cross.

But still...

He was so interesting.

She looked up at John as she put the envelope in her pocket.

"I have a date."

Mrs. Hudson laughed in happiness.

She turned towards the stairs, her brain completely blocking John's voice out as it worked and worked, trying to figure Jim out.

Jim. He was already Jim in her head.

Then a strange question appeared in big letters in her mind like a neon sign:

Why nine?

#bbc sherlock #jim moriarty x reader #jim moriarty x fem!reader #jim moriarty #sherlock x reader

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therapyandprozac · 1 year

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Always! Wake Me Up!

This is my first fic in a while. I had my partner proofread and they liked it, I hope you do too! I wrote this very late at night and didn’t add a name so this is an any fandom you wish fic, basically this can work for any character.

****

He has always been the sweetest to you, especially after a scene where he’s basically been beating you for 30 minutes. You're cuddled together on the bed, he’s half asleep up against your back. His foot is touching yours, so you try something that you saw on TikTok. You move your foot forward, just barely out of the way of his toes. It takes about 30 seconds for his half-asleep brain to understand what happened. When it does he jolts his foot back onto yours. You giggle quietly and try again, pulling your foot slowly away he reacts just as quickly but a little more aggressively this time. You decide to test your luck and pull away one more time.

Deep in the chest of your boyfriend, forms a dark growl that rises up into a rough “Mine!” As he fully twists your leg under his. Your eyes go wide and you squish your legs together, feeling your anticipating pussy send shivers up your spine. He falls back asleep and you keep squeezing your legs together chasing and craving an orgasm.

Your breathing increases and stutters, when behind you “Well,” vibrates through your body. You go stiff as a board pretending nothing happened when you notice pressure on your ass. You turn bright red and hot “He’s hard! I must have been rubbing against him, oh god, oh god.” You think in a panic.

“Mmm, my love.”

“Yes.” You whisper, covering your eyes with your hands so fast.

“You woke me up.”

“I know, I’m sorry!” You bury further into your hands.

“No, you're not.” With a smile on his lips that you hear but can’t see, you curl into a ball of embarrassment. He chuckles and pulls you up and over his legs so you’re straddling him. “Does my baby need more?” He says as you bury your face into his shoulder. “Mmm you were just tied to the vibrator for an hour Darlin, I even lost count of how many times my pussy came tonight.” He said moving his hand possessively to your clit and teasing you. Your shoulders drop against him as you moan and your body involuntarily shakes. He laughs and waits for you to sit back up. His voice is rough with sleep “You want more?” he asks. You nod your head from behind your hands. “Words, angel.” He says gently pulling your hands away from your face.

“Yes, yes please.” You whisper avoiding his gaze.

“You’re so hot mmm, I want you to ride me.” He says running his fingertips up and down your thighs, you nod pleadingly. “Mm, that's my good girl.”

You groan, beginning to grind against his dick. You sit up on your knees to line him up, using his tip to play with your clit. You tease him by just barely taking it in, just the head over and over until he groans impatiently and pulls you all the way onto him. You yelp and moan as your hand falls to his chest, he has an evil smile and tired eyes. You lose just about all shame as you grind your hips up and down on him. Taking in everything he gave, feeling it rip out and rush back in. He was the perfect size for you, enough to fill you good and tight but big enough to cause that slightly painful stretch you’ve grown addicted to.

You never lasted long on top, because you knew where your g spot was and exactly how to use his dick to fuck yourself senseless. Gasps and moans escape your lips as he just smiles that coy smile, loving watching you bounce on him. It isn’t long until you are so close to coming you beg for help and he chuckles. He grabs your hips in his hands and starts rolling thrusts up into you. You collapse your face back, buried in his shoulder, moaning uncontrollably.

“Please, please, please!” You gasp so close. He moans but doesn’t say anything. “Mm please, daddy please let me cum.” He groans sitting up pushing you flat on your back. One more dark chuckle as he loses himself in your pussy. Thrusting, pushing and pulling, so fast you’re eyes roll to the back of your head. He hits deep and hard as you cum, short circuiting your brain. He groans but keeps the same speed and your pussy is crying from overstimulation. That beautiful rain before the sun, the pain overtakes your writhing body before it shifts, and it feels like heaven is running through your veins again.

“Ahh mmm daddy, daddy please cum inside me please!” You choke out between moans. He groans and keeps plowing into your sweet cunt until you cry out in ecstasy, cumming for the final time tonight. You can feel him pulse as he cums violently inside you. He is groaning and grunting while still pushing and pulling in and out of you. He has his arms to either side of your head as he slows, his breathing shutters as he pulls out of you.

“Mmm, I can’t believe you almost didn’t wake me up.” He whispers in your ear. “Always. Wake me up!” He growls.

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asgards-princess-of-mischief · 5 months

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Last Updated: 2024-04-03

Disclaimer: I am not the author of these stories, just sharing my favourite BBC!Jim Moriarty stories. Find the authors' links below. If you want your work removed, message me privately.

✑ Little Holmes￨Prt. II￨Prt. III by deerstalkersanddangerousthoughts • 〔E᜶A᜶F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ After You Love by lacelynpage • 〔F〕 •

Summary: "You meet the most puzzling person at a café..."

✑ Complicated [Soulmate!A.U.] by megs-mostly-random-fandoms • 〔A〕 •

Summary: "This was not at all how you expected meeting your soulmate would go..."

✑ Devil is a Gentleman, the by keravnous • 18+ • 〔E〕 • 🚫 •

Summary: "You started working at the National Gallery a couple of months ago. Today, the whole staff has gathered to give one of the most benevolent private sponsors a tour. What could possibly go wrong?"

✑ Doomed by make-me-imagine • 〔A〕 •

Summary: Jim never thought he'd fall in love. He never thought he was capable of it, so how can he convince you he loves you

✑ Landslide￨Prt. II by frost-queen • 〔A〕 •

Summary: When John and Sherlock attempt to use you as leverage against Jim, it forces you to come to terms with who exactly you've fallen in love with...

✑ Suprise Sweetie by frost-queen • 〔F〕 •

Summary: "Imagine going out on a date and Jim... surprises you by showing up and claiming you as his."

✑ You're Alive by make-me-imagine • 〔A〕 • ♥︎ •

Summary: You mourned Jim after he shot himself on that rooftop. Hurt, angry and confused you can't understand why he did it and why he never told you who he really was… Needless to say, when he miraculously appears in your apartment, doesn't get him the warm welcome he expected.

✑ Always by ladyalicesbookstore • 〔A〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Deadly by bonniebird • 〔M〕 •

✑ Fight, the by writings-of-a-british-fangirl •

✑ Hostage by megs-mostly-random-fandoms • 〔E᜶F᜶A〕 •

✑ Midnight Swim by geeks-universe • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Miss Me? by justauthoring • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Moriarty's Secret by megs-mostly-random-fandoms • 〔A〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Now Pet by lacelynpage • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Privilege by bonniebird • 〔M〕 •

✑ Problem by oneshots-imagines-and-that • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Rooftop Reservation by movedtosalamooneder • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Secrets by magicalthoughtsendinterribkefics • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ • 𑁍 •

✑ Sleepover by thepokyone • 〔F〕 •

✑ Swoon by bonniebird • 〔F〕 •

✑ We'll See by writings-of-a-british-fangirl •

✑ You Look Like You Need a Hug by make-me-imagine • 〔F᜶C〕 •

✑ Dating Jim as John's Sister… by charliesmdawn • 〔F᜶A〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Dating Jim Moriarty... by lacelynpage • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Living w/ Jim Moriarty... by oneshots-imagines-and-that • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

See Also: Navigation || James 'Jim' Moriarty Master Index

Authors: @bonniebird || @charliedawn || @deerstalkersanddangerousthoughts || @frost-queen || @geeks-universe || @justauthoring || @keravnous || @lacelynpage || @ladyalicesbookstore || @magicalthoughtsendinterriblefics || @make-me-imagine || @megs-mostly-past-random-fandoms || @movedtosalamoonder || @oneshots-imagines-and-that || @thepokyone || @writings-of-a-british-fangirl ||

#Jim Moriarty x Reader #Jim Moriarty x Female Reader #Jim Moriarty x Y/N #Jim Moriarty x You #Moriarty x Reader #Moriarty x Female Reader #Moriarty x Y/N #Moriarty x You #BBC Moriarty x Reader #BBC Moriarty x Female Reader #BBC Moriarty x Y/N #BBC Moriarty x You #BBC Sherlock Fanfiction #BBC Sherlock Fanfic

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moriartsy · 3 months

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beyond gilded chains

pairing: jim moriarty x fem!reader

warnings: toxic parents, anxiety attack, sexual tension

summary: what is the lesser of two evils? your father and his world of elites he wants to trap you in? or the overt yet unspoken reality of moriarty's darkness?

w/c: 1.7K

a/n: okay, i know this is kind of cliché, but i have an idea for a jim moriarty story and i have to warm up before i get into it. so i wrote this. i plan on writing a second part and possibly making it a series of oneshots / drabbles. but we'll see how it goes...you can send in requests if you want (and if there are any moriarty enthusiasts still)! thank you for reading !! <3

The grand ballroom of the opulent Ravenscroft Hall shimmered with a golden hue as crystal chandeliers bathed the room in a soft, ambient glow. A symphony of murmurs filled the air, blending seamlessly with the soothing melodies of a string quartet playing in the background. Lavish floral arrangements adorned each table, their fragrances intermingling with the scent of expensive perfumes a polished mahogany.

You stood at the periphery of the extravagant scene, your eyes wandering over the sea of elegantly dressed attendees, each adorned in designer gowns and tailored suits. You fidgeted with the hem of your own exquisite dress, a creation of silk and lace that clung to your figure with the same precision as the couturier's careful stitching.

Despite the expensive fabric enveloping your body, your mood was in a poor state. Honestly, you’d rather be at home, rewatching The Office for the millionth time, but your parents will never let you not attend these events. It's like a chore.

Your parents were proponents of social grace and high society and they had meticulously trained you to navigate such events with poise, concealing any trace of your true feelings beneath a veneer of practiced smiles and genteel conversation.

You sighed.

Suddenly, you felt a new presence at your side. Following the sound of slow footsteps, you found one of your father's associates wearing a smirk that mirrored the self-assured glint in his eyes, sauntering towards you with his hand in the pocket of his dark pants as the other held the fragile flute, a fizzy liquid swirling inside.

"I can see attending these social shindigs brings you such a genuine pleasure. A sheer joy is just radiating from your every pore.“ he said, his words dripping with sarcasm.

You forced a tight smile. "That would be an understatement, Moriarty."

You took a sip of your Dom Pérignon, the liquid gold sliding down your throat as Jim chuckled, unfazed by your icy demeanor.

"Is there something you want, Moriarty, or are you just here to grace me with your charming company?"

Moriarty grinned, "I'm just marveling at the spectacle, my dear. Your enthusiasm is truly contagious."

Rolling your eyes, you retorted, "If that's all, then kindly go and marvel elsewhere. Go strangle someone just because they looked at you the wrong way."

Moriarty feigned offense, placing a hand over his heart as his lips formed an 'O' and his brown eyes widened.

"Oh, (Y/N), don't be like that. I thought we were bonding over our shared love for wealth and excess this boring bunch put on display oh so exquisitely," he said as his hand, still occupied by the glass, swept over the room before facing you again with a knowing smile. "But just so you know. I just did." He added with mischief.

You honestly didn't know if he was joking just to entertain you or maybe intimidate you. Moriarty was capable of bringing all of those people to their knees right in that instance. Including you.

"Do you really want my father to come after you that much? He won't stand for anyone bothering his precious daughter, you know," you sassed with an ironic smile, bluffing your way through.

"Ah, the protective father card, awfully clever.“ He murmured, his eyebrows knitted together before his expression became serious again as he leaned in. His scent invaded your nostrils as you fought to maintain your composure. "But you and I both know, (Y/N), your dear father is at my beck and call. He wouldn't dare lift a finger against me, no matter how many threats you throw around."

You held his gaze, but as much as you tried to hide the signs of the turmoil he stirred within you, you cou+ldn’t help but grind your teeth together. You knew there was no point in attempting to deceive him. He was remarkably good at reading people and you couldn’t be more of an open book to him.

His eyes fell to your lips just for a millisecond before they bored into yours once again.

Suddenly, a clink of the glasses between your bodies made you jump and he smirked at that.

"Cheers," he said with his psychotically soft voice, taking a sip of his drink. With that, Jim turned around a walked away, disappearing into the sea of the richest.

You exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. He seems to always find you at these events, making your blood boil every time.

Your solitude was short-lived, though, because soon enough, your father appeared at your side. He observed you with a scrutinizing gaze.

"(Y/N), my dear, what was that all about? What did that spider want?"

Always adept at concealing the complexities of your emotions, you responded with a nonchalant smile.

"Oh, nothing. Just a brief exchange of pleasantries."

He probed further. "Pleasantries? You seemed rather tense. Did he say anything about me? Any threats, perhaps?“

Your father was a man driven by self-interest and the desire to maintain his social standing. Moriarty was right, your father would be willing to sell you in pieces if it meant saving his own ass.

