Sherlock (BBC) characters being on the receiving end of (physical) affection.
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Includes characters in order: Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Moriarty, Molly, Irene.
warnings: none
contents: romantic?, fluff, gn! reader, (mild) implementation of my own headcanons, set in a time period where you are close with the characters already
A/N: Hello to all the still-existing Sherlock fans! (Incase y'all haven't been fully wiped out by the meteor) This is my first ever work revolving it and I'm glad to be able to have published. A little fretful about it, haha. But enjoy!
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SHERLOCK HOLMES
Our first individual is a peculiar one indeed!
Anything involving his curls would likely have him respond blankly, he won't voice out discomfort depending on the setting but he will ask you what you want from him (moment of confusion). Through this, You may learn that he neglects it on most occasions. You'll find that it's.. quite tangled. I mean, You can't solve cases while doing meticulous haircare rituals at the same time now can you?
Body parts such as his hands are a hit or miss, it really does vary on the circumstances and includes hugging, snuggling up to him, etc. For the most part, Sherlock voices dislike of touches because it displays him being vulnerable, implying that his guard is down. But catch him in a certain mood and you'll find him leaning into your affections.
His neck is an erogenous zone weakspot overall. Only touch it if you wish for a visceral reaction. (like a yelp) How fun!
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JOHN WATSON
For a former soldier who has served in a ruthless war, this guy is a sweetheart.
Oh? You want to hold his hand? Sure! You want to hug him? He will pull you in for the most loving bear hug you've ever had the fortune of experiencing. You're not the only one who has fun! He'll suprise you too either with quick cheek kisses or hand holding.
In short, John is down for anything so long as it's saved for appropiate situations and/or settings (Unlike Sherlock who struggles to read the room). If you want to go beyond just those actions, you might want to behave first until the two of you get home.
What? I'm talking about spooning and the like! Get your mind out of the gutter. >:(
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MYCROFT HOLMES
(I do not find enough gifs of this glorious man!)
Following in the footsteps of his brother, Mycroft is neutral. He doesn't reciprocrate. He watches you cling to him with a 'hmph' before making an attempt to brush you off (gently).
But.
Deep down.
He is internally screaming.
You don't take down the carefully-constructed, well-woven facade of his especially with just one hug. Or do you? Well, Mycroft has been lonely more than he likes to let on. The daily company of British government figures and work does little if not nothing to soothe. Even with his efforts of doing menial tasks at home, the yearning doesn't stop nagging from the back of his mind.
The hug did something to him so keep going. Maybe he'll budge and let you inches nearer than the distance you would always maintain. This even raises the possibility of holding hands with the great and stoic Mycroft Holmes.
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JIM MORIARTY
Oh now you're just being adorable! Grabbing at him like that... But just so you know, If it were anyone else then they would've been found (spare the gruesome details) out of this world.
Moriarty doesn't mind. Not at all. Seeing someone get so forward with him is a breath of fresh air from the meek, shrunken figures he's used to seeing.
He took that moment as his Go-sign, now he'll be trying to get you to sit in his lap every chance he can get. You're his extra boost of focus, right next to boredom and raging hatred. And in this close proximity, he can say to you his snarky remarks and puns about his targets. (And you have to like it)
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MOLLY HOOPER
(she's so cutee)
Molly can't believe it, atleast for herself. She can't recall the last time anyone has this been interested in her enough to perform such acts.
Needless to say, she's into it and is over the moon. She'll be returning your affections back to you in no time! She merely needed that little push into confidence.
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IRENE ADLER
This woman here knows all about touching, alright.
The problem being, she's not used to genuine relationships outside the bedroom. So gentle caresses and cheek kisses ironically fluster her to an extent. But she'll catch up, as she learns quickly.
So, she does a bit of toying; Irene would wear a new color of lipstick everyday, and everytime, she leaves a kiss mark on different parts of your body. Good luck trying to get rid of the ones on more visible areas, or don't. She may or may not give you another.
Warnings: 🔞 Drugging/poisoning (flashbacks)•Threats of violence/hostage-type situation•Mentions of murder & conspiracy•Intense emotional tension•Romantic tension between characters with complicated loyalties•Explicit sexual content beyond implied intimacy or romantic tension •
Authors Note: It’s a short one, but a much needed chapter for the next one 👏🏻 The morning after? Full of tension, stolen glances, and James Moriarty being insufferably charming while pretending he didn’t spend the night tangled in Y/N Holmes’ sheets. Mother dearest Meeting with Silas’ right hand man to secure access to the chemical weapons reveal—while under watchful eyes. Enter Princess Shou’an. The woman who drugged Sherlock, framed him for murder, and vanished into shadow like a villainous ghost—now back in the crosshairs. We have 🔥 Pure electricity 🔥.
