imagining how they’d spend a getaway when their beloved (YN) invites them to relax and spend time together. Each one is separate and stays true to their personality and dynamic with you:
🕯️ William James Moriarty — “A Holiday of Stillness ”
WILLIAM JAMES MORIARTY
🌹 William James Moriarty
Destination: A quiet countryside estate in the Cotswolds
William rarely takes a break unless you insist — but when he finally agrees, he meticulously plans the route and lodging, ensuring everything suits your comfort.
He loves the serenity of rolling hills, classical gardens, and the faint sound of violin music in the air.
He’ll bring books, chess, and fine wine, but what he really wants is to see you barefoot in the grass, smiling without a care.
He’ll say, “It’s strange, how peace only feels complete when you’re near.”
At night, you sit by candlelight while he reads aloud from his favorite novels, his voice low and steady, his gaze flicking up just to see you blush.
Maybe Liam He will play you a piano rendition of “Love Story” by the fire. The notes are soft, as if thanking the world for finally finding peace - and you.
"If peace had a sound... it would be your laughter."
Sometimes he would lie in your arms, his eyes half-closed, his fingers playing with the ends of your hair, as if he had forgotten that the world could be so beautiful without blood and drawings.— linen blanket, strawberries, champagne—and a gentle kiss beneath the stars.
_ _ _ _ _ _
🔎 Sherlock Holmes
Destination: A lively seaside town in Brighton or Dover
He pretends he’s uninterested in vacations (“Sentimentality, sweetheart… a distraction”), but you catch him packing early.
The salty air energizes him; he takes your hand and leads you along the cliffs, talking about the patterns in the waves as if they’re a code only he can decipher.
He’ll challenge you to small games — who spots the most seagulls, who can guess where a passerby is from.
Late at night, you share fish and chips while he plays the violin for you under a lamppost, the melody dancing with the sea breeze. A name title ‘Rachmaninoff: romance for violin a minor’
“You do realize,” he murmurs with a smirk, “that I’m entirely addicted to these moments with you?”
After that, he would lay his head on your lap, hiding his tired eyes, letting silence become the language between you.
"You're the only mystery I don't want to solve," he said, as if admitting something he didn't even want to believe.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _
🌙 Louis James Moriarty
Destination: A lakeside cabin in Switzerland or the Lake District
Louis chooses somewhere peaceful, surrounded by water and pine trees — his dream is to finally breathe away from the city’s weight.
He spends mornings cooking breakfast for you, his hair messy, sleeves rolled up.
You find him staring at the lake often, lost in thought, until he turns, softly smiling, and says, “It’s beautiful… but not as much as you.”
He insists you rest and let him take care of everything. When you protest, he kisses your forehead to hush you.
At night, he lights a small fire, wraps you in a blanket, and lets you fall asleep against his shoulder, whispering promises you almost don’t hear.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _
🥂 Albert James Moriarty
Destination: A luxury villa on the French Riviera
Albert adores elegance — he’ll book a private villa overlooking the sea, with sun-drenched terraces and champagne breakfasts.
He enjoys slow mornings: sunlight on your skin, a silk robe slipping off your shoulder, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair as he murmurs, “You make every place feel like home.”
He’ll take you sailing, teaching you how to steer while the wind tousles your hair — a rare, unguarded laugh escaping him when you splash water on him.
Evenings are pure romance: candlelit dinners, gentle dancing, and soft jazz a name song “True love” echoing through the villa.
He’s the type to toast to your happiness and mean it with his entire soul.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _
🔥 Sebastian Moran
Destination: A rugged mountain lodge or a desert adventure in Morocco
Sebastian loves action and freedom — the farther from civilization, the better.
When you invite him, his grin says it all: “Finally, an excuse to get you alone.”
He teaches you how to shoot, fish, or ride a horse, but he’s endlessly patient when you fumble — always teasing, “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”
Nights are warm and wild: campfire stories, whiskey, and stargazing with you tucked against his chest.
He’s protective to the core, making sure no danger touches you.
“Next time,” he murmurs against your ear, “we’ll go somewhere even wilder. Just you and me, love.”
Hiii, could you write headcanons of the Moriarty team asking reader to marry them, like something very fluffy
Worth staying for
They have killed men in cold blood. They have burned estates to the ground. They have lied to queens, manipulated governments, and stained their hands in colors that cannot be washed away.
They are not good people.
They know this. They carry it like stones in their pockets, every sin accounted for, every crime catalogued. They do not ask for forgiveness. They do not believe they deserve it.
And yet.
You look at them like they are worthy of love. You touch them like they are not poison. You stay, night after night, in the darkness they have built around themselves, and you do not flinch.
They have tried to push you away. They have tried to warn you, to frighten you, to make you understand what it means to love a monster.
You have refused to leave.
And so, one by one, they come to a terrifying realization: they want to keep you. Forever. Not as a secret, not as a comfort, but as a partner. A spouse. Someone to come home to. Someone to grow old with,if they are lucky enough to grow old.
The thought terrifies them more than any enemy ever has.
But they ask anyway.
William James Moriarty
The Realization:
William had always viewed marriage as a strategy. A contract between families. A way to secure bloodlines and alliances. Love, if it existed at all, was an inconvenient variable that complicated otherwise elegant equations.
He had never imagined it for himself.
His life was a countdown. A slow, deliberate walk toward an execution he had already accepted. He would dismantle the corrupt class system of Britain, and then he would die,by Sherlock Holmes's hand, by the state's noose, by his own if necessary. There was no room in that timeline for a spouse. No room for forever.
But then you came.
It was not love at first sight. William did not believe in such things. It was a slow accumulation of small moments,a hand on his shoulder when he had been working too long, a cup of tea placed just within reach, a quiet presence in the corner of his study that made the silence feel less like loneliness and more like peace.
The moment he knew came on a night he had tried very hard to forget.
A mission had gone wrong. A nobleman they had been targeting had been more guarded than anticipated. William had taken a knife to the ribs,not deep enough to kill, but deep enough to hurt. He had made it back to the manor, left a trail of blood across the marble floors, and collapsed in his study.
He had not called for help. He never did.
But you found him anyway.
He did not remember much of that night. He remembered pain, white-hot and consuming. He remembered Louis's voice, sharp with fear. He remembered Albert's hands pressing bandages to his side.
But most of all, he remembered you.
You were there. You stayed. When Louis had been sent away to calm down, when Albert had been called to handle the aftermath, you remained. You sat beside his bed, holding his hand, dabbing the sweat from his forehead, reading aloud from a book you knew he loved.
He drifted in and out of consciousness. Each time he woke, you were there. Your voice. Your touch. Your stubborn, unwavering presence.
On the third day, when the fever broke and the pain faded to a dull ache, he opened his eyes and found you asleep in the chair beside him. Your hand was still wrapped around his. Your face was pale with exhaustion. There were dark circles under your eyes.
He watched you breathe.
And he thought: I want to wake up to this face every morning for the rest of my life.
The thought was so sharp, so unexpected, that it stole his breath.
He did not want to die anymore. Not completely. He wanted to live. He wanted to come home to you. He wanted to watch you grow old. He wanted to argue with you about dinner, and laugh with you in the garden, and hold your hand when the nightmares came.