You shook your head, your expression composed. "No, Dad, nothing like that. Just some small talk."

Satisfied but still slightly suspicious, your father linked his arm with yours. "Well, let's not dwell on such matters. We're here to enjoy the evening, aren't we?"

He guided you through the lavish crowd, engaging you in conversations that held little interest for you. Stock portfolios, luxury vacations, and exclusive club memberships. You hear it all the time.

It didn't take long for your father to notice your disinterest, though, and it didn't make him happy.

"You should really take more interest in these matters. People talk, you know. It's essential for your future, especially in our circle.“ He hissed at you when he made sure nobody was paying attention, his words dripping with toxicity that echoed the unspoken expectations of your privileged world.

In that moment, you fought an overwhelming urge to snap back, to unleash the resentment that had long been bubbling beneath the surface. You just bit your lip, resisting the impulse.

"I'm sorry, I'm just tired is all," you said with a tight-lipped smile before putting on the aristocratic mask and this time truly engaging in the conversation.

But the air started to feel thick and your eyes started stinging. You couldn’t take a nice deep breath and your joints started to tingle. You quickly put the flute on the tray the passing hostess was holding to hide the slight tremor in your hands.

Fuck. Here we go again.

5 things I can see: chandeliers, flowers, couples dancing, gilded mirrors, candles.

4 things I can touch: my dress, the Champagne glass, smooth marble surfaces, my silver necklace.

3 things I can hear: string quartet melodies, hushed conversations, footsteps.

2 things I can smell: rich perfume, and leather shoes.

1 thing I can taste: bitter Champagne.

You'd fought this anxiety battle right in the middle of a circle of elites many times before and you'd always pushed through. And you always will.

As you finally managed to take a breath and your tears dissolved, you took a quick scan of the room, catching the sight of Moriarty as he watched you.

Great. I’ll never hear the end of this.

The circle of riches finally broke not long after your crisis, and you took that opportunity to excuse yourself from the suffocating atmosphere. The sound of your high heels echoed through your personal space as you headed toward the exit. Unbeknownst to you, on the other side of the room, Moriarty discreetly signaled to his bodyguard it was time to leave, making his exit too.

As he stepped into the darkness of the night, he unbuttoned his midnight blue suit jacket, his eyes scanning the grandiose driveway. He started descending down the grand staircase and as soon as he reached the bottom, he spotted you leaning against the newel post of the steps, your eyes closed and arms crossed over your rising chest.

Jim jerked his head at his bodyguard, who nodded and rushed away, leaving you and Jim alone.

"It's a shame for such a magnificent creature to be hiding out here." You opened your eyes, slightly turning your head to follow his nearing form. "I mean, can they even call themselves 'crème de la crème' when you're not around?" he asked with a furrowed brow as if it was a serious question.

"You're disgusting," you said and let your eyelids fall again, rolling your head back into its original position, the sturdy structure of the stone scratching the back of your head.

He was now right in front of you, and even though you couldn’t see him, you could feel the warmth radiating from his body.

„Your father certainly knows how to orchestrate an impressive show. How long are you planning to dance to his tune?“

You opened your eyes again, the cool darkness giving way to the silhouette of Jim Moriarty standing before you. As your gaze locked with his dark brown eyes, you felt a complex mix of emotions swirling within.

Everything about him was dark, a demon steeped in shadows, but as your eyes lingered on his, you couldn't shake the feeling that, in some inexplicable way, he appeared lighter than the suffocating life you led with your parents.

"Well, you know. It's a waltz I've mastered"

„Sure, sure. But I also know you can only twirl around the predictable steps for so long before the music changes.“

You studied each other in silence before your forms were illuminated by the headlights of a black SUV. He turned on his heels and headed towards the awaiting car, pulling a gum out of his pocket and popping it into his mouth. Once he reached the vehicle, he opened the back door and turned to you, tilting his head as he waited for you to make a decision.

There was no point in stalling, he knew what you were going to decide anyway. You pushed yourself off the hardness of the pillar and walked towards the car. Moriarty smirked as the two of you locked eyes, watching as you got in.

Before he followed your suit, he took a glance at the doors leading inside the manor, spotting your father as he watched the situation unfold with terror on his face. Jim’s smirk widened as his jaw worked the gum, savoring the flavor. Then he disappeared into the luxury of his SUV, and your father only watched as the car sped away, the tires screeching against the rubble of the driveway.

tbc.

oop👀

a/n2: thank you for making it this far! sorry for the pineapples.

#jim moriarty imagine #jim moriarty x reader #jim moriarty x you #moriarty x reader #moriarty x you #james moriarty x reader #james moriarty x you #james moriarty imagine #jim moriarty fanfiction #james moriarty fanfiction #jim moriarty #bbc sherlock #sherlock bbc #sherlock fanfiction #jim moriarty fluff

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lacelynpage · 1 year

Note

Hey, I would like to a request their reaction to the reader being really shocked the first time they flirt with them (reader). Like maybe they drop what they are holding or choke on the water they are drinking or something like that xD

A/N: Has it been 100 years sense I posted and this was requested? yes, yes it has. I loved the thought of this! I struggled to write it though lol. I hope you all enjoy it, I love you Darlings!

First time flirting~ Sherlock Preferences

Sherlock:

It took you a moment to realize he was flirting with you. While you and Sherlock are on the same intellectual field, his communication style still takes some getting used to. Though you started to slowly notice the way he would glance at you when he thought no one was looking. The way he asked your opinion and actually listened to the whole thing. The real moment that made you realize he was flirting with and liked you was when he made you tea. Something as small and as simple as that made you realize exactly what was happening. You were honestly so shocked you didn’t answer or take the tea, instead just staring at him for a minute before he smirked and put the cup on the table next to you.

John:

You were actually the one who started flirting. He was surprised and so preciously awkward and sweet. Though neither of you were incredibly smooth people so it was fumbling and a little odd. But the bumbling paid off, it might have been painful for other people to watch but you both enjoyed yourselves.

Mycroft:

Mycroft flirting for the first time with you was subtle. You didn't really notice for a while. But once you did you couldn't unsee it. He was constantly flirting with you in small ways. It was fun to puzzle out all of his little gestures. It was unique and you both had way too much fun doing it.

Greg:

There was this guy at your favorite football pub who you could not get over. Whenever there was a big game he was normally there. You would both be at the bar and occasionally make eye contact, or say a few passing remarks about the game if in earshot of one another. So the first time he came over to actually sit next to you, shit your heart nearly jumped out of your chest. He was handsome, funny, and though he was clearly a bit rusty in the flirting department you were still absolutely thrilled.

Moriarty:

Your relationship with Jim was always flirtatious. The two of you had a certain spark sense the moment you met. Everything the two of you said had layers. Saying a thousand things in only a few words. The first time he flirted, you were hooked.

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sardonic-the-writer · 1 year

Text

SHERLOCK: VALENTINES DAY HEADCANONS <3

• "It's valentines day?"

• That's how the morning had begun. With John exasperatedly running a hand down his face as he tried his best not to shout at his flat mate

• He had been reminding Sherlock that valentines day was coming up for the past week and a half, adiment on getting him out of the flat to go out and do something for once. You were in on it as well, giving Greg the heads up not to send any cases Sherlocks way for the day

• So of course John was a bit pissed when he found Sherlock hard at work at what used to be the dining room table, hunched over some of Moriarty's latest work instead of getting ready for the day

• "Yes its bloody valentines day. Sometimes I wonder how you can be so smart but so fucking oblivious at the same time."

• "Not oblivious, John. I meerly have no room in my brain for such trivial things. And the holiday occasion would certainly explain why Moriarty's latest crime was littered with rose petals and the hearts of the victims. Thank you John, that was percicly what I needed."

• "I know you're being serious right now, but I have never wanted to punch you in the mouth more."

• "You wouldn't be the first."

• Eventually, two hours after John and you had originally planned to drag Sherlock away from his work, the doctor finally got him out the door—where you had been standing for quite a while waiting

• He immediately sighed before outwardly deducing the both of you. Probably just to get on John's nerves even more if you had to guess from how red the latter's face was

• "Ah. I see what's going on. You two have devised a plan behind my back to take me out to some rather bland coffee shop or restaurant today in hopes that I will join into your mindless banter. Now I think I'll pas—"

• "Nope." You had popped the p on the end of your sentence, speaking before John could blow a gasket. "You're coming with us, Holmes. Come on, we're going to that fish and chips place you like. I'll even let you talk about the case I'm sure you stayed up late working on while we walk."

• That had gotten him to start following you down the street, breath showing up as cold puffs of air in the freezing england morning

• True to your word, you had let him talk about the case all along the way there as John occasionally put in his two cents

• "—and you know this all is making a lot more sense now that I'm out and seeing the affect this holiday has on people. I never pegged Moriarty as someone to go for something so trivial, but then again that's just another devious—"

• "Wait, what do you mean trivial?"

• Sherlock paused, both in his rambling and walking, before picking up his pace much slower

• "Well, amongst the blood and roses we found at the crime scene a few short days ago, there was a note for me. Per usual. But this time an actual one, fancy parchment and all. Detailing how I'd eventually loose, how we play cat and mouse, getting odly sexual I might add, that sort of thing blah blah blah. But what really stummped me—" He ignored the way you and John exchanged amused glances when he admitted that "—was the innuendo he left for you, (Y/n). I assume it was to throw me off in a similar fashion to Irene Adler's tactics but—"

• "Hold on." John stopped him in the middle of the sidewalk, eyes wide. "You're telling me, the most dangerous man we know left one of your best friends a note flirting with them, and you didn't think to tell then until valentines day?"

• Sherlock clearly didn't think much of John's steadily increasing tone, just raising an eyebrow in response

• "I didn't see the need to. They have never met before like you and he have at that pool. No reason to worry. Simply a move to get under my skin. Which did not work, I should add."

• You had to choke down laughter at the befuddled look on Sherlocks face, not sure John would appreciate you finding humor in the situation

• The rest of the holiday outing was spent with the two arguing; most of it coming from John as he worried. It wasn't the worst entertainment you had ever had over coffee, so you didn't mind watching your friend fret over something that didn't even concern you. Moriarty had never even known of you until what seemed like recently, so you didn't see reason to fear

• "That's it. You're staying in the flat with us this week. I'm not letting that bastard lay a finger on any of us again." John eventually said, throwing his hands up.

• "Oh come on. It was just a fake out from Mr. Jimmy boy. You heard Sherlock say it himself."

• "Please (Y/n), never call Moriarty that again. And John, leave them be. They're a grown adult."

• "Thank you, Sherlock!"

• "You're welcome (Y/n). Like I was saying, you can move into our flat on your own. No help required from us."

• "You too Sherlock. Really?"

#sardonics valentines day event ♡#sherlock bbc x reader #sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock holmes x you #sherlock holmes x y/n #john watson #john watson x reader #john watson x y/n #john watson x you #jim moriarty #jim moriarty x reader #jim moriarty x you #jim moriarty x y/n #headcanons #fluff #x reader

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bonniebird · 1 year

Photo

Jim Moriarty x Reader

Requested by Anon

Valentine event

Support me on Ko-fi

Make a request

“You don’t have to do this if you don't want to.” John said as Sherlock inspected the room. He walked around carefully before heading out into the hallway with you and John.

“It seems safe enough.” Sherlock said honestly.

“Safe enough? Enough? I want top-notch safety!” You muttered. Sherlock raised his eyebrows and sighed.

“On the budget, this place has the best you’ll get. We’ll be right outside with armed guards. So it should be safe.” Sherlock assured you. You glanced at John who once again reminded you that you didn’t have to go through with it but you took a deep breath and went to one side with one of the guards. When they were ready you were led into the room Sherlock had come out of before they left you alone. You stared at the glass in front of you.

“I didn’t think they’d let me get this.” Jim said with a grin as he gestured around the room. It was plain, just a chair and the glass. He had nothing on the other side.

“Where are they?” You asked.

“Ah ah ah! Not so fast. I asked for one thing in exchange for the location.” Jim insisted. You frowned at him.

“You asked for me. I’m here. So please… tell me what we need to know.” You begged. Jim smiled and tilted his head as he watched you as if he enjoyed you begging.

“I’ll trade it.” He answered and smiled when you stood from the seat and looked at him curiously.

“You’ll trade it? For what?” You asked. Jim walked back and forward behind the glass. There was a noise somewhere in the room and you turned away looking towards the door which made a thinking noise. You assumed that if there was a problem Sherlock and John would be through it in a shot so you turned back. He was opposite you and you jumped but reminded yourself that there was glass between you.

“A kiss.” Jim answered. You frowned at him.

“You want to trade the information for a kiss?” You asked. Thinking for a moment you sighed. A kiss in exchange for several people's lives wasn’t that height of an ask. Uncomfortable of course but you could do that.

“Fine.” You said and he smiled.

“But you have to mean it.” He insisted. You frowned at him as he motioned for you to get closer to the glass. "A kiss can be deadly if you mean it."

You leaned in expecting the feel cold glass against your lips but you were met with the warmth of Jim’s lips instead. You went to pull apart but his hands moved to your head as he deepened the kiss. The door started to rattle.