Word count: 2.5k
Y/N POV
Morning was breaking through the curtains, painting the room in soft beams of gold.Memories from the night before came flooding back with the sun—James' hands and his voice, the heat of his mouth on hers. His name on her lips like a prayer, her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling, pulling closer—God, what was she doing?
She glanced beside her,expecting..what? An empty space, the sheets cool where James had been. He wasn't there. She sat up, running a hand over her face. What did she expect?. Her body felt sore, a subtle ache that wasn't entirely unpleasant. But her heart weighed heavier with every second that James didn't appear. It couldn’t be any other way she knew, with her brothers. But the thought lingered.
Had he woken up and immediately regretted it? Realised this was a mistake—she was a mistake?. She pushed away the blankets and swung her legs out of bed, pulling on a robe. She wouldn't sit here like an idiot and wait for him to show up. After all, she was the one who played it as casual. She dressed quickly—a crisp linen shirt tucked into high-waisted brown trousers, a loosely tied leather corset cinching her waist. Practical, bold, and effortlessly sharp. She pulled her hair back into a low braid, leaving a few loose strands framing her face.
Then she descended the stairs with purpose.The kitchen was already alive apparently. Sherlock at the table with his nose buried in coded notes, Mycroft sipping tea like he hadn’t slept at all. Mother Cordelia flipping through the investor forged documents with narrowed eyes… and James.
James stood by the window in yesterday’s rumpled suit—somehow still looking dangerous even without sleep—coffee in hand as he stared out at Vienna’s awakening streets.He turned when she entered.Their eyes locked for one breath too long before he looked away first. Not fast—but just fast enough to make her wonder if it meant something.
Y/N raised an eyebrow as she stepped into the room. “Gathering without me? How rude.”
Mycroft glanced up from his tea.“We didn’t want to wake you.”
She poured herself coffee like nothing was different. “I wasn't asleep that late."
Sherlock didn't look up from his notes as he replied. "No, I suppose you weren't."
She frowned. "And what's that supposed to mean?"
He finally glanced up, gaze skimming over her attire before returning to his notes, voice dry as ever. “Didn't realise you owned trousers.”
She snatched the piece of toast from his hand, taking a bite. "What? never seen a woman in trousers before?— I Didn't realise you were suddenly a fashion critic."
"I'm merely observing the sudden deviation from traditional norms," Sherlock said, watching her with narrowed eyes.
“Ah yes,” Y/N said, “because you’re so fond of tradition right?”
Sherlock opened his mouth—then closed it. Before he could retort, James spoke up from the window, voice smooth and far too amused for this early in the morning:
"Personally,I think she looks bloody devastating in trousers."
All eyes snapped to him. Y/N nearly choked on her coffee. He met her gaze then—just for a heartbeat and there it was again. that look. Smoldering beneath casual charm like embers under ash. She cleared her throat and looked away first this time. She drew in a breath. “Right.”
The word came out slow, deliberate,like she was steadying herself after the electric flicker between them that still hadn’t quite died. She turned to her mother, stepping closer and placing a hand gently on Cordelia’s shoulder. The forged documents lay spread across the table: bank letters, seals of fictitious trade empires, investment portfolios built from lies.
“are they good enough?”Y/N said quietly.
Cordelia nodded without looking up. “They are more than good, they should pass,if we play this carefully.” Her voice dropped lower, just for her daughter. "I’ve arranged a meeting today with a man named Esad Kasgarli a trusted associate of your father's, deals with all his potential investors”.
But before she could speak further,Mycroft checked his pocket watch and stood."You leave in twenty minutes,Mother.Caution is paramount—you cannot let him suspect anything."
Cordelia rose with quiet authority,a queen arming for war.“I know how to handle men like him Mycroft.”
The plan was confirmed,Cordelia would meet Esad Kasgarli at a neutral café near the opera house, documents in hand, playing the role of a discreet investor with deep pockets and darker ambitions. Meanwhile, Sherlock, Mycroft, and James would trail her from a distance—hidden in alleys and carriages—monitoring for any sign of danger. Y/N wouldn’t be far behind. She’d stay close to James and Sherlock as they positioned themselves around the square, ready to intervene if needed.
“Remember,” Cordelia said as she buttoned her gloves. “Signal me only if you see him make contact with anyone unexpected.”
“And if he does suspect?” Mycroft asked.
“Then I improvise.” She gave them one final look.
Later that day.
The sun hung high over Vienna’s cobbled square. The café where Cordelia was meeting Esad sat nestled between the Opera house and a nearby fountain, its outdoor tables half-full with idle chatter and clinking porcelain.
They were all in disguise of course.