He wanted to marry you.
It was, he realized, the first thing he had ever wanted purely for himself.
The Preparation:
The realization did not immediately translate into action. William was not a man who rushed into anything. He spent weeks,months, even,turning the idea over in his mind, examining it from every angle, searching for the flaw he must have missed.
He found none.
The first thing he did was talk to Louis.
Not for permission. William did not need permission. But Louis was his brother, his other half, the person who knew him better than anyone in the world. If Louis objected, William would listen.
He found Louis in the kitchen, as always, kneading bread with those steady, capable hands.
"I am going to marry Y/N," William said.
Louis's hands stopped moving. For a long moment, he was perfectly still.
Then he looked up, and his scarred face broke into something William had not seen in years: a genuine, unguarded smile.
"It's about time," Louis said.
The second thing William did was choose the ring.
He designed it himself, working late into the night, sketching and erasing and sketching again. He was not an artist,his talents lay in mathematics and strategy,but he knew what he wanted.
The band would be silver, not gold. Gold was too flashy, too noble, too much like the world he was trying to destroy. Silver was humble. Silver was honest. Silver was you.
The stone would be a sapphire. Blue, like the sky just before dawn. Blue, like the moments of peace he found in your presence. Blue, like the hope he had thought himself incapable of feeling.
He commissioned Von Herder to make it. The blind genius grumbled about the interruption, but when William explained what he wanted,the weight, the texture, the way it should catch the light,Von Herder grew quiet.
"For her," Von Herder said. It was not a question.
"For her," William confirmed.
Von Herder nodded. "I will make it perfect."
He did. Three weeks later, he placed the finished ring in William's palm. William could not speak. He simply held it, feeling the cool weight of it, imagining it on your finger.
The third thing William did was choose the location.
It had to be somewhere meaningful. Somewhere that represented them,not the Lord of Crime and his accomplice, but William and you. Two people who had found something rare in the darkness.
He chose the garden.
Not the formal garden at the front of the manor, with its manicured hedges and pristine flowerbeds. The hidden garden at the back, overgrown and wild, where you had spent countless afternoons reading while he graded papers. The garden where you had first held his hand without him having to ask. The garden where he had first let himself cry in front of another person.
He spent a week tending it himself. He pruned the roses, pulled the weeds, hung paper lanterns in the trees. He did not let anyone help. This was his gift to you,not the proposal itself, but the preparation. The proof that he was willing to work for you.
The fourth thing William did was write his speech.
He wrote seventeen drafts. He memorized none of them.
The words would not come. Every time he tried to articulate what you meant to him, the language felt inadequate. How could he explain that you had saved him? That you had made him want to live? That you were the first good thing in his life that he had not had to destroy?
He gave up on the drafts. He decided to speak from his heart.
It was the most terrifying decision he had ever made.
The Proposal:
He chose a spring evening, when the wisteria was blooming and the air smelled like honeysuckle and rain. The sun had just set, leaving the sky that perfect shade of blue-purple that exists only for a few minutes between day and night.
He had asked you to meet him in the garden after dinner. "I have something to show you," he said, keeping his voice carefully neutral. You had looked at him curiously but had not pressed for details.
You trusted him. Of course you did. You had always trusted him.
He arrived early. He lit the lanterns, checked the bench, smoothed his waistcoat for the hundredth time. His hands were shaking. William James Moriarty, the greatest criminal mind of his generation, the man who had orchestrated the deaths of dozens without a flicker of hesitation,his hands were shaking.
He heard your footsteps on the gravel path. He turned.
You came around the corner, and you stopped.
Your eyes widened as you took in the lanterns, the flowers, the care he had taken. "William," you breathed. "What is all this?"
He could not speak. His voice had fled entirely.
You walked toward him slowly, your gaze moving from the lanterns to his face. "You did all this?"
He nodded.
"For me?"
He nodded again.
You reached him. You stood close enough that he could feel the warmth of you, smell the faint scent of the soap you used. Your eyes searched his face, looking for an explanation.
He took your hands.
His palms were sweaty. He hoped you did not notice. You probably did. You noticed everything.
"Before I met you," he began, "I had accepted something about myself. Something I thought was unchangeable."
Your brow furrowed. You did not interrupt.
"I believed I was a tool," he continued. "A weapon designed to dismantle a broken system. I believed that when my work was done, I would be discarded,by the world, by history, by my own hand. That was the plan. That was the only plan."
He lifted one hand to cup your cheek. You leaned into his touch instinctively.
"Then you came. And you did not try to save me. You did not try to change me. You did not lecture me about my sins or beg me to repent. You simply... stayed."
Your eyes were shining now. He pressed on.
"You stayed when I was cold. You stayed when I was cruel. You stayed when I could not even look at myself in the mirror. You brought me tea at midnight. You held my hand when the nightmares came. You sat in silence beside me for hours, asking nothing, expecting nothing, just... being there."
He swallowed hard. His throat was tight.
"I have killed people, Y/N. I have ruined families. I have burned down the world and called it justice. And I will never be sorry for those things—because they needed to happen. But I am sorry that you fell in love with a man like me. I am sorry that I cannot give you a simple life. I am sorry that every day you spend at my side is a day you risk becoming a target."
Your hand came up to cover his, still pressed to your cheek.
"I am not sorry you are here," you said quietly. "I have never been sorry."
He closed his eyes. For a moment, he simply breathed.
Then he opened them again.
"You are the only good thing in my life that I did not have to destroy to obtain. You came to me freely. You stay freely. And I... I do not deserve you. I know that. But I want to spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of you anyway."
He released your hands. He stepped back.
He got down on one knee.
The gravel bit into his knee. He did not care. The lantern light caught the sapphire as he drew the ring from his pocket, holding it up to you.
"Not the Lord of Crime," he said. "Not the Professor. Not the monster the newspapers write about. Just... Liam. Your Liam. If you will have me."
His voice broke on the last word.
"I love you. I have loved you since the first time you fell asleep in my study, curled up in that chair, waiting for me to finish work. I loved you when you stitched my wounds without flinching. I loved you when you argued with me about dinner. I loved you when you laughed,really laughed, not the polite kind, the kind that makes your whole face light up.
"I love you. And I want to marry you. I want to wake up next to you every morning. I want to fall asleep with you every night. I want to argue about stupid things and make up and grow old and grey and ridiculous together.
"I know I cannot promise you safety. I know I cannot promise you peace. The work I do will always be dangerous, and the people who hate me will always be looking for ways to hurt me, and being with me means being in the line of fire.
"But I can promise you this: I will never stop choosing you. Not when it is hard. Not when it is dangerous. Not when the world tries to tear us apart. I will choose you, every day, for the rest of my life.
"So I am asking you. Not as a strategist, not as a revolutionary, but as a man who loves you more than he thought himself capable of loving anything.
"Will you marry me?"
He held the ring up to you, the sapphire glowing like a captured piece of the evening sky.
His heart was pounding. His hands were shaking. His eyes were bright with tears he refused to shed.
...
Albert James Moriarty
The Realization:
Albert had spent his entire life in service to others.