When Sherlock and John finally got the door open they found the room empty of everything but a single chair.

“There’s a gap in the wall. I can see the glass panel in there.” John said as he looked carefully at the walls.

“I Assume they got out of here.” Sherlock said. He was crouching down at the opposite wall inspecting an almost invisible door-sized crease in the wall.

“Sherlock. We promised (Y/N) that nothing would happen.” John said to Sherlock who sighed.

“I am well aware of that. We need to get going. I need to look over everything that he sent us. I want to look at (Y/N)’s flat as well.” Sherlock said as he stood suddenly and left the room.

Jim tags:

@the-caravello-post @killing-gremlin @aegonandaemondtargaryenslut18 @lchufflepuffcorn

#jim moriarty #jim moriarty x reader #bonniebird #valentine2023

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keravnous · 1 year

Text

it's a man's world ; jim moriarty/reader (smut, 18+)

part i | playlist:you're moriarty's favourite toy

Jim likes to show off his possessions. Especially, when all the the small flies in his web are present.

word count: 10,1k

warnings: kinda non-con, power play, gun kink, public, degradation, oral (male receiving), facial, grinding on the tip of his shoes/getting yourself off, corruption kink if you blink, name calling ; sebastian moran has a cameo bc I am still mad we didn't get to see hiddleston in that role, irene is also there (besties alert), death, blood, light misogyny if you blink/power imbalance, jim has his whole army of super-criminals around for an annual gathering so beware of the stereotypes , i googled bri-ish roadman slang for this so please forgive me

inspired by that one "hello james" spectre scene

v said moriarty strikes them as the "expressive type", sooo I'll blame this on you bestie

You look down on the thin fabric in your hands. This surely isn't all, there has to be more.

You carefully drop the dress onto your bed and scram through the box and its expensive wrapping paper once more to find it - empty. Nothing, except a matching pair of longsleeved gloves and a thong in the same soft nude colour.

The material is just as sheer as the dress is, a soft rose tone, interwoven by hundreds of small crystals. They sparkle in the dim light of your bedroom.

This is a joke. He's gotta be joking.

You pick up the dress - if one can even call it that - again and give it a closer look. You are very sure that this isn't supposed to be worn on a night out, this is a bedroom-exclusive. It's long and sleeveless, with a deep neckline and a halter-neck, closed with a string of what looks suspiciously like multiple diamonds dangling from it.

You walk over to the closed door, leaning against it. You can hear Mister Moran and his colleague chatting quietly on the other side. Should you ask?

The fabric is light and soft in your hand and you tilt it in the dimly lit room. It sparkles and you can see through nearly completely, your painted nails shining through. You definitely should ask.

"A-are you, uhm, Mister Moran are you there?", you lean your forehead against the cold wooden door, taking one or two deep breaths. The low murmur ebbs, your cat meows and then there's footsteps, followed only a second later by a soft knock on the door. It rings in your ears.

"Are you ready, Miss?"

"Yeah, uh, no. I have a question, I reckon."

Silence. "Alright, Miss."

You swallow.

"A-are you sure, that this is all? All h-he bought, I mean."

There's a slight chuckle. "I was reassured by Mister Moriarty that the package is complete, Miss. So yes, this might as well be it."

"Jesus", you huff.

"Please, do hurry up."

"I am not leaving the house like this", your mouth is quicker than your brain and you can hear Moran freezing behind the door.

"I fear, that will be non-negotiable."

"I will not-"

"Don't keep him waiting."

You burst out a dry laugh, one, that catches in your throat. "I am nearly naked in this."

The other side falls silent. Where there was shuffling and rustling before and someone talking to your cat, is now dead silence.

Moran clears his throat. "I have my orders, Miss. We are already running late."

You shake your head. "Call him, then. I am not-"

"You do not wanna do this", the tone of his voice now has you falling dead silent in a heartbeat, a sudden cold creeping up your spine, "We may offer you a coat. Now, please, do get ready."

You swallow. "Are you certain?", your voice is a lot more silent now, giving away your blooming surrender and anxiety.

"Yes, Miss. I am afraid I am."

You nod and let go of a shaky breath, hand slowly lowering on the door. Its wooden surface is cold beneath your touch.

You know a warning when you hear one.

Even though Mister Moran and his colleague (the one talking to your cat), just as the driver, had been very respectful and discreetly kept their gazes away from you, you can still feel your nervosity rising. Jim hadn't told you where you would be meeting him - actually, until roughly an hour ago you didn't know at all that you'd be leaving the house tonight.

You had come home from work and ordered some food from your favourite Indian restaurant, readying yourself for a cosy night in - as the doorbell rang. It hadn't been the delivery service, but three men in black suits, with concealed weapons and a beige, large gift box.

You take a look out of the window as the rainy city passes by. London is pretty when it's dark out, warm lights and people rushing by, as used to the rain as they are to breathing. The driver hammers down on the gas and the engine roars, as the lights switches from red to green.

"Where are we going?", you ask as you pass Hyde Park. Moran sits next to you, the middle seat between the two of you is empty except for your ridiculously small purse. His eyes are fixed on the road ahead, visible between the two front seats. The rain patters on the roof and runs down the thick window panes, while some female singer's sultry voice, most likely from the 50s, fills the warm air. You fumble with the expensive rings on your fingers. Moran had discreetly handed them over to you while you were doing your make-up. They are made of crisp and bright, huge rose diamonds and - you recognize one of them. Monique told you, months ago, that it was sold at Sotheby's for an eight-figure sum, showed you pictures and you joked about who could possibly be rich enough to own such a piece. Now it sits between multiple other diamond rings on your ring finger, gleams in the light.

"Brompton, Miss. We will arrive shortly."

You know the district more from the colourful front pages of the tabloids - spotting their lurid guise when hurrying by newspaper stands on your way to the tub - than seeing it in person. The area is significantly above your pay grade anyways.

"Brompton?", you echo only to then - desperately scrambling for any conversation to not fall into uncomfortable silence once more - add, "Must be difficult to get a table anywhere there, I reckon. How did he managed to get a reservation?"

"Reservation?", he turns his head around and looks at you, eyebrows raised in confusion. O-kay.

"Yes?", you blink at him, once twice, "I- I thought I'd meet him for dinner?"

"No", comes the curt answer.

Oh, that's - well, odd. Jim usually takes you out for dinner and fucks you senseless on the backseat of his Aston Martin. It has become kind of a routine the two of you have fallen into, fucking once or twice a week, making you feel less lonely and taking care of the ache between your legs.

You catch yourself still looking at Mister Moran, not knowing what to say next. So much for keeping up small talk.

"May I remind you, that today is the 15th, Miss", he suddenly says, looking straight ahead, expression pretty much unreadable.

You fall silent for a moment, your eyebrows drawn together in confusion - you have no clue what that's supposed to mean. "Yeah, and -", you startle, "Oh shit. It's not his birthday, or is it?"

Now it's his turn to be silent, visibly confused. You are certain that a minute passes by, before his gaze quickly drops to the passenger seat, where the other man in a black suit sits. His eyes meet Moran's in the rear-view mirror.

"She doesn't know", the man murmurs. It's the first time you hear him speak all night, except the muted words that passed through your closed bedroom door when he was talking to your cat.

"That she doesn't, indeed."

"Where are we going?", you can hear yourself ask again, sounding far away in your own ears, rising anxiety hardening your voice.

Mister Moran looks back at you. For a split second - you won't actually be certain later that you did not in fact imagine it - a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

"Mister Moriarty is hosting a very special party tonight, Miss. It is not his birthday, may I add. It's more like a - well, a gala of sorts."

Oh.

You already open your mouth to ask A gala, why? What for? as the car comes to a halt in front of a massive bronze gate. A hundred years ago or so it would've gleamed golden in the warm hue of the street lights but it has turned into a dirty green-ish since then. The driver rolls down the window and exchanges some hushed words with the porter, who quickly opens the gate. It rolls open lazily, giving way to a long gravelly path. The engine roars and the car rolls forward, as you take in the scenery passing by your window.

Behind the massive stone walls, a neatly trimmed park awaits, with large trees and lush, green grass. The leaves bend under the heavy rainfall and the grass shimmers in the old lamplights lining the path. The park is divided by grey gravel that crunches under the wheels of the armoured vehicle, as it makes its way through the avenue of linden trees and warm lights.

The house - mansion, more like - that comes up on a plaza after a few minutes looks like it may have been built in the 19th century, with its adorned sandstone walls and large balconies. You didn't know such places existed, resting carefully hidden away smack in the city.

"Is this his property?", you breathe out, all anxiety swallowed by awe, as the car takes a turn around the fountain in front of the entrance portal, the engine slowly dying down. Moran hums deeply in his throat and nods. You blink.

You remember the first time you met Jim at the museum. He had something about him, apart from the way he treated you, that screamed power with every movement, every word, every gaze. He looked like money, breathed money. It's still a mystery to you, what his profession is - just as it is a mystery to you, which profession could possibly make someone that wealthy. It's got to be old money but then again, Moriarty wasn't and still isn't a name that rings any bells in that regard.

You come to realize again that you still don't know much about him - you don't know what his job is (something important by the looks of it - government, finances?), you don't know what his favourite food is, you don't know what music he likes to listen to - jesus, you don't even know where he lives.

You take another look out of the window. Now might be your chance. You're grasping at straws but maybe Moran will be of help.

"Does he live here?"

"No, Miss."

You want to know more, Where then - Does he life alone - Am I just an affair - Is he here often, but someone opens the car's door on your side. Cool air sweeps into the vehicle and you are greeted by the friendly face of an elderly man. He wears a livrée and white gloves, reaches out with one hand to help you out of the car. There's another man in a livrée, a little younger, holding a large black umbrella.

"Good evening, Miss - Mister Moran, good to see you, as always", he has a strong Irish accent, "Mister Moriarty is awaiting your presence in the Grande Hall. May I show you the way, Miss?"

You nod, taken aback by the sight that opens up to you as soon as both your feet stand on the gravel. There are at least thirty men - armed men - alongside the massive stair case. They look like they are guarding the place - straightened back, guns at the ready. You don't know much about firearms but you do watch the news so it's not that difficult to spot an assault rifle when you see one.

"Oh, don't be bothered by them", the elderly man smiles and seemingly means it, "They are here for everyone's safety. No need to be nervous, Miss."

Your hands close in around your purse until your knuckles turn white, arms wrapping tightly around your own figure. You don't necessarily feel safer with a few dozen of heavily armed men sporting semi-automatic weapons.

A thought creeps up on you, a little voice whispering in the back of your head, growing louder with every second that you look at the armed security guards. This is not what a private gathering of an investment banker or finance mogul looks like - there's only really one possibility left and you'd really rather not think about it.

"Shall we?", the elderly man turns towards the entrance and you don't really feel like having much of a choice left. Thus, you nod and make your way over the gravel and up the stair case. The gravel crunches wetly underneath the heels of your shoes and Moran follows right behind you, carrying his own umbrella. The armed men lining the staircase don't look at you, fingers resting on the trigger of their guns, suits wetted by the rain. Your head swims a little and you feel your fight or flight kicking in. But there's nowhere to run, with thirty automatic guns surrounding you and Moran right behind you.

"Oh, but where are my manners!", the elderly man suddenly stops and rips you out of your thoughts, his smile tearing the dark clouds apart. He looks genuinely friendly and it calms your nerves the slightest. "My name is Charles, Miss. I am Mister Moriarty's butler - since Dublin, may I add", he sounds proud and you wonder why, since you have no clue what happened in Dublin - but Charles seems to think, that you're familiar with whatever happened back then. Luckily, Mister Moran also seems to be a psychic.

"He has served as Mister Moriarty's butler since he's been a little boy."

"Exactly", Charles nods and beams, "I was once responsible for the whole family. The master was still a child when his parents had this horrible accident."

Something tells you, that it maybe wasn't much of an accident.

"I was responsible for his brother as well, but he moved out early", he starts to climb the stairs again and you hurry to follow, trying not to be hit by the steady downpour of rain.

"It was right after that boy from his swimming class drowned, such a tragedy", the elderly man suppresses an exhausted groan as he reaches the top of the stairs and Moran is quick to pass by and hold open the door. You can't help but notice that they all - the driver, Moran, the colleague, the butler, the small militia - seem to work like a well-oiled machine. They could be blindfolded and still find their place on this large, strange chess board. You enter behind Charles and are greeted by a warmly lit entrance hall. The walls are high and covered by old tapestry, adorned by solid golden panelling. There are low hanging, gigantic chandeliers with sparkling stones and seating groups of Mies van der Rohe's design classics. The low glass tables are full of empty champagne glasses and opened bottles, a few cigars still gleaming.

There's no one here.

"The meeting is already in progress", Charles says - more to Moran than to you, "He will not be pleased that she's late. Not to mention your absence, Sebastian."

"Well, he didn't really give us much time to prepare accordingly, now did he?", Moran smiles and it looks charming but is so so cold that it runs a shiver down your spine. There's something very predatory about him, something you noticed earlier, too. It's in his movement, his voice, his stern gaze - he's like a bloodthirsty animal on a leash. It hits you like a train: the sudden realization that he's one thing and one thing only - dangerous.