Sherlock wore a dusty scholar’s coat and wire-rimmed spectacles, his dark curls tucked beneath a newsboy cap. He fidgeted constantly—tugging at the scarf wound too tightly around his neck.
“Will you quit moaning?” Y/N snapped under her breath as she leaned against a lamppost, arms crossed. She wore a dark traveling coat with her braid pinned up messily beneath a wide-brimmed hat, one hand resting casually near the small pistol hidden at her back.
“It's suffocating,” Sherlock muttered, fingers picking at the knot.
“You try wearing a corset then,” she shot back dryly. “And then complain about your scarf.”
James,leaning beside them in the shadow of an arcade column,snorted into his coffee (black,no sugar,no nonsense). “I’d pay good money to see that.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “Of course you would.”
He raised his coffee in salute,a sly smile at the corner of his lips.
“Just saying—it would be very entertaining.”
She was about to retort when Sherlock interrupted, finally wrestling his scarf off and stuffing it in his pocket with a huff. "This is ridiculous."
Y/N raised an eyebrow at him. “Finally free, are we, drama queen?”
Sherlock scowled. "Don't start."
“you're acting like a child,"Y/N said, shooting a sideways glance at Sherlock then James, who merely shrugged.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm not a child. I just refuse to be strangled by a piece of fabric."
"It's not strangling you,it just requires a little thing called loosening it."
"Loosening it defeats the purpose," Sherlock snapped. "It's supposed to be tight isn’t it. That’s how it stays in place.”
Y/N smirked. “So does that mean you like everything tight and suffocating? Or just your neckwear? because I’d be glad to lend a hand—“
James choked on his coffee.
Sherlock glared at her, mortified. “Must you—”
Before he could finish, James pointed subtly across the square with his chin. “Incoming.”
Cordelia had just stepped into view—elegant, composed—her handbag hooked over one arm as she approached the café where Esad sat waiting at a corner table beneath a green awning. They all tensed.
A movement caught James eye—not at the table, but near the far alley entrance beside the opera house. A woman stood half hidden in shadow,wearing a high-collared jade coat and dark gloves.Her posture was still too sharp for loitering,her gaze fixed on Cordelia like a predator tracking prey.
James followed the figure and then recognition flared in his eyes.“Well… would you look at that.”
He turned to Sherlock.“Isn’t that the Princess Shou’an Sherlock or the fake one let’s say”
Sherlock followed their gaze and groaned.“Oh bloody hell.Not her.”
Y/N shot him a look."The one who drugged you and framed you, why we are all here in this mess of yours?”
“The very same,” he muttered darkly.
But before they could debate further,Y/N was already moving. Two minutes. Siblings instincts peaked. Sherlock and James could have been talking about anything, planning anything. Bur she was gone.
She slipped through the crowd like smoke—quiet, unseen. Her boots made no sound on the cobbles as she cut around the edge of the square, angling toward the alley where The fake Princess Shou’an stood watching.
Sherlock barely noticed at first. He was still muttering about betrayal and poisoned tea when he glanced sideways.
"Where is she?"
James had already seen it—the shift in her stance, the way her hand moved subtly behind her back. He didn’t answer right away. Just took another slow sip of coffee and smirked.
"Who?"
"Sherlock snapped."My sister.Where is Y/N?"
James finally tilted his head toward the alley.
And there she was.
Y/N stood behind Princess Shou’an, close enough that only they could see each other’s breath. One hand held a small pistol pressed lightly to the princess’s lower back.The other rested casually at her side like they were discussing hats rather than armed abduction
Her voice was calm,polite, almost cheerful as she murmured into Shou’an’s ear:
“I think you and I need to have a little chat… don’t you?”
Shou’an stiffened.“Who the fuck are you?”
Y/N smiled—a perfect blend of warmth and menace—and guided her deeper into shadow with gentle but unyielding pressure.
“I’m Y/N Holmes,” she said sweetly.“Pleasure.”
Shou’an's eyes widened,then narrowed as realisation dawned. She tried to pull away, but Y/N's hand tightened around her arm.
"Ah ah," she murmured. "Not so fast."
Shou'an gritted her teeth. "You're making a mistake."
Y/N gave a light, humorless laugh. "I think you of all people are in no position to judge my decisions."
A moment later, Sherlock turned fully to James, aghast. "Why didn’t you stop her?"
James simply smirked into his coffee cup. “Because I know better than to get between Y/N Holmes and currently what’s going on over there,besides we have to keep an eye on your mother”
Shou'an stiffened. "You don't understand—"
Y/N pushed her against the wall, face close enough to hear every shuddering breath. "Oh, I think I understand perfectly."
"I didn't have a choice—" Shou’an began.
Y/N scoffed. "We always have choices."