First to his birth family,a family he had grown to despise, whose cruelty and corruption had turned his stomach long before he was old enough to understand why. Then to William, the orphan boy with the eyes of a prophet, whose vision for a better world had given Albert something to believe in. Then to the cause itself, the slow, bloody dismantling of the British class system.
He had never expected to keep anything for himself.
Love, marriage, a family of his own,these were luxuries for people who had not burned their childhood home to the ground with their parents still inside. These were dreams for people whose hands were not stained with the blood of their own blood.
He had made peace with that. Or so he told himself.
Then you came.
You were not part of the plan. You had not been recruited, cultivated, or manipulated. You had simply appeared,a friend of a friend, a guest at a dinner party, a face in the crowd that he had not been able to look away from.
He had tried to push you away. He had been cold, distant, deliberately boring. He had told himself it was for your own good. You deserved someone who was not broken. Someone who could love you without guilt.
You had not listened.
The moment he knew came on an ordinary Tuesday.
He had been in his study, drowning in paperwork, when you had appeared with a tray of tea. Nothing unusual. You did this often.
But this time, you did not leave.
You sat down on the floor by his desk,not on the chair, not on the sofa, but on the floor, like a child,and you began to sort through a basket of tangled embroidery thread you had found somewhere.
He had watched you, bemused. "What are you doing?"
"Sorting," you said, not looking up. "You seemed stressed. I thought you might need company."
"I am fine."
"You are lying."
He had opened his mouth to argue, but you had simply held up a spool of blue thread and said, "Is this navy or indigo? I can never tell."
He had told you it was indigo. You had thanked him. And then you had continued sorting, humming softly under your breath, while he returned to his paperwork.
He had not been able to concentrate. He had kept looking up, watching your hands move through the tangled threads, watching your face in the lamplight, watching the way you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.
And he had thought: I want to watch you do this forever.
Not the sorting. Not the thread. You. Existing in his space. In his life. Making the ordinary moments feel extraordinary simply by being there.
He had realized, with a start, that he was smiling. Actually smiling. Not his diplomatic smile, not his charming nobleman smile, but a real one,soft and unguarded and entirely for you.
You had looked up and caught him. "What?"
"Nothing," he had said. "I just... I am glad you are here."
You had smiled,that warm, open smile that made his chest ache,and gone back to your sorting.
He had watched you for a long time after that.
And he had known, with absolute certainty, that he wanted to marry you.
The Preparation:
Albert did not rush into action. He was a planner, a strategist, a man who weighed every decision against a thousand possible outcomes. Marriage was not a decision to be made lightly,especially not marriage to someone like him.
He spent weeks thinking about it. Turning it over in his mind. Searching for the flaw he must have missed.
He found none.
The first thing he did was talk to William.
Not for permission,Albert had never needed permission. But for guidance. William was the closest thing Albert had to a confessor, the only person who truly understood the weight of what they had done.
"I am going to ask Y/N to marry me," Albert said.
William looked up from his papers. For a moment, his crimson eyes were unreadable.
Then he smiled. It was a small smile, barely there, but it reached his eyes.
"She is good for you," William said. "She makes you softer. Less like a sword and more like a shield."
"Is that a compliment?"
"It is the highest compliment I can give."
Albert nodded. He had expected nothing less.
The second thing Albert did was acquire the ring.
He visited seventeen jewelers before he found what he was looking for. He did not want something flashy,that was not you. He did not want something expensive for the sake of expense,that was not him.
He wanted something that meant something.
He found it in a small shop off Bond Street, run by an elderly woman who reminded him of no one. The ring was antique, Victorian, rose gold. The diamond was small, modest, surrounded by tiny forget-me-nots carved into the band.
"Forget-me-nots," the woman said, watching him stare at it. "For remembrance. For love that outlasts memory."
Albert thought of his birth parents, whose faces he was already beginning to forget. He thought of the fire, the smoke, the way his mother had screamed. He thought of the guilt he carried, the guilt he would always carry.
And he thought of you. The way you looked at him like he was not a monster. The way you held his hand when the nightmares came. The way you remembered the small things,his favorite tea, the book he had mentioned wanting to read, the date of his mother's death even though he had never asked you to remember.
He bought the ring. He did not haggle. He paid three times the asking price and left before the woman could thank him.
The third thing Albert did was choose the location.
This was difficult. Albert's life was lived in shadows,MI6 offices, secret meeting rooms, the cold halls of power. There were few places that held meaning for him that were not stained with blood or politics.
He chose the rooftop.
It was where he went when he could not sleep, when the weight of his choices pressed down on his chest until he could not breathe. The rooftop was his place,his alone. No one else knew he went there.
Until you.
You had found him there one night, two years into your relationship. It had been raining. He had been standing at the edge, looking down at the street below, wondering what it would feel like to fall.
You had not asked what he was doing. You had not lectured him or begged him to step back. You had simply sat down on the wet rooftop, opened your umbrella, and said, "It is cold up here. Come sit with me."
He had sat. He had taken the umbrella from you, holding it over both your heads. And he had talked,really talked, for the first time in years. About the fire. About his parents. About the guilt that gnawed at him every single day.
You had listened. You had not judged. You had simply held his hand and stayed.
The rooftop became your place after that. Your sanctuary. The one place where Albert did not have to be the Count, or M, or any of the other masks he wore. He could just be Albert,broken, remorseful, and entirely himself.
He would propose to you there.
The fourth thing Albert did was prepare his speech.
He was a master of words. He could lie to Parliament, charm foreign dignitaries, manipulate the press with a single sentence. But the truth,the simple, terrifying truth of how much he loved you,stuck in his throat.
He practiced in the mirror, alone, at three in the morning.
He practiced while shaving, while dressing, while riding to work.
He never got it right.
In the end, he decided to stop practicing. He would say what was in his heart. If his voice broke, so be it. If he cried, so be it. You had seen him cry before. You had never held it against him.
The Proposal:
He chose a clear night, when the stars were visible through London's usual haze and the air was crisp with the promise of autumn. He had asked you to join him on the rooftop,"just for a moment," he said, "I want to show you something."
You had climbed up after him, wrapping your arms around yourself against the cold. He had draped his coat over your shoulders without a word.
"Albert," you said, looking around. "There is nothing up here."
"I know," he said.
He took a breath. Then another.
"I have spent my entire life serving others," he began. "My family, before I burned them. William, after. The cause. The mission. I have never... chosen anything for myself. Not really."
You turned to face him, your expression shifting from confusion to something softer, something that made his heart clench.
"I thought that was my role," he continued. "To serve. To sacrifice. To exist in the background of other people's stories. I made peace with that. I told myself I did not deserve more."
He reached for your hands. They were cold. He held them between his own, rubbing his thumbs over your knuckles, trying to warm them.
"Then you came. And you did not ask me to be anything other than what I am. You did not demand that I change, or repent, or explain myself. You just... saw me. The real me. The one I hide from everyone else."
Your eyes were shining. He pressed on.
"You saw the guilt. The shame. The nights I cannot sleep because I can still hear the fire. You saw all of it, and you did not run. You stayed. You held my hand. You brought me tea and sat with me in the dark and never once made me feel like I was too much."
He swallowed hard.