"Well, of course", the elderly man bows a little and nods, turn around to you, "May I take your coat, Miss?"

Your hands are shaking, as Charles offers you a hand. You really rather wouldn't. The thick, dark wool was like a shield and you don't feel comfortable taking it away. Your gaze is caught by Moran.

"You're late", he simply says and you actually fear him and thus, you comply.

You take a deep breath, anxiety crawling up your spine as you slowly take the fabric off. Charles is very respectful, keeps his eyes on the ground and so does Moran.

You are certain, that they aren't only doing it for you, for your comfort. They are doing it for themselves as well, frightful and knowing of what would happen if you were to tell Jim, that his men can't keep their gazes to themselves.

"Thank you", you can hear yourself say through the thundering of your heart, power surging through your veins at the thought that somehow, only just a little, they are at your mercy, too. It makes your head spin, the strangeness of the thought mingling with the surge of adrenaline that comes with it.

"You're welcome, Miss", Charles takes your purse, too and you want to protest - Don't take it away, I need to hold onto something - but you don't, inner resistance already beaten to death, spitting blood and crawling on the floor of your brain, "Sebastian, why don't you bring her inside?"

Moran nods - "Over here, please" - and offers you his arm. You carefully place one hand in the crook of his elbow as he walks you over to the massive wooden doors that nearly reach the ceiling. There's this feeling again, that you felt at the museum all those months ago, as your colleagues straightened their backs, checked their clothes. Like it's a familiar automatism you do it now, too - shoulders rolling back, your free hand straightening the dress. The diamonds lightly bounce against your naked back, reminding you of how little of a garment you're actually wearing.

"Don't disappoint him", Moran says before he opens one wing of the massive doors. There's warm, dim light streaming out of the room and you can hear someone speaking. As you enter the room, Moran carefully lets go of your arm.

There are a few dozen people sitting around a huge oval mahogany table, its polished surface shining in the dim lights of the huge, low hanging chandeliers. It's mostly men, just two of them are women. A young man, wrapped in street clothes that probably cost more than your yearly rent, is currently leaning forward on the massive wooden table, box braids falling into his face at the sudden movement. He's the one you heard speaking, thick south-side accent swirling around his sentences.

"-wasteman, y'know like, from my ends, innit? I'll hook'em up wiv you, guv -"

The door behind you falls shut as Moran closes it. Their heads snap up at the sudden sound and around to you.

"Whew, shit", the man next to one who had been speaking - wrapped in expensive street wear as well and in even more expensive jewellery, shimmering in the light - leans forward, "Fuckin' peng ting."

There's someone clearing their throat, the sound echoing from the walls. You know the sound, by heart. The man's head snaps around.

"Shit, sorry Big G, she wiv you?", there's no further reaction coming from Jim and the man raises his hands in a defensive manner, voice breaking a little, "Aight, man, aight. Cool, imma back off, don't be vexed."

You don't know what to do, hands folded uselessly in front of you.

The room is larger than you would've ever imagined and your first guess is, that it had been a ball room once, a couple of hundred years ago. Now, there's only the large, oval table standing right in the middle of the room. The walls are high, with dark wooden panelling that only breaks to give to way to a long gallery, which has balconies reaching into the room. There are, what you guess are at least a few hundred people, standing up there, vanishing in the dark of the gallery. Their gazes burn on your skin.

You look back straight ahead. The table in front of you is a few dozen feet long and at the end, hidden partially by shadows, sits Moriarty. You don't have to see his face to recognize him, feel his gaze on your body.

"That won't be necessary", his voice cuts through the silence and you blink as you realize, that he isn't talking to you, "You" - he lazily points to another man sitting at the far end of the table, right infront of you and you can only see the back of his head - "Wasn't that supposed to be taken care of by your people?"

He's scrambling for words, obviously coming up with an excuse, but you don't bother to listen, gaze flickering over the people sitting at the table. One of the women is still looking at you and you catch her gaze.

She has a stern, cold look in her eyes - the one of a matriarch, with her dark hair pulled back neatly in an impressive updo, lips painted dark red. You can't help being transfixed by her as she slowly tilts her head and - smiles.

You blink. Is she -? She is, expression thawing a little as she looks at you with a mixture of pride and approval. Her gaze and its implication pools around your brain, seeps into it and sets a fresh wave of adrenaline free, that runs straiiight into your legs. She's encouraging you.

Your body takes over your brain as you start to move. The sound of your heels meeting the polished wooden floor echoes from the wall as you make your way over to Moriarty. Step by step you can feel yourself growing more and more confident, arms gracefully resting at your sides as you strut through the room. You can feel a couple of eyes following you and, as you pass the lady with the red lips, she nods.

It has pure, raw power pumping through your veins, erupting in your stomach and spreading between your shoulder blades, has your chin rising up a little. You come to realize, that he's brought you here for a reason and you're ready to meet - no, to exceed - his expectations.

As you come closer you can see what's on the table in front of him. A notepad and an expensive fountain pen, a glass with what looks like hard liquor and -

a gun.

There's a gun on the table, in an arm's reach.

If you'd be a little more familiar with firearms, you'd be able to classify it as a Glock. It is loaded, clip snugly pressed to the base. It's his gun. It's got to be.

You swallow. He has a gun. The next thought makes you go dizzy, knees going a little weak: he most likely knows how to use it, too.

Moriarty doesn't look at you as you approach him, eyes still fixed on the man at the end of the table. The man, who had been stumbling over words and rushed excuses, falls silent as you make your last few steps over to Moriarty.

"Go on", Jim says to him, hand gesturing lazily and he already sounds bored.

You know that a bored Jim, is a dangerous Jim. They all look at him, frightened, tense. There's only one person not transfixed by Moriarty.

It's the lady with the red lipstick. She's still smiling, eyes roaming over your face. And then her lips move, mouthing something, passing on Jim's words to you - go on.

There's this feeling surging through your veins like electricity again - power. And like a puppet on her strings, you straighten your back, leaning down towards Moriarty, one hand resting on his shoulder, arm flat on his back. He's warm beneath your touch, breathing slowly. The gloves on your hands and their little crystals shimmer in the dim light, like a nebula against his dark blue suit, the diamond rings its little planets.

"Honey", you rasp, tongue taking over brain, "I'm here." Your lips dance over his cheek as you speak and his slight stubble prickles on your lips. You press them down, the sound of a soft, short kiss filling the quiet room. His scent wraps you around like a thick cloud and you close your eyes, take it in. It's your favourite cologne of his- warm and rich, vanilla, musk and herbs. It makes your stomach tingle and has raw, utter want pooling in your lower body.

There's a warm hand sneaking up your hips and waist, that rubs along your curves and then forcefully grabbing your figure and pushing you back. A small surprised noise escapes your throat and then he's looking at you - finally.

Moriarty's eyes roam over your body, thumb caressing your ribs, right below your breast. He hums deep in his throat and then presses his thumb against your left tit, lets it bounce a little. The material of the dress rubs over your slightly hardened nipples and the sensation pulls at your strings, sends shivers down down down your spine to your loins. Jim hums once more and your blood sings with it: sings with the unspoken praise, with his unspoken approval.

You hold his gaze, cheeks growing a little warm with his attention, as he suddenly speaks up.

"You, I said go on", Jim snaps the fingers of his free hand in the direction of the man on the other side of the table. His other hand is roaming over your tit, coming to a rest on your shoulder and then presses down.

"Kneel", his voice is deep and you blink, transfixed by his gaze. He looks cold, colder than usual, his face hardened and unmoving, gaze distanced and demanding. You swallow, ears ringing.

"Kneel", he says again, a lot more forceful this time and you obey, slowly but surely - like your body isn't yours anymore - sinking down on your knees right beside him, facing his side. The diamonds dangling at your back clink as they are being thrown against each other by the sudden movement.

Jim's eyes hold your gaze on the whole way down and for a short moment, they gleam. Boredom torn at the edges with excitement.

His hand crawls up your cheek, warm but it makes goosebumps spread across your body like his touch is freezing cold, patting you a little. And then he smiles, before looking away and at the stranger, again.

Your heart is racing as you follow his gaze and notice that they all stare at you. Not just them, the people on the gallery as well. The lady with the red lips still smiles, lowering her head a little in approval.

"I told you to go on, didn't I?", Jim sounds cold and one of your hands, obediently resting in your lap, darts out, stretches itself out on his left thigh.

His gaze momentarily drops down and to your hand, adorned by crystals and diamonds and then towards you. The look in Moriarty's eyes and the fact that he doesn't swat your hand away makes your stomach flutter. He looks away again and you take the chance, let your eyes roam over the sharp profile of his face, across his cheeks as they take in his slight stubble, dark lashes and the one loose strand of hair that falls into his face.

"I-", the man clears his throat, "We are certain that within the next month - that there will be a solution to the issue, w-within in the next month."

Jim leans back in his chair, spreading his legs a little. He's silent for a long moment.

"The next month?"

"Yes, Sir."

"And d'you think, that will do?"

Silence. And then: "N-no, Sir."

"Good. Then why exactly aren't you doing something about it?"

"There's nothing I could-"

Moriarty's expression shuts him up. He falls silent and so does the room.

"This keeps happening", Jim sighs dramatically and then lets his gaze roam over the gallery, where a hundred or so men and women stand, looking down at him in obedience, "Look at them. They would kill to sit where you are. And yet, you disappoint me."

Moriarty tilts his head and looks at the man on the other side of the table.

"I think, I'll do them a favour", he sing-songs and then suddenly, with a speed you didn't expect, grabs his gun. It clicks and then the gunshot rips through the silence, bullet tearing through the man's forehead with military precision.

You jump at the sound and can barely contain a sharp scream escaping your lips, starring down the hall at the now dead body.

The man slumps in his chair and then sacks forward, his upper body falling onto the table with a loud thud.

No one flinches at the sound. You're the only one.

He killed a man.

Shot him.

In cold blood.

Didn't even think about it.

You want to scream, to run, to -

There's a little noise on the gallery. "Come down", Jim sighs, "And do better. I hate wasting bullets." There's a slight rustle upstairs, like they're fighting, but you can't really hear anything else over your heartbeat thundering in your ears.

You want to throw up. Your hands start to shake, palms growing wet with cold sweat.

"Oh poppet, are you afraid?", he sing-songs, pouts at you playfully, "Don't be" - there's someone screaming upstairs, right after what sounded like a knife being drawn - "Daddy would never hurt you", Jim's hand darts out, fingers spreading over your scalp and slowly caressing your hair and the skin beneath, rubbing his hand in a soothing, circular motion. It messes up your hair but it feels - good.

"Are you quite done up there?", he raises his voice - bored bored bored -, "I've got better things to do."

His hand drops to you neck, rubs over it, thumb carefully pressing against the nape of it. It does calm you down, surprisingly so.

You turn into puddy under his soft touch, head spinning and breath slowing down, the thundering of your heart turning into a slow rumble.

"Good girl", he whispers, "I'd never hurt you."

And with the way his voice rings in your head, like it's slooowly starting to creep its way into the curves and alleyways of your brain, you start to believe him.

You hum - safe with him safe with him safe with him - and lean into his touch. The sound of a pair of sharp footsteps echoes from the tall walls and as you look up, a man hoists the slumped body up - blood drips down the dead man's forehead and it squeaks as he lifts him from the red puddle on the dark mahogany - like he weighs nothing, throws him out of the chair and onto the ground. The body falls to the floor like a heavy pillow. This time you don't flinch.

"Here I am, Sir", he has a French accent.

"I can see that", Jim sighs and the gun clicks again as a bullet snaps into the barrel. The gun dangles from his hand as he gestures with it.

He doesn't need to say more, the French man understanding immediately what is asked of him. "I can assure you, that we have the most secure routes from Mexico to Marseille. That means roughly - uh, how do you say - cent-soixante tonnes de poids a month."

"160 tons a month, Sir", the other woman says and you can hear papers rustling, "We had 70 tons coming in over Felixstowe last month."

"Any contesters to that?", Moriarty sing-songs and looks around the room, slowly lets his gaze wander over the balconies. There's only silence.

He seems content. "Sit", he gestures with his gun and you hear the screeching of a chair on the other end of the room, "Looks like we won't need this anymore." You watch the stranger sitting down, a servant rushing over to clean the table. The cloth quickly soaks up the blood, white linen replaced by red red red. "Merci", the man says and the servant bows, before hastily returning to the shadows of the room.

Moriarty's head turns towards you, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Would you mind to open up f'me, sweetheart?"

You look at him, blinking - once, twice. Your eyes dart over to the gun he's still holding. You know what he wants. His gaze bores into you.

Your head's a little dizzy, like your brain is wrapped in hot cotton candy that slowly but steadily seeps into every single remaining pore of your body. Your stomach flutters a little at the thought, the implied danger has your breath hitching in your throat.

You know what he wants. And - as you come to realize - you start to want it, too.

And thus, you nod - "As you wish, Sir" - and part your lips, tongue darting out willingly, as he smiles and pushes the barrel of the gun into your mouth - safety still off, his finger on the trigger. The metal is still warm by the fired shot and heavy on your tongue, the taste of it spreading in your mouth.