Shou'an went still as the gun pressed firmer into her back. "You think you know me," she hissed. "You know nothing about the things I've endured—"
Y/N twisted her arm a fraction higher, smooth as silk, voice never rising above a polite murmur. "You had a choice," she said, deadly calm. "You could've trusted my brother. Instead, you drugged him, framed him, and sold him to the highest bidder like he was nothing."
Shou'an winced but held her glare.
Y/N leaned in,ladylike smile still in place—her free hand adjusting Shou'an’s collar as if fixing an errant thread. "And now here we are."
She began walking backward through the alleyway,guiding Shou’an with effortless control,pistol hidden between their bodies like a secret only they shared.
"Look at us," she whispered sweetly to onlookers who saw nothing but two women chatting. "Practically sisters already."
They emerged near the arcade where Sherlock stood rigid and James raised an eyebrow,sipping coffee like he’d been waiting for this. Y/N didn’t break stride.As they passed Sherlock,his eyes flickered to his sister’s hand on the princess’s arm,the concealed gun,the ice in her gaze.
“Y/N,” he started—warning clear in his voice.
She gave one last glance over her shoulder at Shou’an,smile widening.
“You’re very lucky,” she said softly, so softly “that I’m not going to repay the favour.”
Then turned fully to James and Sherlock. “Gentlemen,I found someone who'd love to help us get closer to my father's little demonstration."
Sherlock stared."You can't be serious."
James took a slow sip from his cup,his eyes locked on Y/N—dark,fierce,incredulous admiring.
"Absolutely serious," she said,ladylike tone unwavering.“Say hello…to our new ally, but I believe you are already acquainted.”
Sherlock glowered. "I don't think 'ally' is the word I would use to describe her."
Shou'an lifted her chin, glare fixed on Y/N. "Is that what this is? A trap?"
Y/N smiled. "Think of it more like...insurance. But you have time to prove yourself”
“Prove myself? You’ve got a gun to my back and call it negotiation?” Shou’an snapped, voice low but venomous.
Y/N adjusted her grip, still smiling like they were discussing tea instead of coercion. “I call it motivation. And the gun? Temporary.” She finally lowered it, sliding it into the hidden holster at her back with practiced ease,but kept her fingers curled firmly around Shou’an’s wrist. “Drop the attitude and help us stop my father from selling chemical death to half the continent… and I won’t have to use it again.”
Sherlock stepped forward, jaw tight. “You can’t trust her.”
“I don’t,” Y/N said simply. “But clearly She survives by playing both sides—just like we are now.” Her gaze flicked to James beside him.“I think we need all the help we can get,Don’t we?”
James smirked, slow and knowing.
Shou’an exhaled sharply through her nose.“You’re all insane.”
“Possibly,” Y/N agreed, “But we’re also armed, organized—and frankly, much more dangerous together than apart.” Sherlock looked like he wanted to argue, but James cut in, voice edged with something that bordered on admiration rather than annoyance.
"When you've run out of options, sometimes it helps to keep your enemies close."
Y/N flashed him a smile. "My thoughts exactly."
Shou'an glanced between them, scoffing. "This is ludicrous. You actually expect me to help you?"
"No." Y/N tilted her head, eyes cold as winter. "But you will."
“After all,” Y/N said, stepping in close again, voice dropping to a whisper only Shou’an could hear, “that’s your purpose now, isn’t it? To get murder our father.”
A flicker in the princess’s eyes—surprise, maybe fear. But beneath it? Recognition.
Y/N smiled sweetly. “You didn’t come here just to watch. You came for him. So let’s stop pretending we’re playing different games.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear like a proper lady—while never breaking eye contact. “We both want him stopped… or exposed… or destroyed.” Her voice turned icy on the last word.
Shou’an exhaled sharply through her nose. “…And what if I don’t care who wins?”
“Liar,” Y/N murmured with quiet certainty.“You wouldn't be here otherwise.”
Silence. Then—James clapped his hands together once —bright and theatrical—as if they were discussing dinner plans instead of treason and blackmail.
“Well! Now that we’re all mostly aligned…” He shot Y/N a look—hot with amusement and something darker, “shall we figure out where dear old Dad is holding his grand little weapons display? your mothers coming this way”. All heads turned to the café doorway.
Cordelia walked toward them without haste, still in full investor-mode. Sherlock tensed like a bowstring.James took another slow sip of coffee. Y/N,however,smiled as if she'd expected nothing less. "There she is," James said quietly, voice rough like gravel. Y/N gave him a sharp look. "She's my mother,thank you."
He raised his hands in mock surrender. "Nothing was intended."
"Creep”
James quirked a smile, still leaning against their corner of the arcade. "My apologies."
She rolled her eyes,trying not to smile.
"No you're not."
Cordelia reached them, briefcase in hand, face composed—but her eyes flickered to the woman between Y/N and Sherlock.