"I do not know how to be happy, Y/N. I am not sure I ever learned. The part of me that could have been happy died in that fire, I think. Or maybe it was never there to begin with."
You opened your mouth to protest. He squeezed your hands gently.
"But I think... I think I could learn. With you. If you will teach me."
He released your hands. He stepped back.
He got down on one knee.
The rooftop gravel bit into his trousers. He did not care. The stars above were bright, indifferent, beautiful. He hoped you would remember them.
"I have nothing to offer you but myself," he said. "And I know that is not much. I am broken, Y/N. I am stained. I have done things that would make your blood run cold. I will never be the husband you deserve,the kind who sleeps peacefully, who laughs easily, who does not wake up screaming from nightmares about fire."
He reached into his pocket. His fingers closed around the ring.
"But I am yours. Every broken piece. Every stain. Every dark corner of my soul. Yours. Completely. Irrevocably. For as long as you will have me."
He held out the ring. The forget-me-nots glinted in the starlight, tiny and perfect.
"I love you. I loved you when you sat on the wet rooftop with me, not asking questions, just being there. I loved you when you organized my bookshelves because you knew I could not find anything. I loved you when you fell asleep on my shoulder during a carriage ride, and I sat perfectly still for an extra hour because I did not want to wake you.
"I love you. And I want to marry you. I want to wake up next to you and make you coffee and argue about whose turn it is to do the dishes. I want to hold your hand when we are old and grey and ridiculous. I want to spend the rest of my life trying to deserve the way you look at me.
"I know I cannot promise you an easy life. I know there will be danger, and fear, and nights when you wonder if I will come home. I cannot promise you safety. I cannot promise you peace.
"But I can promise you this: I will never lie to you. I will never hide from you. I will never make you feel like you are anything less than the most important person in my world. Because you are. You are.
"So I am asking you. Not as the Count. Not as M. Not as any of the masks I wear. But as Albert,the man who loves you more than he thought himself capable of loving anything.
"Will you marry me?"
He held the ring up to you, the rose gold warm in the starlight.
His heart was pounding. His hands were steady,they were always steady,but his heart was not.
...
Louis James Moriarty
The Realization:
Louis had never imagined marriage.
His entire existence revolved around William,protecting him, serving him, ensuring his survival. Love was a luxury he could not afford. Romance was a distraction that could get his brother killed.
He had told himself this for years. He had believed it.
Then you came.
You were not supposed to matter. You were a variable Louis had not accounted for, a crack in the careful architecture of his life. He had tried to ignore you, to push you away, to make you understand that there was no room for you in his world.
You had refused to leave.
The moment he knew came on a morning like any other.
He had been in the kitchen,his kitchen, the place he guarded jealously, the one domain where he was unequivocally in charge. You had come in while he was preparing breakfast, and instead of sitting at the table like a normal person, you had picked up a knife and started chopping vegetables.
He had frozen. "What are you doing?"
"Helping," you said, not looking up.
"I do not need help."
"I know. But I want to help anyway."
He had stood there, watching you, waiting for you to make a mistake. You did not. Your knife work was precise, efficient, almost as good as his own. You had been paying attention. You had learned.
When you finished, you looked up and caught him staring. "What?"
"Nothing," he had said, turning away. "The onions are uneven."
You had looked down at the neat pile of chopped onions. "They are perfect and you know it."
He had not replied. But he had not been able to stop thinking about it. About the way you had moved in his space without trying to take it over. The way you had helped without making him feel inadequate. The way you had looked at him,not with pity, not with fear, but with something warm and steady and entirely disarming.
He had realized, standing there in his kitchen surrounded by the smell of onions and coffee, that he wanted you there every morning.
Not because you were useful. Not because you made his life easier. But because you made his life lighter. You made the silence feel less like loneliness and more like companionship. You made him feel like he was allowed to want things for himself.
He wanted to marry you.
The thought terrified him. Marriage meant vulnerability. It meant someone to lose. And Louis had already lost so much,his parents, his childhood, the sense of safety that normal people took for granted.
But for you... for you, he would risk it.
The Preparation:
Louis did not tell anyone about his plan. Not at first.
He was not ashamed,he was afraid. If he told someone, it would become real. And if it became real, he could fail.
And Louis could not bear to fail at this.
The first thing he did was talk to William.
He waited until they were alone, until the manor was quiet and the rest of the household was asleep. He found William in his study, as always, surrounded by papers and candlelight.
"I am going to ask Y/N to marry me," Louis said.
William looked up. For a long moment, he simply stared at his brother.
Then he smiled,that rare, genuine smile that he reserved only for Louis.
"I was wondering when you would say that," William said.
"You knew?"
"I have known for months. You look at her the way you used to look at the stars when we were children. Like she is something beautiful and far away that you are afraid to reach for."
Louis looked away. His scarred cheek burned beneath his bangs.
"Do not be afraid," William said softly. "She loves you. Anyone with eyes can see it."
Louis nodded. He could not speak.
The second thing Louis did was choose the ring.
He did not want anything extravagant. Extravagance was not who he was, and it was not who you were. He wanted something simple. Honest. Something that would not catch on your clothing or snag in your hair.
He spent weeks looking. He visited jewelers and pawn shops and antique markets, searching for something that felt right.
He found it in a small shop in a part of London where no one asked questions. The ring was silver,thin, delicate, adorned with a a small dark purple stone.No engravings. Just a simple band, smooth and warm.
"It belonged to a woman who was married for fifty years," the shopkeeper said. "Her husband gave it to her when they were young and poor. She never took it off."
Louis held the ring in his palm. It was light. Almost weightless.
He bought it. He did not haggle. He paid what the shopkeeper asked and left quickly, before anyone could see the expression on his face.
The third thing Louis did was choose the location.
This was the hardest part.
Louis's life had no happy places. His childhood was hunger and cold. His adolescence was fire and blood. His adulthood was service and violence. There was no garden, no rooftop, no meaningful bench where fond memories lived.
So he decided to make a place.
He chose the kitchen.
Not romantic, perhaps. Not picturesque. But the kitchen was where Louis felt most like himself. Where he was not a killer, not a guardian, not a shadow. Where he was simply... Louis. The cook. The caretaker. The man who expressed love through flour and sugar and careful, patient hands.
It was also where you had first broken through his walls.
He remembered that day clearly. You had come into the kitchen while he was baking,a rare moment of vulnerability, a hobby he did not usually share with others. You had not commented. You had not made it weird. You had simply pulled up a stool and watched.
When he had finished, you had asked, "Can I try?"
He had handed you a piece of bread. You had eaten it, closed your eyes, and said, "This is the best thing I have ever tasted."
He had known, in that moment, that you were not lying. You never lied to him.
He would propose in the kitchen. Surrounded by the warmth of the stove and the smell of fresh bread. Surrounded by the memory of every meal he had ever made for you, every quiet morning you had spent together, every moment of peace you had given him.
The fourth thing Louis did was prepare his speech.
This was the most difficult thing he had ever done.
Louis was not good with words. He never had been. His love was shown, not spoken,in the meals he prepared, the clothes he mended, the way he stood between you and danger without being asked.