Moriarty presses it in deep, the movement forcing you to lay your head back, until you can feel it hit your palate and you suck in a sharp breath through your nose. It gets you hot all over and you know, you should be afraid since he just bloody shot someone but you can't bring yourself to care. Your blood sings with being at his mercy, with the way he looks down and at you - all glory and gore, a king with no crown.

They all stare at you, but you only have eyes for Jim - looking up at him through your lashes, gun resting between your lips.

He hums deep in his throat, clicks his tongue. "Mhm", he rasps, "Atta girl."

You beam. "Keep it warm f'me, yes?", Jim tilts his head a little and you nod as best as you can.

His left arm rests calmly on the arm of the chair, slightly bend with the gun resting in your mouth, trigger pressed against your chin. Your heart races in your chest, gaze set on him, who orders the next henchman to report on his business.

There's something about him, how leisurely he lounges in his chair, how casually he handled that gun, how he shoved it into your mouth that makes your loins grow hot. Jesus, you're fucked.

"Edith."

"Yes, Sir", it's the woman again, "Next on the agenda is the usage of the Aquarius Software since we took over the NEA company last march. Since then, we've gained access to at least ten different governments, their respective leaders and a handful of influential politicians - just in the past two months. But maybe we should hear Mister Sharev about this, if you wouldn't mind, Sir?"

"No, no. Go ahead", Moriarty's hand tilts the gun and shoves it even deeper in your mouth and you gag around the barrel, saliva gathering around it and dripping down your chin. Your eyelids flutter and you relax your chin, taking a few deep breaths through your nose. Your hand, still covered by the thin glove, slightly presses into his thigh, desperate for leverage.

It's like someone put a spell on you, with the way you look at him, watching how he tilts his head as the CEO starts to announce his company's goals and aims to furthermore undermine the world's leading governments. His thigh is still warm beneath your touch and you can feel his muscles clench a little beneath the thick, expensive fabric of his slacks. Odd. Your gaze drops down to your hand and - he's hard. His dick is hard, pressing against the dark blue of his pants.

You wish you could move your head, just to look at it . The palm of your hand starts to tingle, as a familiar pulling sensation pools in your lower stomach and travels further down, right between your legs.

Long forgotten is the dead man lying on the floor and bleeding out, shot with the gun you got between your lips - all you can think about is feeling him. Jim's leg is unbearably hot beneath your fingers and you experimentally let them wander up his thigh a little.

Jim doesn't react and thus, you feel tempted to try further, fingers dancing over his thigh where the flesh grows warmer, on its way up to his crotch. Your fingers dart out and you find what they seek, digits dancing over his hard dick, pressing firmly against the dark blue fabric and straining it. You wish you could really look at it.

Your eyes flash up to Moriarty's face and you can see him grin and it sets a wave free, hot shivers running from your scalp down down down over your back to your loins until they're ignited in your crotch and erupt in wetness between your legs.

Your fingers close around the bulge, his cock hot and thick and long, pulsating underneath your hand and your eyelids flutter. You can feel saliva gathering on your tongue as you come to realize that you miss its taste. The gun still presses against your tongue and your brain surrenders itself to the wetness pooling between your legs and the steadily growing want crawling in your stomach, clawing at your skin. It's better than nothing and your brain willingly conjurs up the illusion.

Your tongue rubs alongside the rough surface of the gun's barrel, metallic taste slowly being replaced by your brain with Jim's usual musky and salty taste. You whine, thighs clenching a little, as you suck the barrel deeper into your mouth. Your tongue finds the muzzle and rubs over it, imagines it to be smaller and warmer, giving away first drops of cum, not thin air.

The man is still talking but you can't be bothered to listen to him. The thought of Jim's dick makes you wet, aching for him to just touch you, fingers running over his clothed dick, thumb rubbing over its bottom. You can feel it twitch beneath the expensive fabric.

Your head starts to move, back and forth on the gun barrel like it's Moriarty cock and you feel him up as you do, hand closing in again, massaging him through his pants until -

"Shut up for a second", and Sharev does, clasps his hands in front of him, "Someone's down here has been a bad bad girl." He turn his head around and pouts at you playfully and leaning in closer.

"You want the real thing, don'tcha?", he murmurs and slooowly pulls the gun out of your mouth. There's a string of saliva connecting it to your lower lip that eventually riiips and dribbles down your chin. His dick is hot and pulses against your palm, underneath your thin gloves. Your jaw already hurts a little, a bit sore with keeping your mouth open but you nod, a small whine escaping your throat. There's nothing else left on your mind but his dick, feeling him, tasting him, making him feel good and being rewarded with bitter-sweet praise.

"Look at you, little dumb whore - can't even listen to the grown-ups talking for half an hour."

His thumb strokes over your swollen lip, corner of his mouth tilting up a little, while it wanders up up up, over your cheek and into your hair where he grabs a fistful of it and pulls. It stings, as he roughly manoeuvres you in front of him and you scramble on your knees, hands darting over his legs and the chair for any sort of leverage.

"Off you go then, sweetheart", he hums as you're finally kneeling in front of him.

It feels like someone pulled the plug to your brain as you dash forward - ready to please please please. There are a few hundred pairs of eyes set on you - on your body, visible and exposed in the sparkling dress, eyes hungry and hair a mess - but you don't care, can't bring yourself to. What are they going to do? Tell someone? He'll have them executed. The certainty of the thought makes your blood sing, your thoughts swim and you look up at him.

Moriarty's expression is unreadable, masked by his usual coldness, corners of his mouth tilted like he's bored.

Don't be boring don't be boring don't be boring his sing-song echoes in your skull and as your hands make haste with the fly of his slacks you come to realize: you turned into his private version of a pavlovian dog. Drooling, panting, desperate for attention and praise.

You don't even flinch as the damp barrel of the gun suddenly presses down - riiight onto the middle of your forehead. He could blast your lights out right now, execute you on the spot. It should terrify you, grab you by the throat and pull you out of that fucking trance he's lured you into but it just - doesn't.

Instead, you moan.

The sound echoes off of the walls and Jim chuckles, low and deep in his throat.

"Oh, ain't you just pretty", he grins and it gets you going, spurs you on and makes your cheeks turn red as your blood sings with the only thought your mind's able to conjure up - worship him worship him worship him.

One of your hands, still wrapped in the expensive gloves, darts out and takes his hard dick out of his pants, his boxers. It's hot and heavy in your palm, tip glistening with precum.

A thought creeps up on you. He let's you do this, he let's you suck his cock in public, puts on you in the spotlight. He could've picked someone else; you're convinced he could've - but he didn't.

He chose you.

Your eyelids flutter as you become aware once more of all the eyes boring into your back and it turns you on, knowing that he's showing you off, publicly marking you as his.

Moriarty hisses as the soft material of your gloves starts to stroke him, lips curling up in a smile, all teeth and gleaming eyes. He's looking down at you, brown eyes so so dark and you feel like falling into the void, barrel of the gun pressing down harder on your forehead.

Oddly enough, you trust him.

"Atta girl, suck Daddy's cock real good", he sing-songs, mischievous grin tugging at his lips and you obey to him, saliva pooling around your tongue as you lean in, licking a fat stripe from the base of his dick to the top.

"Sooo", he nearly sighs as he watches you taking the tip of his dick into your mouth, before he looks back up at Mister Sharev, "My secretary was so nice to inform me about the status of the current project. All still in order?"

"Yes, Sir. We are currently-", you can't bring yourself to listen, with the taste of his dick fogging up your mind in rapid speed. You swirl your tongue around its tip, lips wrapping around the warm flesh before they wander lower, peppering his dick with wet, open-mouthed kisses, tongue darting out and licking along the thick vein on the bottom.

The gun at your head shifts, leaves your forehead and presses against the side of your skull instead, has you groaning against Jim's cock. The present danger has your blood singing and the desire to please - be good, be good, be good - blooming in your chest, as pleasure shoots riiight between your legs.

Your lips move further down, hand darting out and pulling his boxers lower which has him chuckling deep in his chest, a low rumble that barely reaches you through the haze. The barrel of the gun presses down more firmly, has dull pain shooting through your skull and Moriarty spreads his legs a little further, giving you more space. He's enjoying this and it makes your head swim, heart missing a beat or two, spurring you on. Your tongue follows the newly revealed trail, dancing over his balls, before you wrap your lips around them, sucking on them. His neatly trimmed pubic hair prickles on your cheek and you moan quietly, as his scent wraps around you, a musky, salty taste filling your mouth pulling you down down down into his lair.

One of your hands holds Moriarty's dick, thumb gently rubbing slow circles over its tip, precum wetting the soft, sheer material of the glove. You suck one of his balls into your mouth, heavy and warm on your tongue, hand stroking his cock. He's still talking, voice steady and cold like you aren't kneeling between his legs, sucking him off and it makes you hot all over. You lick a fat stripe over his balls, growing wetter at the sudden twitch of his dick, the way the thick vein pulses against your palm. Your lips wander back up, tongue spreading your saliva on his hard dick as you realize that you need more.

The thought has you whining, gloved hand giving Jim's dick one last stroke before you dive in, tongue resting on your lower lip, welcoming his cock home. You take him in deep, lips wrapping around him, saliva pooling on your tongue. You move your head around him, moaning against his cock as you suck him off, feeling his vein pulsing and dick twitching on your tongue. Suddenly, like you're momentarily snapping out of it, his voice reaches your ears.

"And 221B?"

"We're at it, Sir. The doctor's security system is rather underwhelming, even for government standards." You have no bloody clue of where or what 221B is, even though it rings a tiny little bell waaay back in your mind, but gets Jim fucking going.

"Good", his voice is deep and coarse and his dick hits the back of your throat as he rolls his hips once, twice, has you sputtering around his cock.

"Hold still or I'll shoot you", Moriarty says plainly, barrel of the gun painfully pressing against the side of your skull, as his slim fingers press onto your neck, holding you in place. Your nose is buried deep in his trimmed pubic hair and his musky scent wraps around you, as you try to breathe through your nose. His cock hits the back of your throat once more and you gag, tears filling your eyes at the sudden lack of oxygen.

You try your best to relax your jaw but he doesn't give you a break, rolls his hips, ruthlessly fucks into your mouth. You can feel saliva pooling at the corners of your mouth, obscene and wet squelching sounds filling the air as he pushes himself deeper faster and faster. Your hands press into Jim's thigh in a desperate attempt to hold onto anything, fingers digging deep into the muscular flesh beneath the dark blue, until their knuckles turn white. It has his hips bucking and a growl rumbling in his chest, his throat. It momentarily takes your breath away and one of your feet kicks a little, as your slowly but surely are running more and more out of breath - dress rustling and diamonds on your back clinking. The rising anxiety of hypoxia, mixing together with his scent and the feeling of his dick fucking your mouth raw, using you has you spiralling deeper and deeper into cloudy subspace, hazy lust taking over your brain. It has your body going a little limp, your throat relaxing and wet pussy clenching around nothing.

Be good be good be good - and you are, fingers relaxing and instead of clawing into them, now moving along Moriarty's thighs and up up up, over his lower abdomen. You know you're making a mess of his shirt but you also know that he likes it, likes your hands roaming over his body whenever you suck his dick or ride him. He likes it when you worship him. And thus, you feel him up, feeling his muscular stomach contracting with each thrust into your throat.

The hand on your neck fists into your hair, pulling you away from him.

You're panting, chin wet with your spit dripping down your chin, lipstick smeared as you look up at him with teary eyes, mascara blotchy around the edges. His cheeks have the faintest of a flush of redness and there's a little sweat on his forehead as he presses the gun against your temple.

Moriarty gives himself one, two firm strokes and your eyelids flutter as thick, hot ropes of white hit your face, a few drops going into your eye. He groans as he comes on your face, intense gaze boring into your eyes, tip of his dick resting a few inches away from your eye. Small tears run down your right cheek as you blink the cum away. They mingle with it and run down your soft skin, dripping down on the dress.

"Ain't you m'pretty little slut?", he asks, gives your clean cheek a little slap and you nod, while he takes his flattening dick in the other hand and rubs it along your cheek, smears his cum across your face and lips. "What d'you say, hm?"

"Thank you, Sir", you croon, hands roaming over his knees and thighs, looking up at Jim, beaming with his praise. You're still wet, pussy aching and pulsing between your legs.

"Be a good girl and put it away", your hands move to his pants, carefully pulling his boxers up, straightening his shirt and closing the fly of his pants, while he shoves one foot between your knees instead, gun still pressing against your skull, "C'mon, take what y'need."

The tip of his shoe is pressing against your wet thong, material coolly pressing against your hot skin, right beneath your clit. You don't have to think twice, brain lost to the hazy fog of pleasure and you roll your hips back a little. The hard, polished leather rubs over your clit and you gasp, hips stuttering a little. One of your hands darts out, grabbing his knee. The pain of the hard surface, mixed together with your absolute need for stimulation has your abdomen clenching.