“And who,” she asked coolly, “is this?”
Y/N didn’t blink. “Someone who’s going to help us.”
Sherlock opened his mouth,no doubt to protest but James stepped forward with effortless charm “Now… shall we all decide on how best to dismantle a madman’s empire before tea?”
What's On The Schedule This Week - THE EARLY EDITION
Monday: Temptation: Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x Reader (P*rnstar AU) - NSFWish - Robby struggles to balance boundaries with desire after he hears you getting off in the shower.
Tuesday: Surrender: Brendon Park x Reader (NSFW) - Brendon Park isn't a sub... at least not until you coax him into a pair of leather cuffs after a bad day.
Wednesday: The Magpie: Jim Moriarty x Reader - Moriarty discovers you know his dirty little secret.
Thursday: The Lightning Field: Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x Reader (Ex!Wife AU) - Robby reminisces about a past vacation while the two of you make plans of your own.
Friday: Worth Waiting For: Tom Loftis x Reader (NSFW) - Your first time with Tom was certainly worth the wait.
One day- after a nail appointment, you find out the session has already been paid for in advance. The worker had no real explanation..only a note. Signed J.M x.
Like James Moriarty- and the holmes’ children, you’re extremely smart, borderline insane, a psychopath. But you’re different. Your not “good” but your not..“bad.” Your that little space in the middle- the perfect line between being angelic and simply devilish. It’s probably what drew James to you in the first place- how quick you are to save some people then recklessly behead or gut another..
you work closely with Sherlock on some of his cases (you seem to be one of the only people who he claims can “keep up with him”) and your rather good friends with Mycroft. James noticed that quickly..he’s also noticed how attractive you are but that’s besides the point- he’s always had a thing for crazy people.
James has had his eye on you for a long, long time. It’s borderline stalkish how much information he has on you, despite the two of you never meeting.
you’ve turned down countless opportunities to be knighted, you live just down the street from John and Sherlock, you even have a “normal” job as an event planner, in a building not too far from your house, he knows about your parents, your exes- everyone you’ve ever shagged, dated or kissed and knows the name of your dog.
Yes, he..”stalks” Sherlock Holmes too but with you- it’s different. Much different. He’s developed and almost..insane, huge, weird attraction to you. He doesn’t just want to- fuck you..he wants to be with you constantly, he wants to wake up next to you.
He knows where you go to get your hair done, your nails done- where you go for breakfast on Saturdays and what you get when you go there.
He knows your favourite foods, drinks and snacks. He’s already imagined what you’d look like in a wedding dress, where he’d take you on a honeymoon, how many people he’d invite to the wedding- what your first child would be named, he’s personally had someone check on you every couple of weeks by watching from afar.
He’s been in your house- been through your cupboards and drawers, he knows where to find your forks and knives, your clothes and underwear- where you go shopping, your favourite colours- and he hasn’t even said a word to you.
That was- until about a month ago. Technically.
He knew you had another nail appointment..so he did something.
he went ahead- about an hour before you were set to arrive and he..may or may have not paid for your set. You were extremely confused and you were..hesitant at first. That was- until you thought about what if John paid for it. Or Sherlock- or even Mycroft. You thought that until a woman gave you a note afterwards.
“Pink goes well with your eyes.” - J.M.
your heart had dropped..to begin with, anyway.
You then you realised- you had a stalker. A real one. A good one. Someone who knew you..it intrigued you more than anything and you had a feeling that..they knew you would.
you’ve been keeping it from your friends..and the police for that month. You’ve decided to see just how long it will take him to talk to you..or how long it’ll take you to figure out who is- J.M.
your currently walking through the floor you work on- towards your office, the one you got just over a year ago now when you became manager. your heels click against the floor with every step, your assistant walking behind you.
“Your 7 0clock has called to confirm the time and your 5 has moved to 6 but it’s okay because it smokes t game more than 30 minutes- the wedding is on Saturday and they’ve said they-”
You suddenly stop..and pause when you see a man- stood in the elevator at the end of the hall..staring at you..and there’s- something about him.
You let your eyes roam over him for a moment-
manicured hands, 500 pound suit, 400 pound shoes- 738 pound watch, his right hand over his left to show said watch off- freshly shaven, feet shoulder length apart, recently gotten a haircut, his postures good- meaning he hasn’t slept on anything uncomfortable recently, and there’s this..smug grin on his face. As if he knows something you don’t.
Summary: Surrounded by luxury and chaos, you tell Jim Moriarty the truth he never expected to hear.
Jim Moriarty had a habit of making entrances.
Sometimes it was noise, sometimes silence, sometimes a grin that promised disaster.
Lately, it had been gifts.
They arrived without warning.
A velvet box left on the kitchen counter.