But he wanted to tell you. He wanted you to hear it, just once, in words.
He practiced while he cooked. He muttered to himself over pots and pans, forgetting and remembering, starting over and over.
In the end, he decided to keep it simple. He would say what was in his heart. If his voice broke, so be it. If he cried, so be it. You had seen him cry before. You had never held it against him.
He never got it right.
The Proposal:
He chose a quiet evening, when the rest of the household was otherwise occupied and the kitchen was empty. He had cooked your favorite meal,everything from scratch, everything perfect, everything made with hands that had killed more times than he could count.
You came when he called. You always came.
You sat at the small table in the corner of the kitchen,not the formal dining room, not the garden. The kitchen. Just the two of you, surrounded by the warmth of the stove and the smell of rosemary.
You ate. You talked. You laughed at something he said,something stupid, probably, he could not remember what. He was too nervous to remember anything except the shape of your smile.
When the meal was finished, when the plates were cleared and the candles were burning low, Louis stood up.
He walked to where you sat. He pulled out your chair. He got down on one knee.
The kitchen floor was cold. He did not care.
"I am not good with words," he began. His voice was rough, barely above a whisper. "You know that. I have never been... easy. To love. I know I am cold. I know I am distant. I know I push people away before they can leave me."
Your eyes were wide. Your hand had gone to your mouth.
"I have spent my entire life being afraid," he continued. "Afraid of losing William. Afraid of failing the mission. Afraid of being useless, being forgotten, being left behind. I have built walls around myself so high and so thick that I thought no one would ever climb them."
He reached into his pocket. His fingers closed around the ring.
"Then you came. And you did not climb the walls. You sat down at the bottom of them and waited. You brought me tea and sat with me in the silence and never once demanded that I let you in."
His voice cracked. He did not try to hide it.
"You waited. For months. For years. You waited while I pushed you away again and again. You waited while I told myself I did not deserve you. You waited while I learned,slowly, painfully, against every instinct I had,that maybe I was allowed to want something for myself."
He held out the ring. The silver band caught the candlelight, warm and simple.
"I want you, Y/N. I want you in my kitchen every morning. I want you in my bed every night. I want you in my life,all of it, the dark parts and the light parts, the parts I am proud of and the parts I will never forgive myself for."
He looked up at you. His eyes were bright.
"I cannot promise you an easy life. I cannot promise you safety, or peace, or any of the things normal husbands promise their wives. My life is dangerous. My hands are stained. There will be nights when I do not come home, and you will be afraid, and I will not be there to hold you."
He swallowed hard.
"But I can promise you this: I will never leave you. Not if you are sick. Not if you are angry. Not if the world burns down around us. I will never leave you. I will protect you with every breath in my body. I will provide for you with every skill I possess. I will love you,quietly, imperfectly, stubbornly,for the rest of my life."
He held the ring up to you.
"I love you. I loved you when you chopped vegetables in my kitchen and pretended not to notice me watching. I loved you when you sat with me in the dark and did not ask questions. I loved you when you touched my scar for the first time and did not flinch.
"I love you. And I want to marry you. I want to wake up next to you and make you breakfast and argue about whose turn it is to do the dishes. I want to hold your hand when we are old and grey and ridiculous. I want to spend the rest of my life being yours.
"So I am asking you. Not as William's brother. Not as a guardian or a killer. But as Louis—the man who loves you more than he ever thought himself capable of loving anyone.
"Will you marry me?"
He held the ring up to you, the silver warm in the candlelight.
His heart was pounding. His hands were steady,they were always steady,but his heart was not.
...
Sebastian Moran
The Realization:
Sebastian Moran had never considered himself marriage material.
He drank too much. Gambled too much. He had more blood on his hands than most soldiers saw in a lifetime. He was rough, crass, and emotionally constipated. Who would want to marry that?
But you did. Somehow, impossibly, you did.
The moment he knew came after a fight.
Not a big fight,a stupid one. He had come home drunk (again), and you had confronted him (again), and he had said something cruel (again). He could not even remember what it was now,something about you not understanding him, probably, something designed to hurt.
You had left the room in tears. He had sat in his armchair, staring at the wall, hating himself.
An hour later, you came back.
You sat down beside him, took his hand, and said, "I am not leaving."
"Why not?" he had asked, his voice hollow.
"Because you are sick," you said. "Not evil. Sick. And sick people do not get better alone."
He had broken down. Right there, in his armchair, surrounded by empty bottles and the smell of gunpowder. He had cried like a child, and you had held him, and you had not let go.
In the morning, he had woken up with you still beside him.
Your hand was still in his. Your head was on his shoulder. You had stayed. You had slept in that uncomfortable armchair just to be near him.
And he had thought: I want to wake up like this every day for the rest of my life.
That was when he knew.
The Preparation:
Moran did not prepare with elegance. He did not prepare with grace. He prepared with characteristic chaos and a complete lack of subtlety.
The first thing he did was buy the ring.
He had no idea what he was doing. He walked into the first jewelry store he saw, pointed at a ring, and said, "That one."
The clerk asked about size, metal preference, stone quality. Moran stared at him blankly.
"Just... the pretty one," he said.
The ring was ridiculous,ostentatious, huge diamond, the kind of ring that screamed "new money and bad taste." Moran looked at it, grimaced, and bought it anyway.
Then he showed it to Moneypenny.
She laughed for five minutes straight.
"Moran," she said, wiping her eyes, "she will hate this."
"She will?"
"She is not a magpie, you idiot. She does not want to blind people. She wants something meaningful."
Moran returned the ring. He spent the next two weeks quietly asking people,Moneypenny, Louis, even Fred,what kind of ring you might like. He wrote nothing down. He forgot everything.
In the end, he chose a simple gold band with a small (your favorite gem). Your favorite color. He had remembered that, at least.
The second thing Moran did was choose the location.
His first instinct was a pub. He dismissed that almost immediately (even he knew that was a bad idea). His second instinct was a racetrack. He dismissed that too.
He thought about places that mattered to you. Places where you had been happy.
He chose the park where you had had your first picnic.
It was not fancy,just a small green space in a working-class neighborhood, surrounded by plane trees and the sound of children playing. You had brought a basket of food (most of which Moran had eaten), and you had talked for hours about nothing and everything.
You had told him about your childhood. About your dreams. About the things that scared you.
He had told you about Afghanistan.
He had not meant to. The words had just... spilled out. The ambush. The heat. The way his men had died, one by one, while he watched. The way he had crawled through the desert for three days, half-dead, thinking of nothing but revenge.
You had listened. You had not judged. You had taken his hand and held it.
He would propose there.
The third thing Moran did was prepare his speech.
This was the hardest part. Moran was not a speaker. He was a shooter. Words were not his weapon.
He practiced in the mirror. He practiced in the shower. He practiced while cleaning his guns.
He forgot his speech countless times.
In the end, he decided to stop practicing. He would say what was in his heart. If his voice broke, so be it. If he cried, so be it. You had seen him cry before. You had never held it against him.
The Proposal:
He chose a Saturday afternoon, when the park was quiet and the light was golden and the plane trees were dropping their leaves like confetti. He told you he wanted to go for a walk,nothing special, just... a walk.