You bite your lip as you experimentally roll your hips forward, clit brushing over the leather and you can fell your pleasure crawling up up up, spreading in your chest, making your skin tingle with want. It's not enough, the lack of touch and the way you just need more and thus, your free hand wanders up your thigh, cold rings tingling your skin through the thin fabric as you run them up your leg and higher higher higher, over your stomach up to your tits. You grab one of them and feel yourself up, kneading it while you grind down on Moriarty's shoe. You eyelids flutter and you pant with the way it feels, hard and cold and degrading, but also so so good, has fresh wetness pooling between your thighs. Your pussy's swollen and hot and aching, sensitive the the smallest touch and the sudden stimulation has you moaning, breath speeding up.

Jim tilts his head a little, looking down at you. He seems amused, one hand lazily dangling from his armrest, as he watches you getting yourself off on his expensive leather shoes.

"Such a pretty show for our guests, hm?", he chuckles at the sight and you blush, redness and warmth spreading on your cheeks and your chest at the thought that they all still watch you but you can't bring yourself to care. You just don't, with pleasure spiking high and Jim - his words, his demeanour, the gun - fogging up your brain.

It's an intoxicating combination that has your pick up a faster rhythm, grinding down faster on the leather. At first, it stings a little but has pleasure rolling over your body nonetheless and you gasp, as lust floods your system once more.

You throw your head back in pleasure, missing the table by mere inches, a high pitched and needy whine escaping your lips as you rut down onto his dressing shoe.

The gun vanishes from your skull, only to press against the bottom of your chin a second later, keeping your head laid back. Your eyes roll up up up and your hands dart out, fingers spread wide on the polished floorboards behind you, as their tips hold your bodyweight. Your back's delightfully stretched and your upper body is on full display to him, chest heaving with every breath you suck in as you roll your hips on his shoes, hard nipples pressing against the sheer gown.

His other foot rises up and presses down onto your chest with quite some weight, has you deepen the stretch and a high pitched whine erupting from your throat, born out of lust and pleasure and the slight pain that ignites your back. It's delicious and shoots down down down right between your legs, has fresh wetness pooling in your thong, dripping down onto the black leather of his shoe. You know exactly what you look like: draped in an expensive dress and millions worth of diamonds like a billionaire's wife, but rutting against him like a cheap whore, a bitch in heat instead. You know it gets him going as much as it has you squirming, squirting on his shoes. The gun's still pointing at you and if he were to shoot you now - bored, bored, bored - he'd paint the floorboards and the table red.

Your hips stutter as you wet the expensive material at the thought - at the utter power Moriarty has over you - has fresh wetness running down the leather and your thighs as well, and you gasp, eyes falling shut. You keep grinding on his shoe, high pitched moans falling from your lips every time your clit brushes over its surface. He adds more pressure to the foot resting on your chest and you gasp, pain and slight asphyxiation making you dizzy, speeding up the rhythm of your hips. It's not enough, you need to feel him inside of you but it's also way too much, with the endings of your nerves on fire and

You can feel your thighs and abdomen contracting and your hole clenching around nothing and-

"P-please", you whimper.

Moriarty's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Oh, did I teach you that well, poppet?", his accent swirls around his tongue and it has you nearly going wild, "Of course you may come."

And you do, body reacting to him like he just has to press a single button, release washing over you as your orgasm rips another loud moan out of you, followed by heavy gasping as your pussy releases more fluid, which drips down his shoe and onto the wooden floor. Your hips buck and you moan, chest heaving with the sudden breaths you're sucking in, pressing against the shoe that's still resting on your chest.

"'S good, very good", Moriarty sounds satisfied and you can feel his foot lifting from your chest, giving your ribcage free. Your legs shake from your orgasm as you desperately suck in a few deep breaths, sacking forward. You feel the need to rest with the ache of your muscles but there's also something else. It's like your blood sings with it, like it lays on your body thick and heavily and sinks down on your brain like a blanket: you need him.

You crawl towards Jim and sink between his spread legs, left cheek falling lazily onto one thigh, right hand spreading out on the other. Your other arm softly wraps itself around his lower leg as you press yourself against him. You can feel his cum on your face, your own juices between your thighs. Your eyelids flutter, chest still heaving from ragged breaths and post orgasmic bliss, as you feel his warmth radiating beneath your skin once more.

"Obedient, little whore", he hums and you can hear his gun clicking quietly, as he takes it away, leaves it dangling lazily in his hand over the armrest. You're exhausted, your whole body hurts while your limbs are growing heavy and thus, you sink against him like ragdoll.

The silence in the room is deafening now that you're coming down from your high but it won't stop your blood from singing with Jim's praise and the utter power that seeps through every single pore of your body. Only you can make him come, only you can please him like that - only you only you.

It is much later, after they all left, when Jim bends down to you, tilts your head up and presses his lips onto yours - soft and warm and for a long, lingering moment - his hand gently stroking your cheek and his fingers brushing through his own, sticky cum, spreading it across your cheek. It's the first time he kisses you, in all the weeks you've known him. You know that you've earned it. His eyes are dark dark dark, swirls of green barely visible as he looks at you, visible affection flickering through his gaze.

"You are mine", he rasps against your lips and you nod nod nod, his stubble gently poking your soft skin, "I own you."

And, much to your own disbelief about your lack of mental resistance, you realize: he does.

"So, how was your weekend?", Monique and you are rushing through the city, hot take-away cups warming your hands. It stopped pissing Sunday evening and London decided it was time to start with the freezing temperatures. It's your lunch break and the two of you went out for coffee, now hurrying back to the museum's office floors.

You open your mouth, but the words get stuck in your throat. You have no idea how to answer that without landing at Scotland Yard for questioning within half an hour.

She looks at you. "You saw him again, didn't you?", she looks so enthusiastic. You'd hate to break the news to her - Yeah uhm, about that, well, he's criminal and he's using the museum to launder some money, charming, innit? - that's absolutely off the table.

Oh, and don't forget the classic: Yeah, and he shot someone, mind you.

But there's also no hiding from her and thus -

"I did", you can't fight your lips tilting up, remembering the way he manhandled you, shoved his dick into your mouth and showed you off.

Monique, of course, has (for 48 hours at this point) lived in a different world than you. Of course, her trees are still as green as yours and she reads the same newspapers as you do, but she hasn't witnessed a secret organisation discussing organized crime, nor has someone been killed in front of her eyes, wasting away in a puddle of his own blood - and thus, she squeaks with joy. Some snobby banker rushing by turns around in surprise at the sudden sound and curls his lip. You throw him a look. You might be seeing things differently than you did just last Friday night but you still know a wanker when you see one. You can't fight the thought of I know someone who can shut you up for good, boy creeping up on you. You must wear the thought on your face, because he hurries to get going. You take another sip from your coffee. You feel oddly good.

"How was it? Did he take you out?"

You sputter, pressing a hand onto your mouth, trying not to spill any of the hot coffee. "Oh jesus, oh Monique", you cough, half laughing-half fighting for air. It shouldn't be funny, it really shouldn't. You're a little tempted to hit her back with an: Oh, not me.

But you don't, because you're - again - not really keen on paying Scotland Yard a visit. So, you just put on your most innocent smile, trying real hard to imagine a peaceful, normal dinner to successfully sell her the story.

"He did, it was very", you can feel your cheeks reddening suddenly as his voice starts to echo in your skull -

I own you I own you I own you

- ,"Romantic."

#jim moriarty #james moriarty #james moriarty x reader #jim moriarty x reader #smut #jim moriarty smut #james moriarty smut #bbc sherlock #sherlock #bbc sherlock smut #my writing

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minoment · 10 months

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Episode fuck knows what of: "I can't find it so I'll fucking write it myself.."

WHATS EVERYONES OPINION ON ME WRITING FORTHE SHERLOCK CHARACTERS??

Me fr..

Sherlock needs snuggles and loving overstimulation

John needs to be fucked until he forgets his trauma

And little bitch Jimmy needs to be fucked stupid and brat tamed (he should call me daddy instead..)

YES OR NO??

#dom reader #sub character #sherlock holmes #bbc sherlock #john watson #johnlock #jim moriarty #james moriarty #sherlock x reader #john watson x reader #jim moriarty x reader #sub sherlock #sub john watson #sub jim moriarty #mino chats //

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inspirationfandream · 4 days

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Andrew Scott x Ana De Armas crossover

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doflamingadonquixote · 2 years

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Even the devil was once an angel | [2/?]

Summary: You are a psychiatrist and decide to play a dangerous game with the worst of criminal minds. Or: you're a bit bored too.

Pairing: Jim Moriarty x Fem!Reader

Chapter word count:

Warning: +18, mind games, angst and smut, hurt/comfort, stalker!Moriarty (Jim Moriarty is his own warning)

Previous Chap: 1

James Moriarty decides to show up assiduously for every appointment. You find a change in the tenth session.

You didn't think the consulting criminal was so competitive when it came to winning a bet on his superiority. You had, by mutual agreement, arranged two days a week where he was to come to your office and at the appointed times.

You had no intention of accepting his offer to give you an entire attic just for his sessions. The egocentric little bastard had to be a real patient if he wanted to continue playing the game.

After several positive feedbacks in putting stakes in your relationship, you had ventured to put a time limit on your work.

You had asked for a year, a year without having the pressure and the unawareness that, at any moment, Moriarty might shoot you in the head.

He simply laughed at you and rejected your request with a: "Where would be the fun in that?".

By studying him, confronting him, listening to him you had come to the conclusion that he was seriously suffering from a psychopathic personality disorder.

He often enjoyed constructing stories. And with those stories he would put you in great difficulty.

He was so adept at lying that when he finally asked you: "Truth or lie?" You were faced with a Pandora's box that you didn't know whether you wanted to open.

Another thing that made you curious and confirmed your assumptions was the nervous jerks that lit him up like a fuse. You thought you heard your secretary knocking things off the desk, out of the office, when Moriarty's scream came suddenly.

Even so, with a few more sittings, you had managed to avoid touching any sore buttons that would upset the man in front of you.

He always sat at your desk, creating a position of authority over you and often played with the objects distributed on the surface.

You lowered your eyes and found the pencils neatly and straight, arranged next to the laptop. He had already been inside for several minutes and they were still there, neatly arranged.

Your thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a tennis ball bouncing violently against said pencils, breaking the order, and then landing on your lap.

You tried to hold back a smile as you lifted the toy and brought it before your eyes.

Another thing you'd discovered about Jim Moriarty was how much he loved disorder and chaos, and that anything that wasn't to his mental standards had to be torn down.

“So, doc, truth or lie?”

He rocked back against the swivel chair, terribly discombobulated as he let his back slide down.

You opened the notepad on which you had jotted down summary diagrams to help you determine the information he had given you during the session. He tried to peek from your position, raising his posture slightly, but you lifted the notebook so that he would not read.

“You're not a maths professor but you probably wish you were, considering the way you frowned when talking about the poor university performance, almost as if to remedy it.”

Moriarty crossed his hands over his belly covered by a dark blue linen shirt and gloated at your deductions.

“It's not true that you have contact with your family, your lack of empathy and your criminal record would prevent you from having relations with them.”

His offended sigh distracted you from your next remark. He had an exaggeratedly shocked expression on his face and his right hand had risen to rest where, you presumed, his heart lay.

“I'm offended, doc. I pride myself so much on the relationship I have built over the years with my little brother.”

Your eyes focused on the notebook to prevent the criminal from understanding your reaction and, to make it more believable, you made more of a circle around the word 'brother'.

Moriarty sneered as he straightened in his chair.

“But don't bother conferring with the old Ice Man. I've been very thorough in erasing traces of the past.”

You gave him a sad smile that hid the strong sense of disappointment.

“Ever heard of attorney-client privilege, Mr. Moriarty?”

He made a thoughtful groan but didn't add anything else.

You really believed that the therapy was progressing at the right pace. Moriarty had even gone so far as to turn his conversations into something very close to a confession.

But suddenly, the perfectly mapped out road you had built up to that moment collapsed in on itself and you with it.

That day you were quietly listening to the reflections of one of your young patients. He was one of those somewhat hesitant ones, who are never quite sure whether to say the right thing or not, so building up a sort of confidence had taken you many weeks.

And James Moriarty had probably managed in two seconds to overwhelmingly destroy it.

That day he entered your office with a frightening carriage, leaving behind your secretary's frantic pleas for him to politely stay out of the session and wait.

His footsteps were heavy and for the first time you found him locked in one of his best dark suits.

He crossed the threshold and dropped into his usual chair, placing his leather shoes on your computer on the desk.

“They're unbearably fucking boring!” He dropped his head back, colliding with the backrest and sighed audibly. “How can you be so blind to such a clear clue!”

Your confusion quickly turned to anger as you watched the young secretary look from Moriarty to you with a startled and agitated expression.

In addiction, the boy on your couch had curled in on himself, and he too had his gaze focused on the newcomer.

Swallowing the lump that had blocked your breath for a few seconds, you forced your body to react in the most natural way possible.

With an apparent calm, you stood up and offered your hand to your client who took it, albeit hesitantly.

“I'm sorry for the inconvenience, Thomas, but it seems I have an emergency to attend to.”

You walked him to the door, reassuring him that the session would not be paid for and to make an appointment as soon as possible with your secretary. You left him in her care and closed the door with a snap.

Showing menace towards the most dangerous man in London, and (why not) perhaps the world, wasn't the smartest thing you could do, but James Moriarty had quickly gotten under your skin, irritating you to the point of exhaustion.