A silk garment draped across your chair.
Jewellery so fine it felt almost absurd in your hands. Diamonds that caught the light and fractured it, sharp and beautiful and impossibly expensive.
You did not need to ask where they came from.
Jim watched you every time you opened one.
Not subtly. Never subtly.
He leaned in doorways, sprawled across furniture, eyes bright with anticipation as though he were waiting for applause.
“Go on,” he said once, bouncing on his heels. “Try it on.”
You did. Because refusing outright felt cruel, and because there was something strangely vulnerable beneath his theatrical pride. He wanted to impress you. Needed to.
“They suit you,” he said, voice softening just a fraction.
“They’re beautiful,” you replied, honestly.
But beauty was not the same as comfort.
The gifts kept coming. Rings. Necklaces. Dresses that whispered against your skin. Shoes that cost more than most people earned in a year. Each one a declaration, loud and glittering.
You began to feel buried beneath them.
Late one night, you found him alone in the living room, lights low, counting something on his phone, probably money he would never miss. A fresh box sat on the table beside him, still sealed.
“You’re awake,” he said, glancing up, smile immediate. “Perfect timing.”
He pushed the box toward you.
“Jim,” you said quietly.
He froze, just a little.
“You didn’t even see it yet,” he replied, half joking, half defensive.
You sat across from him instead of reaching for the gift.
“I need to talk to you.”
His grin flickered.
“That sounds ominous.”
“It’s not, I just don’t want to do this anymore.”
His fingers curled against the table.
“Do what?”
“This,” you said, gesturing to the box, the room, the quiet accumulation of luxury. “All of it.”
Silence stretched between you, unfamiliar and heavy.
“I thought you liked them,” he said finally.
“I do. But that isn’t the point.”
He tilted his head, studying you, eyes sharp now.
“Then what is?”
You took a breath. This was harder than you had expected.
“You don’t need to buy me, you don’t need diamonds to make me stay. Or love you.”
His expression shifted, confusion giving way to something rawer.
“I’m not buying you, I’m giving you things.”
“I know, but it feels like you’re trying to prove something.”
He laughed, short and brittle.
“Of course I am. That’s the whole point.”
“Why?” you asked.
He opened his mouth, ready with something clever, something flippant, then stopped. The answer caught in his throat.
“Because it’s what people understand. You give them things. You make yourself impressive. You don’t give them a reason to leave.”
Your heart twisted.
“I don’t need any of it,” you said, reaching across the table, touching his hand. He stiffened but did not pull away. “I just need you. The parts of you that aren’t polished or shiny or terrifying.”
His eyes searched your face, as if looking for the trick, the hidden punchline.
“You’re saying, that all this,” he gestured vaguely, “is unnecessary.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re still here.”
“Yes.”
The silence that followed was different. Fragile. Honest.
“You know, “I’ve never been very good at believing that.”
You squeezed his hand.
“I know, Jim.”
He looked down at your joined hands, then back up at you, something almost shy flickering through his usual bravado.
“So, what if I like giving you things.”
You smiled.
“Then give me time. Or sit with me like this without trying to distract me with diamonds.”
He snorted softly.
“That sounds dangerously intimate.”
“Exactly.”
He leaned back in his chair, exhaling, tension draining from his shoulders in small increments.
“You’re infuriating. Do you know that?”
“You adore it.”
“I really do.”
He pushed the unopened box aside and stood, pulling you up with him, arms looping loosely around your waist. His forehead rested against yours, no theatrics, no audience.
“I don’t know how to be enough without excess,” he admitted quietly.
“You don’t have to know yet. Just don’t hide behind it.”
His arms tightened, just a little.
“I’ll try. For you.”
And for the first time, the room felt lighter without the glitter.
Summary: Your father got involved deep in the crime world. Owing more than he could keep up with. Soon you and your family are on the run. But debts demand to be paid. (Child!reader)
I had a dream, needed to write it. Some odd ass universe where these four fictional characters somehow work together and get along. And of all things, adopt a child. It is more of a fem!reader. So please enjoy this odd twisted found family dynamic!
Your mom always smelled like jasmine and baked goods.
Something about it always made you feel safe, loved.
Flour on her cheeks, always smiling. It meant warmth and comfort.
All of it distracted from the fact you'd moved three states in just the past year, ten towns. Distracted from how much you tried to pretend you didn't hear your parents arguing, things breaking. Your dad's sharp, cutting tone. Your mother's broken pleas. Sometimes your dad wouldn't come home for hours - usually at the crack of dawn, liquor still clinging to his breath.
You were only seven, obsessed with books and building your own fantasy world to escape to whenever the situation called for it. Which was often.
You had no way of knowing that your father had got himself in deep with me the crime world referred to as the four horsemen.