You walked together, your hand in his, talking about nothing. Moran barely heard you. His heart was hammering so loud he could feel it in his throat.
He led you to the tree. The same tree. The one with the twisted trunk and the low-hanging branches.
You stopped, looking around. "Moran? This is where we-"
"Yeah," he said. "I know."
He let go of your hand. He turned to face you.
His hands were shaking. Sebastian Moran, deadliest sniper in England, veteran of Afghanistan, killer of dozens,his hands were shaking like a schoolboy's.
"I am not good at this," he said. His voice was rough, almost angry. "I am not good at... feelings. Or words. Or any of the soft shit that normal people do."
You did not interrupt. You just watched him, your eyes soft.
"You know what I am. You know what I have done. You have seen me at my worst,drunk, violent, pathetic. You have seen me cry. You have seen me break. And you are still here."
He laughed, a broken sound.
"I do not know why. I do not understand what you see in me. But I stopped questioning it a long time ago. I just... accepted it. Accepted you."
He reached into his pocket. His fingers close around the ring.
"You are the first good thing in my life that I did not have to earn through blood. You did not come to me because I saved you, or because I paid you, or because you owed me a debt. You came to me because you wanted to. You stay because you want to. Every single day, you choose me. And I... I do not know how to be worthy of that. But I want to try."
He got down on one knee. The grass was damp. He did not care.
"I have spent my whole life running. From my family, from my past, from the memories of that desert. I have drowned myself in whiskey and cards and women because I did not know how else to survive. I thought that was all I deserved. That was all I was good for."
He held out the ring. The emerald caught the sunlight, glowing like a small green star.
"Then you came. And you did not try to fix me. You did not try to save me. You just... sat with me. In the dark. In the silence. You held my hand while I cried and did not make me feel small for it.
"You made me want to be better. Not for you,for me. Because for the first time in my life, I looked in the mirror and saw someone worth improving.
"I love you. I loved you when you scrubbed the mud off my boots without being asked. I loved you when you held me after my nightmares and did not flinch at the things I said in my sleep. I loved you when you argued with me about my drinking,not because you were trying to control me, but because you were scared for me.
"I love you. And I want to marry you. I want to wake up next to you and make you coffee and listen to you complain about the weather. I want to hold your hand when we are old and grey and ridiculous. I want to spend the rest of my life proving to you that choosing me was not a mistake.
"I know I am not easy to love. I know I am broken in ways that might never fully heal. I know there will be bad days,days when I drink too much, days when I push you away, days when the memories are too loud and I cannot find my way back to you.
"But I can promise you this: I will never stop trying. I will never stop choosing you. I will never stop being grateful that you looked at a man like me and saw someone worth staying for.
"So I am asking you. Not as the Colonel. Not as the sniper. Not as any of the other masks I wear. But as Sebastian,the man who loves you more than he thought himself capable of loving anyone.
"Will you marry me?"
He held the ring up to you, the gem bright in the afternoon light.
His heart was pounding. His hands were shaking. His eyes were bright with tears he refused to shed.
...
Von Herder
The Realization:
Von Herder had never considered marriage.
His workshop was his love. His inventions were his children. Human relationships were... complicated. Messy. Unpredictable.
But you were different.
The moment he knew came on a night when he was stuck.
A mechanism had failed,some tiny, crucial piece that he could not see, could not feel, could not fix. He had been working for hours. His fingers were bleeding. His patience was gone.
Then you appeared.
You did not offer advice,you knew nothing about engineering. You did not offer pity,Von Herder hated pity. You just... sat down beside him. You picked up the instruction manual and began reading it aloud, slowly, carefully, describing every diagram in precise detail.
He listened to your voice. He followed your words. And suddenly, the mechanism made sense.
He fixed it in ten minutes.
He turned to thank you, and you were smiling,that soft, warm smile that made his chest ache.
"How did you know what to read?" he asked.
"I did not," you said. "I just started at the beginning and hoped for the best."
He had laughed. Actually laughed,a real one, not the polite approximation he usually offered.
And he had thought: I want to hear that voice every day for the rest of my life.
That was when he knew.
The Preparation:
Von Herder prepared with manic energy.
The first thing he did was build the ring.
He did not buy one,that would be cowardly. He built it himself, in his workshop, using materials he had been saving for years.
The band was titanium,lightweight, unbreakable, the same metal he used for his most instruments. The stone was a black opal, flashing with hidden fire, the kind of stone that looked different from every angle.
Just like you, he thought. You are never the same twice. I could study you forever and never understand you completely.
He spent three weeks on the ring. He worked through the night, fueled by coffee and obsession. He rejected six prototypes before he was satisfied.
When it was finally finished, he held it up to the light,not that he could see it, but he could feel it. The weight. The balance. The perfection.
He smiled.
The second thing Von Herder did was choose the location.
His workshop was his sanctuary. It was also a cluttered, dangerous disaster zone. Not exactly romantic.
But he wanted to propose somewhere that mattered. Somewhere that represented him.
He chose the rooftop.
Not the same rooftop as Albert,the manor had many. This one was above his workshop, accessible by a narrow staircase that no one else used. The roof was flat and empty, perfect for stargazing.
Von Herder could not see the stars. But he knew you liked them. He had heard you talk about constellations, about meteor showers, about the vast, beautiful darkness above London's smoky sky.
He would give you the stars.
The third thing Von Herder did was prepare his speech.
He was not a poet. He was an engineer. He thought in schematics, not sonnets.
But he wanted you to understand. He wanted you to know that this,this,was the most important thing he had ever built.
He practiced while he worked, muttering to himself, forgetting and remembering, starting over and over.
In the end, he decided to speak from the heart. Schematics be damned.
The Proposal:
He chose a clear night, when the stars were visible and the air was crisp. He led you up the narrow staircase,"careful," he said, "the third step is loose",and onto the rooftop.
The sky stretched above you, endless and glittering.
"Von," you said, looking around. "What are we doing up here?"
He did not answer immediately. He was nervous,more nervous than he had ever been. His hands, usually so steady, were trembling.
"I cannot see them," he said finally. "The stars. I have not seen them in years. Not since the accident."
You turned to look at him. Your expression was soft, patient.
"But I know they are there," he continued. "I can feel them. The light. The heat. The vast, impossible mathematics of their existence."
He stepped closer to you.
"You are like the stars to me," he said. "I cannot always see you clearly. I cannot always understand you. But I know you are there. I feel you. Every moment. Even when you are not in the room. Especially when you are not in the room."
He reached into his pocket. His fingers closed around the ring.
"I have built many things," he said. "Weapons. Tools. Instruments of death and destruction. I have never built anything for myself. Never built anything simply because it made me happy."
He got down on one knee. The rooftop gravel bit into his knee. He did not care.
"Until now."
He held out the ring. The black opal flashed in the starlight, burning with hidden colors.
"I built this for you. For us. For the future I want to build with you,one gear at a time, one day at a time, one impossible, beautiful moment at a time."
His blind eyes found yours. Somehow. They always did.
"I love you. I loved you when you read instruction manuals to me without being asked. I loved you when you organized my workshop and never moved anything without telling me. I loved you when you touched my face,really touched it, like you were trying to see me,and did not flinch at the scars."