Your fists clenched spasmodically and you could feel your nails pushing painfully against your palms. Your cold face changed to an offended and furious frown as you watched the man at your desk.

“I am quite sure Lucia informed you that I was busy.”

You finally caught his attention and he arched his neck to look at you.

“And I'm supposed to care about that?” He asked undisturbed, as he probed you from head to toe. He was probably enjoying your first human reaction to his person.

“It should.” You bit your tongue to avoid adding that you doubted his respect, however, and moved a few steps closer to prevent your words from reaching those outside the door.“He is a patient in real need of assistance and you have interrupted his time, Mr. Moriarty.”

He shrugged, sneering.

“So am I, didn't you hear what I said earlier?”

He was clearly poking at you now, and you were getting pulled in.

“To you this is all just a stupid game. A way to fill the void that your, oh so immense, knowledge cannot fill.”

You spat out the words in anger and judgment, which didn't suit you at all and was extremely unprofessional.

He raised his hands as if a weapon had been pointed at him and you feared his sniper would threaten you again at any moment.

“Forgive me, doc, for giving you that feeling. What can I do about it?” His voice was clearly mocking.

“Get those shoes off my desk and sit on the couch like any fucking therapy patient.”

Your throat suddenly went dry, preventing you from hurling yourself at Moriarty again and, in the several seconds of silence that sliced the air, the criminal got up and went to sit comfortably in the armchair you had so quietly suggested to him.

You remained staring at the empty desk for a few seconds until a shaky, uncertain breath finally left your constricted lungs.

You analysed yourself. James Moriarty had taken you by surprise. You had not pre-set your attitude, which helped keep the man from reaching your personal sphere as a human being and not as a doctor.

And by barging in like that he had managed to get around the barrier and intrude.

You raised a hand, massaging your forehead and pinching the base of your nose as if to regain some semblance of self-control.

“I apologise for my behaviour. I stepped out of character.”

Moriarty was looking at you intently and for the first time you thought he was taking you seriously.

Your back touched the chair you were sitting on a few minutes earlier and you sighed.

“The robot attitude wouldn't hold for long, I assure you. I like you, doctor. Maybe we can be friends.”

His comment made you laugh unwillingly.

“I'm your analyst, not your friend.”

“One doesn't exclude the other, does it?”

You opened your notebook but didn't comment. His words suddenly seemed very real to you, very meaningful. Moriarty had always been good with words, with his eyes, with his body language.

Stupidly, in the midst of his complaints about Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson, you wondered what it would be like to be friends with an internationally known criminal.

#jim moriarty #jim moriarty x reader #female reader #bbc sherlock #sherlock fandom #sherlock fanfic #sherlock holmes #angst and smut #hurt/comfort #terapist to friend #friend to lovers #male yandere #mind manipulation

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charliedawn · 1 year

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Moriarty!Sherlock X Sister!Reader X Dark!Sherlock

TABOO SUBJECT AHEAD.

Incest implied. Stalking. Don't like. Don't read. Thank you.

Moriarty started seeing you as a necessity.

You and Moriarty always had a complicated relationship—even as children. You would always follow him around and be in awe in front of everything he did.

Your parents had found it endearing at the time, but they should have been more aware of the consequences. For what was a pure and wholesome friendship quickly turned into an unhealthy obsession as your brother started seeing you as something more than a sister.

Something he owned and needed to feel whole.

You had first noticed the slight changes in your brother when he had decided to come back to visit you.

You had a boyfriend/girlfriend back then and were studying to become a lawyer. Now, you still don't know the real reason behind his actions of the time.

Maybe, was your life not up to Moriarty's standard ? Maybe, your well-being had grown insignificant to him ? Or, did he think you unworthy of anyone else's love ? You didn't have a clue..

All that you knew was that your first boyfriend/girlfriend had been found eviscerated on the sidewalk and there had been no investigation, as everyone knew who had done it.

But, standing up against the Moriarty family would have been suicide. It was like facing an entire army who could destroy you in mere seconds. They were a mountain. And you were...just a snow flake. So, you had ignored it and waited...waited until Moriarty had no choice but to move away.

You were the one who had insisted on Moriarty to pursue his studies in London and become a mathematics teacher in front of your parents—him who had always adored the subject. You knew he wouldn't be able to say no if it came from them. However, you had no idea at the time that it would lead to your own doom.

As not only did your brother agree to move away, but he had insisted on taking you with him. And as you knew better than to say no to Jim by now, you had obeyed.

You had started as Moriarty's attorney. As his dutiful and merciful sister, you had made sure to keep your little brother out of trouble, which eventually led to your meeting with none other than the great Sherlock Holmes. You had never meant to mingle with the likes of him—but life had decided otherwise. He was frustrated with your law expertise that always seemed to save your brother from serving his sentence, and you didn't like how every time he was involved, you had to be.

People never expected you to work for Sherlock Holmes after your brother's "disappearance" —especially with his history with your brother. But, you wanted to get away and thought staying with the likes of Sherlock Holmes would get you a little bit of fresh air. However, you had no intention to help Jim in his evil scams, nor his sworn enemy to catch him..You had studied law to protect yourself—but had ended up as both dangerous individuals' jail get-away card. The only difference for you, it was that one of them did pay you.

Moriarty always sent you money under one form or another at the end of the month. But, you knew better than to accept anything coming from your brother. Sherlock Holmes on the other hand..He never paid you. He did once invite you to dinner, and it was to tell you he was going to lock your brother up, if it was the last thing he did..You had reminded him multiple times that your services weren't free, but he had ignored you until you had simply stopped asking. However, Watson had eventually taken pity on you and offered to pay half of it. And, Mme Hudson—who also knew how Sherlock could be—always offered you homemade cookies during your visits. Funny how all of Sherlock's friends seemed understanding of your situation—but the one primarily concerned.

But, you didn't complain.

You knew why. Better than anyone.

Being Moriarty's sister entailed you couldn't be trusted—not worthy of being payed.

You knew you better stay away from him, but you simply couldn't.

Sherlock had something you feared—and revered. He was maybe the only person in the world who could understand and defeat your brother. No matter how much you loved him, you had never been able to truly understand Moriarty. You thought him the only person able to get your brother back.

But, on the very night before Jim's death, he had wiped all doubt as to whether you could have or not..

Flashback :

Moriarty had called you to discuss, and he had given you a set of instructions to follow in order for Sherlock to stay away. You hadn't questioned his intentions and had followed all of his requests to a fault.

You wanted to see your brother—no matter how evil or ill-intended he might be.

You knew he would never hurt you.

You waited for him in a small restaurant on the intersection between Middle Road and Excalibur Avenue. It was well hidden behind thick bushes and the table he had chosen was closest to the door.

Typical.

He had even ordered your favorite drink to sip on while you waited. When he came in, his eyes covered by a pair of big dark glasses—probably Gucci—and a wide grin plastered on his face, you knew this wasn't a simple visit to check on you.

It was much more than that.

He pecked your cheek and you didn't comment on the way his lips lingered there a few seconds longer than necessary.

"Hello, sis'. Long time no see." There was a joyful tone to his voice, but not one that reached his eyes. The glasses wouldn't hide it from you, no matter how it usually worked with anyone else.

You knew Jim—better than anyone else.

"What is happening, Jim ?", you cut to the chase and Jim's smile faltered before he finally sighed in defeat and took off the sunglasses.

"I could never hide anything from you, huh ?"

You raised an expectant eyebrow at him and he addressed you a sad smile.

"I'm afraid that game with Sherlock is coming to an end." Your eyebrows shot up in surprise and you leaned forward to take Jim's hands. On the one hand, you were relieved that it would soon be all over, but on the other you wondered what this "end" meant.

"How ?" Jim opened his mouth to answer you, but reconsidered and instead asked.

"Will you..miss me, Y/N ?"

Miss..him ? You felt cold dread taking over you as your hold on his hands tightened. Where was he going ? Why wasn't he taking you with him ?

"Where are you going ?", you asked—even though you already knew the answer. You just hoped he would reassure you, tell you you were wrong..But, for the first time in forever, your brother looked at you with a sad smile without answering your question. It was the most serious you had ever seen him.

It left a strange bitter feeling in your stomach.

"What about me ?", you finally asked and Jim gently ran a finger on the side of your face.

"Oh my sweet sweet sister..I'm afraid where I am going, you can't follow." Before you could protest, he held your chin firmly and forced you to look him in the eyes.

"This is why I want you to stay near Sherlock Holmes for me. Watch him. And let him watch over you as I know he will.." It was not a request. You both knew that and Jim's eyes finally softened as he saw the growing concern in your eyes. Sherlock was his nemesis, his opponent..It didn't make sense. But, you didn't question him. You knew he wouldn't answer anyway..

"But, please..Do not betray me. Tell me you will remember me." That sounded a little too much like a permanent goodbye to your taste and you held back your tears. You knew the answer he wanted, and the only answer you could give him.

"Family is forever, Jimmy. I would never betray you—or forget about you. You know that.", you reminded him—something that you had already assured him on the night of his leave for London. The Moriartys protect each other. It is a rule your parents had taught you at a young age. It was the reason you had never sought revenge upon your brother for killing the person you had tried to build a life with. A Moriarty never betrayed their own. Everyone and everything else was deemed unimportant.

Well—until Sherlock that was.

You had never met anyone like your brother—not until Sherlock..

Moriarty's shift from a gentle and caring brother to a complete psycho had happened not long after his meeting with the detective. And to try to answer who had created whom in that case would be the same as trying to solve the mystery of what from the egg or the chicken came first.

Impossible and pointless.

However, you had always wondered if you weren't a little at fault with Jim. You had tried to help him, to make him understand that you would always protect him—but maybe was it the problem. You had protected him too much—to the point where he grew up to be uncaring and cold to everyone else, but you.

He stared at you and smiled.

"That is why I love you, Y/N. You never look away.." You then realized that your eyes were still locked with Jim's. Jim beamed under your attention—as he always had.

Did it ever occur to you that your brother might be mad ? Yes. The answer was without doubt. Jim Moriarty was a mad man.

Had you ever regretted caring for him ? Yes. Yes, you had. Many times.

But, had you ever considered leaving ? No. Because you knew, he would always be your little brother. You would always love him.

And if he said to stay with Sherlock Holmes ? Then you would. If he said to jump off a bridge ? Then you would.

You would always protect and trust him.

If it made you the Devil's advocate ? So be it.

You finally smiled at him and nodded in agreement—tears brimming in your eyes as you gently pulled Jim's face towards you and connected your foreheads. You both closed your eyes and for a moment, you could pretend you were back to being children. You with your arms wrapped around his small form and Jim, tugged safely against you and covered with your favorite blanket.

Moriarty sighed and you smiled. No. It wasn't conventional. You knew that, but hearing your brother breathe and feeling his heart beat under your hand brought you comfort. He was still here. He was alive.

And that was everything that really mattered.

"I love you.", he uttered in a whisper and before you could reply—Moriarty was gone.

He had left a handful of cash on the table for your drinks and when you sat back down—a single tear rolled down your right cheek.

In all the years you had shared with Jim, he had never once said that he loved you..Not even as children.

It made your stomach churn and this feeling of terrible dread numb your whole body..

What was he planning ? Was he really going to....?

However, you didn't question it further.

You simply went back, packed your bags and dutifully followed your brother's last instructions.

It was time to move to 221 Baker Street.

You still didn't understand your brother's plan, but you wouldn't disobey. He was your cruel brother and you were his loving sister.

Both blessed by your unbreakable bond. Both cursed by it.

It didn't matter. You would always love each other...until the very end.

A few months after your sudden relocation :

When you had moved in, Sherlock hadn't even acknowledged your presence for weeks. He didn't want to associate with his enemy's sister without being forced to—and you understood.

The only reason you were here was because your brother had asked you to watch over him. He had given you the address and asked you to move in—an order which you had not dared disobey.

You had agreed, as it was his demand and you had ended up as Sherlock's neighbor. It was probably a ruse to make him paranoid and full of self-doubt, but you had no intention to interfere. So, you had stated your objectives from the start.

You were here on your brother's request—but whatever rivalry had occurred between them had nothing to do with you and you would never interfere with his work. You thought it would be enough. You really thought it would be enough to keep both men in your life. But, it had only brought their downfall faster than ever.

When you had seen both men tumble over the edge of that rundown building on TV, your heart had stopped and you knew the idiots had reached their last line.

You had assisted to both funerals, cried your eyes out at both and no one could even begin to imagine how you felt—watching both men you cared about more than anything die.

You knew there was little to no chance that they may have survived. But, you suspected one of them had at least.

Your grief was real, but you also knew better than to expect the both of them to fall to their demise..

So, when Sherlock was found alive and well, you weren't as surprised as the rest—even though still very angry.

You had slapped him. You had even refused to talk to him for months, not until he finally apologized to you. You then became good neighbors again for a year or two..until Sherlock found out he wasn't the only one who had faked his death.

As soon as he was certain, he returned to Baker Street and didn't even knock at your door before entering your bedroom—even though you were pretty sure you had locked it before going to bed..You felt him before seeing him.