Intelligent, sadistic, cold criminals. Men who by some twisted form of fate had found one another. After unsuccessfully trying to kill each other they decided they found some level of comradery with one another, their shared darkness and vision.
Your father had racked up one too many missed payments to them.
The latest move was to a home in West Virginia, surrounded by woods.
You loved it, plenty of trees to climb and bugs to catalogue. You'd spend hours wandering, waving a stick around like it was a wand.
But your dad looked over his shoulder twice as much, often muttering to himself.
It was a Wednesday night when everything in your life changed. The scent of rain hung in the air, breeze rustling the leaves.
You had a rain coat on. Soaked to the core, your mother had just wiggled it off of you.
You hadn't heard the car pull into the driveway.
You'd only heard the three polite raps that echoed through the house.
Your parents never got company, you furrowed your eyebrows.
You'd only been aware of your mother kneeling before you, tucking your stuffed rabbit under your arm with a gentle smile. She brushed some hair out of your face.
"I need you to do something for me, Y/N. Go into Mommy and Daddy's room and crawl under the bed, okay? Stay hidden. You don't come out no matter what you hear. I mean it. Do you understand?"
You'd felt the fear then, how her voice tried not to shake. She squeezed your arms, glancing at the door like it was a death sentence.
"Do you understand?"
All you could do was nod. She pressed a kiss to your temple and you ran, following orders like you always had.
Under the bed was dark, sounds muffled. But some things were unmistakable.
You clutched your rabbit tight to your chest, cheek pressed against the rug, body curled inward.
The screaming started not long after.
Crashing, loud high pitched noises and begging that was your parents.
You began to shake. Uncontrollably.
In the other room your parents were bound to chairs, four masters of torture doing the unthinkable. The scent of blood filled the air - along with some bodily fluids. They tore through both mind and body with the precision of artists who were all too familiar with their medium.
In the bedroom tears pooled onto the carpet and you covered your mouth with your hand to keep any sounds from escaping.
It lasted two hours.
Your limbs ached from being in one position so long, you were sweating profusely, and trying your best not to hyperventilate. Especially as the screaming grew more ragged, hoarse.
Your mother died first. Crane's toxin had taken root in her psyche, showcasing her fears of a dead daughter she dared not call out the name of in fear of them finding out and an unfaithful husband. her mind far gone before her body gave out. They had burned her skin with a cigar and then a quick slit of the throat. Efficient, she was not the one who wronged them, she was merely collateral, her life and his.
Your father lasted an hour longer. Eyes gauged, ribs split open. He had not been granted any mercy. He had felt every thread of pain. Each individual eye muscle had been severed. His body was surprisingly resilient.
You didn't hear anything anymore.
It was quiet, eerily so. The deafening kind where any small noise sent a jolt of panic through you.
Then footsteps. Slow, evenly paced. The door to the room creaked open.
Your heart jumped out of your chest and you tried your best to hold your breath as shoes came into view.
Expensive shoes. Shiny, not like the sneakers you were used to.
"Crane. Lecter," the man said, flatly. His voice a gravel "Now."
Soon three more pairs of shoes joined. You were frozen in fear.
Then, a face appeared. He'd crouched down and pulled the sheet aside to get a full view of you. His gaze was calculating, eyes sizing you up.
Hannibal Lecter knelt calmly. He didn’t speak right away. He simply looked at you, deliberately shifting his facial expression and eyes. Allowing the moment to stretch on long enough to let you see something gentler in his face, something paternal and concerned. A softness he wore like a mask when needed. It made your brows furrow.
"Are you okay, my dear? You must be so frightened."
Suddenly another face, this man dropped to his stomach, resting his chin on the back of his hands to look at you. He allowed an unnerving smile to grace his face, eyes glued to you like he was observing a play. "Did the monsters come after mummy and daddy?"
You visibly flinched, pressing yourself further back.
“No no no, sweetheart. Not us. We’re not the monsters. We found you. We scared him off, little one. Though he may come back. Who knows, monsters can be ever unpredictable," Jim Moriarty tried to hide the glee in his tone.
"We were camping nearby when we heard the screams. We came running. It seems we were too late though. We were unsure if anyone had survived, luckily you did," Hannibal affirmed.
Moriarty cooed, “Did they tell you to hide, little darling? Did your mummy say to be very, very quiet?”
A nod. Barely. A twitch.
"You did very well," Hannibal said softly.
"Where's my mommy and daddy?" Your voice was hoarse, tears still streaming down your cheeks.
"They are dead." This man had a scarred face, one eye had a black sclera and orange mishaped iris. "We were unable to save them." Silco studied the way your lower lip trembled, the pain in your eyes evident. Too young to be experiencing such pain. "A regrettable truth. However, they did succeed in keeping you safe."