He held the ring up to you, the opal flashing in the starlight.
"I love you. And I want to marry you. I want to wake up next to you and hear your voice first thing in the morning. I want to hold your hand when we are old and grey and ridiculous. I want to spend the rest of my life building things with you,not weapons, not tools, but a life. A home. A future.
"I know I am not easy to love. I know I live in my own world, and I do not always know how to leave it. I know there will be days when I forget to eat, forget to sleep, forget that there is a world outside my workshop. I know I am broken in ways that might never fully heal.
"But I can promise you this: I will never stop building for you. I will never stop creating for you. I will never stop being grateful that you looked at a blind, broken engineer and saw someone worth loving.
"So I am asking you. Not as an inventor. Not as a weaponsmith. Not as any of the other labels people put on me. But as Von herder,the man who loves you more than he thought himself capable of loving anyone.
"Will you marry me?"
He held the ring up to you, the opal bright in the starlight.
His heart was pounding. His hands were shaking. His blind eyes were bright with tears he could not see.
...
Moneypenny
The Realization:
Moneypenny had never expected romance.
She was practical. Efficient. She ran MI6's day-to-day operations, managed budgets, kept secrets, and wrangled a team of chaotic, dangerous men. Romance was for novels. Not for her.
But then you came.
The moment she knew came on a day when everything went wrong.
A mission had failed. Papers were missing. Moran had lost his temper and punched a wall. Albert was in a meeting with the Prime Minister. William was unreachable. Everything was falling apart.
And you simply... took over.
You did not panic. You did not ask questions. You just started doing,filing, organizing, making letters, calming tempers. You handled Moran with gentle firmness, Fred with quiet reassurance, Louis with steady competence.
By the end of the day, everything was fixed.
Moneypenny sat at her desk, exhausted, watching you gather your things to leave.
"Thank you," she said.
You looked up and smiled. "That is what I am here for."
And Moneypenny thought: I want her here forever.
That was when she knew.
The Preparation:
Moneypenny prepared with characteristic precision.
The first thing she did was choose the ring.
She did not want anything flashy. She wanted something understated, practical, beautiful in its simplicity.
She found it in an antique shop near the office,a small diamond set in platinum, clean lines, no embellishments. It looked like something you would wear. It looked like you.
She bought it on her lunch break. She did not tell anyone.
The second thing Moneypenny did was choose the location.
Her life was her office. She spent more time there than anywhere else. It was not romantic,it was full of filing cabinets and requisition forms and the lingering smell of old coffee.
But it was hers.
She would propose in her office. After hours, when everyone else had gone home. Just the two of you, surrounded by the machinery of her life.
Because that was the point, was it not? She was offering you all of it. The boring parts. The stressful parts. The parts that were not pretty or romantic but were real.
The third thing Moneypenny did was prepare her speech.
She was good with words,she had to be, in her line of work. But this was different. This was not a report or a briefing. This was her heart.
She wrote and rewrote her speech. She practiced it in the mirror, in the carriage, in the shower.
She never got it perfect. But she decided that was okay. You would not expect perfect. You never did.
The Proposal:
She chose a Friday evening, when the office was empty and the city was quiet. She asked you to stay late,"I need help with the quarterly reports," she said, which was a lie and you both knew it.
You stayed anyway.
When the last report was filed and the last lamp was lit, Moneypenny stood up from her desk. She walked around to where you sat, pulled out your chair, and got down on one knee.
"No," you said immediately. "Moneypenny, get up. Your knees-"
"Hush," she said. "I am fine."
She took your hands. Her palms were sweaty. Moneypenny was never sweaty.
"I have spent my entire life taking care of other people," she began. "Managing them. Organizing them. Keeping them alive despite their best efforts to die. I am good at it. I do not mind it. It is who I am."
She squeezed your hands.
"But no one has ever taken care of me. Not really. Not until you."
Her voice wavered. She steadied it.
"You see me, Y/N. Not the secretary. Not the iron maiden. Not the woman who keeps this whole circus running. You see me. The tired one. The lonely one. The one who forgets to eat and works too late and falls asleep at her desk more often than she would ever admit."
She reached into her pocket. Her fingers found the ring.
"I love you. I loved you when you took the pen out of my hand and ordered me to take a bath. I loved you when you handled the filing for the 4th District without being asked. I loved you when you sat with me at midnight, drinking cold tea, not saying anything, just being there."
She held out the ring. The small diamond caught the lamplight, glowing softly.
"I love you. And I want to marry you. I want to wake up next to you and argue about whose turn it is to make the coffee. I want to hold your hand when we are old and grey and ridiculous. I want to spend the rest of my life taking care of you the way you have taken care of me.
"I know I am not easy to love. I am rigid. I am controlling. I have a hard time letting go of things that are not my responsibility. I know there will be days when I work too late and forget to come home, days when I am short with you because I am stressed, days when I push you away because I do not know how to let someone in.
"But I can promise you this: I will never stop choosing you. I will never stop being grateful for you. I will never stop being amazed that you looked at a woman like me and saw someone worth staying for.
"So I am asking you. Not as the secretary. Not as MI6's backbone. Not as any of the other titles people give me. But as Moneypenny,the woman who loves you more than she thought herself capable of loving anyone.
"Will you marry me?"
She held the ring up to you, the diamond bright in the lamplight.
Her heart was pounding. Her hands were steady,they were always steady,but her heart was not.
hi my love! is it ok if i can request any mtp character that has a darling that cannot speak english very well and has an accent? so when she gets kidnapped or when character acts like yandere towards her, she is confused because she doesnt really understand some of the english? but she tries her best to speak english haha<3
i’m sorry if it is hard to understand me, english isn’t my first language :< (like the darling above!! lol) please take care ana, i love you so much<3 and feel ok to ignore this, i just thought it wouldve been cute haha
The world had bowed to the United Kingdom. There was not a single corner of the globe in which the massive nation had not stepped foot in, trampling the lives of the innocent and forcing their customs onto the so-called "savages". Even if one was not from a colony, the effects of the nation could still be felt. Each little ripple could cause a massive tide, be it good or bad.
This is why you wanted to come to London.
Start fresh, seek out a new life. Oh, the thought of leaving your family terrified you to the core but the prospect of a better future was just far too good to pass up on.
London was a city of invention and hope, a place in which things were constantly in motion. Your English was abysmal at best, and the fact that you were foreign did not go unnoticed either. The highborn lords and ladies would look down from their carriages, as if they were the mighty gods who ruled over everything and anything that dared to take breath.
No matter. There was no time to worry about that.
Find work, get a roof over your head and some food in your belly. Those are the primary objectives. Make a fat paycheck and send some money back to family and loved ones, the thought of making their lives easier made your heart do backflips. With nothing but a single suitcase and almost no money, you were no better than prey in this den of wolves.
Fate was a fascinating mistress as none of the wolves had managed to sink their fangs into your supple flesh.
It was as if the stars themselves had gazed down at you and blessed you with a man so kind and gentle, a man who just so happened to be looking for someone who could clean his very expensive and lovely manor.