You slowly opened your eyes and sat up to find him standing there—his expression unreadable.

"...Moriarty is alive.", he informed you.

You frowned at the news and even though you hadn't talked to your brother in such a long time, you felt as if Sherlock was blaming you.

"I had no idea.", you assured him—even though you knew it was no surprise for Sherlock. You hadn't seen your brother since that day at the restaurant..

Like everyone else—you had thought him to be dead, until now.

He hummed softly to himself in silent contemplation while you tried your best to keep your composure. He was the best detective in London—if not in the world—and you knew that every action you took would be classified in Sherlock's mind place as suspicious.

You didn't want him to think of you as devious. It wouldn't look good on his mind resume..You smiled at the thought, but quickly realized it wasn't the time for mind jokes.

"Tell me, Y/N. Do you still possess any lingering feelings for him ?" The question did surprise you, but you only cleared your throat and thought about it. Did you have any feelings for your long lost brother ?

"No, Sherlock. I do not.", you answered with a straight face and Sherlock tilted his head to the side—observing your features carefully for any sign that you were lying. He then sighed loudly when he realized you were telling the truth and shrugged.

"Good. I wouldn't want anything to interfere with my work—and our friendship.."

Friendship ? That was a first..As long as you had known Sherlock, he had never referred to you as a friend..

"No worries there.", you tried to laugh it off—but you could see Sherlock wasn't in a laughing mood. He only nodded shortly before standing up and heading for the door—but you then asked.

"Do you ?" He stopped dead in his tracks.

"Do I what ?" His tone was a little higher and cunning than usual, clearly defensive—but you didn't comment on it.

"Do you possess any lingering feelings towards my brother ?", you clarified. "He used to be your nemesis after all.."

He stayed still for a while—probably pondering on your words while you tried to seek the answer yourself. You stared at him—hoping for any sign that the man had been affected by your brother more than he wanted you to believe, but Sherlock noticed and shook his head.

"Goodnight, Y/N.", he said with a finality that left no room for discussion before closing the door behind him. You sighed and let yourself fall on your bed again—your exhausted muddled brain not completely processing what just happened.

You were used to Sherlock's weird antics—but he had never called you out on anything regarding feelings. Truth be told, growing up with Moriarty had had some repercussions on your life for sure—especially emotional life.

He had played you. He had made sure to make you as emotionless as him. As insensitive. He had ruined you for any other man.

And in return, you had only made his condition go worse by sheltering him.

In his bedroom :

You had turned your own brother into a monster. You truly hoped Sherlock wouldn't have to suffer through the same fate.

The moment Sherlock was back in his bedroom and had carefully closed the door shut behind him, he stood still for a few seconds. He only noticed at that moment how his hands were shaking and he felt his mind place sink into chaos. He covered his ears and tried to end the voices whispering things in his head..things he would never admit to anyone. He opened his window and uttered such a loud scream—multiple people in the street looked up at him in shock and dogs barked in the night.

You wouldn't talk about it the next morning.

There was nothing to say.

You had heard it, but you wouldn't mention it.

He had then left in a hurry, leaving you his keys and taking John with him.

You thought it would be the end of that.

But, no.

A few weeks later, Sherlock was back.

And each night, he would stand at the foot of your bed and ask you the same question over and over again..as if expecting the answer to change somehow. But, it never did.

"Y/N..", he whispered in the shadows of your room—but you didn't reply..You were tired and already knew what he would ask you.

"Y/N.", he insisted—but you only buried yourself even further in the warmth of your blankets. You had a case to go over tomorrow and had other things to do than to deal with Sherlock's shenanigans..

But, he wouldn't let you.

He grabbed the edge of your blanket and harshly yanked it off you. It made you sit up in a flash to glare at him and—after nights of frustration—you yelled.

"Why ?! Why do you keep asking me this question ?! I already told you ! Multiple times !"

Sherlock remained unmoving as he stared wordlessly at you—his cheeks hollow and his two eyes barely lit with life. You immediately regretted yelling at him as you saw the pitiful state he was in. You were about to apologize when he opened his mouth to answer you.

"Because I have the strong conviction that you are lying. And I cannot comprehend why." You took a deep sigh and closed your eyes.

"And what series of brilliant deductions helped you achieve such conclusion ?", you replied sarcastically. You knew the best way to reason with him was to get to the bottom of this and find out what was the spark that had lit this fire in him. He had never acted so impulsively before. You had never seen him so disturbed.

"I simply observed.", he confessed. "I observed you. Day and night. It is strange—when you think about it..Feelings. I have never suffered to the hands of emotions before. They seemed so far away..But, you. I have this conviction that you are lying—and yet, you seem so confident. Your façade never broke. Not once. You hide yourself well. But, I can see it now. You are afraid. You feel guilty. Guilty of not being good enough, of being the reason behind your brother's many misdeeds..And now ? You are afraid of what I may become if this game with your brother keeps going on..Am I wrong ?"

Your smile faltered.

You hadn't asked questions at the time of Moriarty's decision and had simply decided to close your eyes and stay blind as to his dark fate. You hadn't asked questions. You hadn't put into doubt his odd behavior. But you should have asked. You should have cared. Now, you knew why Moriarty had asked you to get closer to Sherlock. It was obvious. Moriarty knew you were the reason of his own path to darkness, and sought for you to do the same with Sherlock. It hadn't been your intention to be a part of Sherlock's slow run-down to madness, but there was no going back now.

Your eyes watered and Sherlock's expression immediately softened. He knelt beside your bed and took your hand in his.

"You love me."

It wasn't a question, but you still denied.

"No. I don't."

Sherlock frowned as you quickly retrieved your hand to wipe your tears away.

"It wouldn't make any sense for me to catch those feelings—and yet, you stay perfectly fine.", he reasoned and you shrugged.

A long silence followed his confession.

You looked up at the sky and let out a bitter humorless laugh at the cruel joke of fate.

"Just my luck. The detective. Catching feelings for the most dangerous criminal in the world's sister.."

Sherlock frowned and stared at you as he tried to understand 'he had undoubtedly fallen for you...No matter how absurd it was. You were the oak he could rely on. The only thing he was certain of. And yet, he would see that you weren't lying. You did care for him, but not like he did.

"It's...impossible."

The great Sherlock Holmes had reached a dead end. It felt like a trap. You had never asked for his affection, but he had still been unable to stay away.

He had never felt so lost.

"Unrequited love exists..", you finally tried to explain—but Sherlock shook his head vividly.

"Not for me.", he whispered and you sighed.

"Love is dangerous, Sherlock. It is unhealthy. Especially with me.", you explained and Sherlock nodded shortly.

"I know.", he agreed and yet—the way he was looking at you was unmistakable. It was the same way Moriarty used to. It scared you.

"That's the problem. You know. And yet, you still decide to stay. Don't you understand ? Death is all around me..You better just forget about me.", you said and Sherlock tilted his head before replying .

"Impossible."

Your eyes widened when Sherlock leant forward and your heart beat wildly in your chest.

"I'll leave tonight.", you warned him.

"I'd follow you.", he replied in a one breath and was so close you could feel his breath hitting your face.

"I'll...take my life.", you uttered in a whisper and he paused for only a second before raising his hand to your cheek and holding you in place.

"I wouldn't let you."

Your lips were merely inches apart and you finally breathed out.

"I hate you."

To which Sherlock replied with a knowing smirk.

"I love you."

And then, his lips were on yours. You hesitated for a second or two before finally giving in. You were tired and just wanted to feel something. Anything.

So, you drowned out your worries and just decided to feel the moment.

There would be tomorrow to think of guilt and sorrow..

A few hours later :

You woke up and found your bedroom empty. Well...You didn't know what you were expecting. Sherlock had surely left on another case with John.

He had gotten what he wanted.

You tried not to let disappointment overwhelm you and sighed before sitting up and rubbing your eyes. You didn't notice the shadow at the corner of the room until HIS voice rose up.

"Hello, Y/N. Missed me ?"

Your eyes widened at the familiar voice and you snapped your head up to meet Jim's eyes. He was standing before you and you didn't have the time to scream that he had his hand clasped over your mouth.

"Ssh...Wouldn't want to wake love Mrs. Hudson, right ?"

It was a clear threat and after a moment, you nodded slowly and he grinned before retrieving his hand. You took a couple of shaky breaths before staring at Moriarty. He was here. He was alive. So many questions went through your mind, but only one got past your lips.

"...How did you survive ?"

Moriarty licked his lips before taking your arm and bringing it to his lips and kissing your inner wrist.

"It took some time for me to heal, but don't appear so surprised. You knew I would eventually return..I always do."

He then smirked as he felt your shivering under his touch.

"You're trembling. Are you scared of me ? Don't be..You're safe. You will always be safe with me.", he claimed before suddenly pulling you out of your bed so you were flush against him and he was holding you steady. He then peered down at you and smiled.

"Come on..Aren't you happy to see me ? I still remember what you told me, you know ? We'll always be family. And family protects each other.", he reminded you painfully and you closed your eyes before shaking your head.

"Yes. But, no one has ever hurt me as much as you did. You were my home, Jim. And you left me. I was alone for so long and after all this time, I'm just supposed to leave everything behind to follow you ?"

Moriarty laughed, but it didn't quite reach his eyes as he leant forward and you could see a spark of insanity in his eyes.

"Since when have your become such a rebellious pawn, big sis' ? Have you grown a backbone during my absence ?"

As if to test his little theory, he pretended to drop you, only for you to grip his shoulders in order not to fall and Jim smirked mockingly.

"Seems not...Still need your little bro' to hold you up right, isn't that right Y/N ?"

You tried to deny and tell him you didn't him, but one look at him and all words became cement in your throat..You couldn't breathe and Moriarty's smile widened as he gently wiped the cold sweat off your face.

"Ssh...Little bro's back. And I'll take care of you. It's my fault. I should have known Sherlock would get to you..But, don't worry. I'll kill him, won't you like that, Y/N ?"

Your eyes widened and you thought of Sherlock and even though you had said that you didn't care for him, you shook your head vividly.

"No...No, please. I'll..I'll follow you. I'll be good. Please. Don't hurt him. Don't hurt any of them.."

You thought of John and Mrs. Hudson who had always been kind to you and Moriarty's eyes darkened as he led you outside.

"Very well. Let's go. We got a train to catch.."

You wanted to protest, saying that you needed your things, or at least to change..But, Moriarty didn't leave you the time. You were dragged outside and shoved inside a car before you could utter a word.

Moriarty smiled when he saw you try to discreetly send a message to Sherlock and was quick to grab your phone and text him himself. He then threw the phone back at you, as if not afraid that you would call anyone. You then saw that he had texted an address to Sherlock and a train station.

You looked up quizzically at your brother who only elegantly crossed his legs and winked at you.

"...I'm not a monster, sis'. You can say goodbye."

Your eyes watered as you weren't sure of what Moriarty meant by "goodbye". But, he didn't explain and you just hoped Sherlock would be smart enough to stay away.

At the train station :

Well...Seemed like Sherlock wasn't as smart as you thought. He was already there and pointed his gun at Moriarty.

"GIVE HER BACK OR I'LL SHOOT YOU !", Sherlock shouted—but Moriarty shook his head, a small knowing smirk on his face. He had fallen deep..It showed, and Moriarty wondered if it was written in the cruel story of fate for both men to suffer the same curse.

In love with the same woman—said woman insensible to both of their attention and unable to love one or the other. Jim had never doubted your love for him—mind you—but there was always this taboo about what he felt about you. His parents had warned him. They had told him to stay away and had even tried to separated you by sending him away—but it had never worked.

The Moriarty twins were never to be apart. In life, or in death.

"Yeah. No. Sorry. Y/N is special to me. And I don't like sharing." He then pulled you flush against him—a silent challenge for Sherlock to shoot.

Sherlock hesitated and Moriarty smirked before slowly backing away from him and getting on the train. He then shouted.

"I HOPE YOU ENJOYED HER TASTE YESTERDAY NIGHT, BECAUSE THAT WILL BE THE LAST TIME I'LL BE AS GENEROUS, SHERLOCK !"

He then gestured for his men to start the train and Sherlock gritted his teeth at Moriarty. When the train started moving, you seemed to realize Moriarty was about to get away with it and take you away...So, you bit his hand. You then attempted to throw yourself off the train, but Moriarty grabbed a handful of your hair and you let out a loud cry as he pulled you back.

"Oh no, you don't !", he yelled before throwing you unceremoniously inside the compartment. He then locked it after you and you were dragged away by one of his goonies.

"SHERLOCK !", you shouted and hit the door multiple times, struggling against the man holding you back.

"Y/N !", Sherlock ran after you and tried to jump on the train, but was stopped when a bullet pierced his shoulder.

He fell to the floor and you screamed loudly in grief—throwing your fists desperately against the glass. You cried out his name and Moriarty wrapped his arms around you when he was inside—the smell of gun powder still caughting the air with its sweetly sick burning fragrance..

"Don't worry, sis'. We're going home."

You closed your eyes and started crying.

This was a nightmare.

#fandoms #imagine #fanfic #jim moriarty x reader #sherlockbbc #bbc sherlock #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock holmes x you

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