The final man leaned down, staring at you over his glasses. Bright blue eyes met
y/e/c ones. He was calculating your level of fear.
"What's his name?" That made you pause, looking at him confused. He motioned to the rabbit you were clinging to and you swallowed a lump in your throat.
"Jasper," you murmured.
Jonathan Crane shared a glance with the others. They had adapted the lie quickly. "At least you were not alone while the carnage occurred. Perhaps Jasper would be more comfortable out here. You are safe now."
You were too young and terrified to catch the lie.
It was Hannibal who offered a hand out under the bed. "Come, child. We will protect you."
It was a long time before you moved. Slowly placing your small hand in his as he guided you out from under the bed.
"What's your name?" Silco asked.
"Y/N"
"Y/N," Hannibal whispered, testing the name. "I'm Hannibal, this is Jim, Silco, and Jonathan. Jim is going to help you pack a bag. We can't leave you here in case the man who harmed your parents comes back."
Your eyes widened, the words striking fear into you. You clutched at Hannibal's hand like it was a lifeline.
"He might come back?" You whispered.
"It is a possibility," Jonathan said, adjusting his glasses. "Whoever came for your parents was rather depraved. That kind of mind is unpredictable and you are an easy target."
You didn't understand, not fully, but you nodded your head either way.
"Come along, little one. Let's gather what you need," Jim said cheerfully, guiding you to the closet.
Jonathan, Hannibal, and Silco made their way back to the living room, standing over the bodies.
"Since when are we in the business of collecting strays?" Jonathan asked, tone cold.
"Since one has fallen into our hands," Hannibal answered.
Silco lit a cigar, letting the smoke curl to the ceiling. "They had tried to keep the child safe. To protect her from their sins . . . Their mistake. So we allow her to believe the illusion that we are the ones saving her?"
"it's not an illusion," Hannibal said. "We are saving her. She would likely starve here. Or worse, end up in the foster care system."
Footsteps sounded down the hallway. Jim and you making your way. He carried a suitcase of things he'd picked for you.
You turned the corner just as he sang, "I wouldn't do that."
You'd looked, immediately. Your eyes met the bloody and unmoving form of your parents.
Your legs moved fast, racing to what was left of them. Hannibal had been the one to scoop you up. Holding you close as you cried and tried to wiggle free.
Jim was leaning against the frame, hands in pockets. Jonathan was studying your reaction. Silco's eyes softened slightly.
"Mommy told me to hide. I hid, I was good. Mommy! Wake up!" Tears pooled from your eyes, clutching Hannibals coat tightly.
"You were good. Now you will come with us and be a part of a new family. Your parents were unable to foresee their fates," Hannibal said, softly.
"They were weak," Silco said. "We are not."
You sniffled, burying your head in Hannibals chest.
"You won't leave me? Promise?"
"We will not leave you," he affirmed.
That day changed everything. You were about to be raised by four of the most feared men in the country. Their child, their prodigy, theirs. They were all you had left.
You would become a weapon.
All while never knowing they were the ones who had taken your parents from you.
This is for those who feel like frustrated artists/writers like me, haha.
All characters are over 21 years old. All my content is for ages 18+.
In the living room, instruments are stacked, expensive paintings hang, half-finished poems lie around, and dance costumes are set aside. The colors are vivid, unlike the darkness of the other rooms. Today is your painting day. However, as you trace the brush across the canvas, the unstable lines reveal your inexperience. You exhale deeply, close your eyes and open them, ready to start anew. You remove the sheet, crumple it, and let it fall to the floor. You try a different color, but your technique remains imprecise. You throw your head back, letting out a huff, move your neck from side to side and massage it. Your muscles respond instantly. You enjoy the pause of relaxation, until you feel his hands on the back of your neck, rubbing deep circles. You let your hands fall into your lap. His hard fingers undoing your knots.
Your shoulders tense when he sits down beside you. Your bare neck, with the mark of his fingers intact, is stained. You touch the dense substance and look at it. The blood makes your fingerprints stand out more. You look at him. He didn't wash his hands.
He looks at your painting with playful disapproval and gestures for you to play a melody. You rush, placing the guitar on your knee. You strum, producing a discordant sound. He closes his eyes, displeased. You look down, with a sad frown.
He smiles at you. He shows you a sweetness that only you witness.
Outside your paradise, many men lie dead on the ceramic floor. Names that history would forget. He would dispose of them once you leave. For now, he will pay for your whims. He just hopes you don't learn too fast.
-Enishi Yukishiro, James Moriarty (BBC), Alex DeLarge, William Schenk, Manjiro Sano (Mikey), Kazutora, Patrick Bateman, Hannibal, Brahms Heelshire, Bloody Painter