His name was Albert James Moriarty and on that very day, he had become your savior. He graciously offered his hand to you, his elegance shining brightly all over him like the sun as you stared at him in awe, wondering how you had managed to get so lucky so soon. In no time he gave you a uniform and informed you of your daily duties as best as he could. You had expected your lord to become impatient with you, to at least scoff under his breath for your inability to formulate a basic sentence, and yet that was never the case.
Lord Albert did his best to be patient with you, using hand gestures, facial expressions and sometimes even drawing out whatever his desires were or what needed to be done. He would mimic drinking tea with his hands, point to places that needed dusting and he made sure that you could at least understand basic greetings and farewells, just in case you needed them. When you had the spare time, he would have you sit down in his private office, the fire crackling behind you both as he handed you a book to read out loud. Albert would work on his papers as you clutch onto the book, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as you did your best to grasp the English language. In due time, you realized that he was giving you children's tales which were always filled with easy sentences, basic grammar and just a hint of whimsy.
There would always be a hint of a smile on his face as you read to him, as if he was pleased with your efforts.
The thought alone made you want to weep from joy. Preparing for the worst case scenario seemed to be absolutely unnecessary as Albert always had everything covered when it came to you and your needs.
Although, your lord did seem to act a bit odd at times.
That dashing green gaze of his would trail after you enter the room, his deep and soothing voice always lingering nearby as you dust the bookshelves, his accent only making him more appealing that he ought to be.
Falling for him was not an option. It just couldn't be. He was your boss - your lord - and surely a man like that would never cast his gaze to someone like you, right? His wandering eyes have been chalked up to figments of your imagination, the gentle mornings you would share with him were nothing but British customs you were yet to get used to.
Lord Albert was not a wolf.
He would never harm you.
And there was truth to that. You were one of the few people that Albert James Moriarty would never even think about laying a finger on.
As for the rest of high society...
That was a different tale to tell.
My darling, your English is lovely! If it makes you feel any better, English is also not my mother language as well! My apologies if this was too rushed, I just wanted to write something for Albert and you gave me the excuse to do so. Thank you for requesting and I hope you enjoyed it!
ᯓᡣ𐭩.ᐟ ⊹ William James Moriarty, Albert James Moriarty, and Louis James Moriarty with depressed!reader. (seperated!)
|| Trying out new stuff, if i can write something with this topic then I'll write more. Sorry if i mischaracterize them. T-T.
|| Tw : mentioned of suicide, depression, opinions.ᐟ
ᯓᡣ𐭩.ᐟ ⊹ William James Moriarty .ᐟ.ᐟ
In my opinion, he'll notices the signs instantly. He's an observant person after all, he noticed how you act whenever you look at the mirror and at yourself, how you seemed to be more self aware or self conscious when you're close with him.
He won't directly asked you, he wouldn't ask but wait for you to bring up the topic and would help you with actions or words, if you decided to tell him about it he'll listened and tried to help you step by step, he's a consultant after all.
If he knew you're planning to kill yourself he'll try to stay by your side for who knows how long, he wouldn't let that happen, no. He'll talk it out with you, not pushing you to tell him about it if you're uncomfortable, but he'll wait but doesn't mean he won't look out for you. He would watch you from afar, he would also asked Louis to hide anything sharp or anything that you could think of to off yourself. Not that he'll tell you, but he'll be more gentle than usual. (He's always but.. y'know)
He'll asked Louis to keep an eye out for you if he's out, however expect he'll never leave your side if it's not an emergency. (Mission, professor stuff etc.)
Overrall a good listener and will give the best advice, he'll show that he cares for you by actions and words, how he'll be so gentle and attentive to you whenever you're feeling depressed. He'll help you realize your worth by helping you with loving yourself first and then he'll help you to shoo away those bad thoughts.
ᯓᡣ𐭩.ᐟ ⊹ Albert James Moriarty .ᐟ.ᐟ
He might not noticed the signs at first but the more you act around him, he'll notice it. He wanted to asked you about it but he doesn't want you to be uncomfortable and decided to wait for the right moment.
That right moment being him finding you crying in your shared bedroom, he immediately rushed towards you as you then opened up to him about how he deserves someone who is equal.
He would listened to all of your pent up emotions and wouldn't brush it off easily, he would listened while caressing your hand with his thumb while giving you his full attention.
If he heard you planning to kill yourself, he would asked Louis or Sebastian to keep an eye on you since he's busy being the head of Moriarty and couldn't be home for most days, still he'll help you step by step no matter how long it takes.
He'll hide all the sharp things that could hurt you or kill you even, hiding it in place you never knew after all he and the brothers knows about the house more than you do.
Overall he'll help you whenever you're feeling depressed or even a slightest bit of sad, if he can't be there he'll write to you, sending letters asking about your day or how you're doing and sometimes he'll send you little gifts to cheer you up.
ᯓᡣ𐭩.ᐟ ⊹ Louis James Moriarty .ᐟ.ᐟ
He'll also noticed if you act a little "different" what i meant by different is how you avoid mirrors and starts to skipped meals, that's when he got suspicious.
He'll not directly asked you but will observe you from afar, keeping an eye out if someone words or actions is making you do this, but when he learned you are actually depressed he'll help you..
He's not good with words but will show you with actions, like if you told him about how everything is hard, how the slightest mishaps can make you burst into tears, or how the simplest thing makes you tired.
He'll listened throughout the whole process, no matter what, even if you accidentally spilled tea all over you or how it's hard for you to leave the bed. He'll help you by showing you affection, making you meals and making sure you are not skipping meals again.
In my opinion, i think he'll leave little note on your nightstand, saying things he couldn't say. He'll leave a note everyday, each with encouragement and unsaid feelings he can't say with words along with a small little flower attached to it everyday.
If he heard how you're planning to kill yourself he'll went into panic mode, he'll be so worried and tried to stop you by hiding all the sharp objects and asking for advice from William.
Overrall he'll not say much but he'll help with actions, he can't convey his feelings to words but he'll leave little notes that he hope will help you get more confident and more free from those thoughts that haunt you.
I understand Albert, honestly. Better than anyone else in this story. I don't know, people. I am tired. I am simply tired of everything. I am tired of seeing foolish takes everywhere online that huge numbers of people agree with. I am tired of watching the efforts of a new generation crash into barriers. I am tired of seeing artists and creative people have the only thing that truly matters to them stolen away. I am tired of empty arguments that lead nowhere and only set groups of people against each other. My head hurts so badly you cannot imagine it. Sometimes I sit in complete silence all alone and stare at the wall, feeling a heavy lump in my throat that physically makes it hard to breathe. Even my mother feels sorry for me now and says all my troubles simply come from thinking too much. I am tired of telling people things and not being heard, only for them to tell me years and years later that I was right about everything. By then I don't even want to talk to anyone anymore. And some of even have the nerve to ask what happened. What did not happen? At this point in life, genuinely, what has not already happened?!
Silly thought:
Louis getting a fever, and William absolutely freaking out, thinking his brother is on his death bed, While James, Moran, Albert, and even Louis are far more concerned about getting William to understand that he'll be fine, Because they don't want William getting sick, too, by refusing to leave his younger brother alone for more than ten seconds.
(this could turn into angst very quickly--)
