#i had completely forgotten about the ring until i started editing this fic lmao

[javier-pena]

denial

Pairing: Max Phillips x f!reader

Word Count: 3.4k

Rating: Explicit (and I mean EXPLICIT/18+/strictly no minors thanks)

Summary: This is the longer version of that drabble I wrote a few weeks ago. There is no plot, and I have no excuse for this apart from that I really like vampires.

Warnings: explicit sexual content | masturbation (male) | dirty talk | choking | some dom/sub vibes | orgasm denial | cum eating | frequent mention of the words “fingers”, “hand”, and “neck” | reader doesn’t know Max is a vampire | blatant disregard for hundreds of years of vampire research (sorry!) | Max is an asshole (but he’s my asshole) | and just to be on the safe side: explicit sexual content (I won’t say it again)

Notes: I can’t start every fic with “Dani made me do it” but yeah, Dani made me do it. She just knows what to say to me to get me to write stuff like this. Thank you for reading this in advance and for your advice and for screaming at me at one in the morning, this one’s for you, Ms @javierpcna!

***

“Stand up.”

A shudder runs through you when you hear his calm voice; and yet, there is something there, an undercurrent you pick up on almost subconsciously. The nerves in your body begin to tingle as you turn your head to look at him, your mouth suddenly dry. You’re both sitting on the couch watching a movie, his arm is draped around your shoulders casually, his gaze on the TV. It doesn’t appear like he’s interested in you as his eyes follow the action on the screen with tiny flickers of movement. Did he even say it or did you just imagine it?

But then he turns to you, raises his other hand to catch your chin between his thumb and index finger in a firm grip, and repeats, "I said, stand up."

You don't know what has gotten into him; maybe he thinks the movie is boring – you certainly think so –, maybe it’s the fact that you haven’t been this close to each other in over a week – both too busy with your jobs – or maybe it’s because you put on the perfume you know he likes, but he has never talked to you like this. He knows you would do anything he asked you to, couldn't refuse him when his brown eyes cloud over with a darkness that makes them appear black. You couldn’t refuse him when those eyes pin you down more than a firm grip on your wrists or hip ever could. It makes him look like a predator ready to pounce, ready to sink his teeth into his victim's throat to draw blood.

He is looking at you like that now and his unrelenting gaze makes you squirm against the couch. You can feel the evidence of what he does to you between your legs as something down there clenches around thin air and your own gaze is drawn to his left hand casually resting against his thigh.

You're instantly wet.

Without hesitation you jump up to stand in front of him, waiting patiently for him to make the next move. It isn’t your place to take the lead. As you look down at him lounging on the couch, knees falling open in an inviting motion, his right arm propped up as if still slung around your shoulders, you feel a tense calm, like a taut rope shortly before it snaps. The longer he makes you wait, the tenser you become until you feel you’re the one ready to pounce, ready to jump him. It’s all part of the game, all part of his seduction technique, to make you want him even more. Still, you don’t make a move because it’s what he wants. He wants to see you crack, cave in, so he can exploit that, turn the tide in his favor, use you. And you’re not prepared to let that happen without putting up at least the semblance of a fight.

So you wait patiently, even though your whole body is straining, itching for him. You know what’s about to happen, that there is nothing you can do to prevent it, but you’ve come to accept your fate and this knowledge fills you with tranquility.

And then he moves – finally! – and it takes you every ounce of your willpower not to mirror his movement because you don’t want to give him the satisfaction. He leans back until he's almost lying down, his back pressing into the soft cushions of the couch. He watches you, doesn't even blink, as if what he’s seeing isn’t affecting him at all, and then he runs his thumb across his bottom lip. “Take off your shirt,” he finally says in a low tone of voice that makes it impossible to resist him.

You comply, lifting the thin, blue fabric over your head to reveal you’re not wearing anything underneath. Thankfully, the air in the room is quite cold so you can blame your hardened nipples on that and not on your heightened state of arousal. The TV behind you fills the otherwise quiet, dark room with flashing lights and the sounds of explosions. He doesn't seem to hear them, doesn’t seem bothered by the alternating flashes of bright white and almost complete darkness. You have his full attention, and it makes you squirm, your heartbeat picking up speed, your blood rushing in your ears.

Again, he makes you wait, lets his gaze wander over you from the top of your head to the waistband of your jeans, as if he has all the time in the world. You notice how his eyes linger on your breasts for a moment, one of his hands closing around nothing as he imagines squeezing them. And you want him to – you’re so wound up everything irritates you, the noises, the lights, his eyes; an itch is crawling over your skin, one you’re desperate to have scratched. You want his hands on you, doing to you what he’s clearly imagining right now, but you know that being impatient will only make things worse. Max likes to take his time with you and if you act up, he knows how to punish you. You swallow hard in anticipation.

“Now your pants,” he finally orders, raising his eyebrows in what you can only interpret as a challenge.

You let your hand wander down your exposed belly, your touch relieving some of the pressure that’s been building inside of you, the muscles of your throat moving as you try to swallow. You know he notices how they strain, it’s in his nature. His eyes flicker up to your face before following your trembling fingers, watching as you struggle to open the button on your jeans. Your fingers refuse to cooperate when he’s looking at you like that, like you’re a delicious meal he can’t wait to devour.

And then he moves too. He’s almost mirroring your motions – but his hand doesn't stop at his waistband. Instead, it moves lower, lower and lower, and then he’s palming himself through the fabric of his expensive dress pants.

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise as he lowers his to glare at you. He’s never done this before, always relying on the feeling of your body under his. This? This is different. You feel watched, studied, completely exposed, as he uses the sight in front of him – uses you – to chase his own pleasure. And you like it. You're almost ashamed to admit how much you like it.

As you push down your jeans, you let your thumb brush over your clit to relieve some of the pressure building between your legs. It’s dangerous and you shouldn’t do it, you know that, but you can’t help yourself. Your whole body seems to be shaking with the tension and you crave release, even if it’s just for a second. And for that short second, you think you’re getting away with it, you think he doesn’t notice. But he does. He sits up straight with a snarl.

"Don't ever do that again." It's a low growl, almost animalistic. "You don't get to touch yourself."

You still your hand, but it’s unfair; you know that, he knows that. Yet, you don't protest. Being whiny or needy won’t get you anywhere. Instead, you set your mind on trying it again. You step out of your trousers and kick them to the side. He relaxes again, as much as he’s ever going to, his hand resting between his legs, pressing down lightly. You want to feel some of the relief he must be feeling right now, so you let your hands run up your thighs slowly, relishing how his breath hitches. You can feel the heat between your legs as you press your index finger against your clothed clit. A quiet moan tries to tear itself from your chest at the touch and you do your best to keep it down, fight it even, but you fail. You lose that battle.

The next thing you know is that his hand has your wrist in a vise-like grip. "I'm not gonna fuck you tonight," he tells you quietly and this time you can’t help yourself – you groan in frustration. He just tightens his grip on you, his black eyes gleaming dangerously. "Kneel," he growls, forcing you down until your knees hit the carpet. It sends a jolt of pleasure through you, from the base of your spine to the top of your head. Shivering, you watch him free his hard cock, thick and heavy, the tip glistening. You wet your lips in anticipation.

But then he shatters your dreams with three words. "You're gonna watch." His voice is a menacing hiss, nothing more. "You'll take what I give you. And you're gonna be grateful."

You nod your head to show him you’ve understood, hoping that if you behave yourself now, you might at least get to touch him. He seems unimpressed by your submissive display, just watches you with mild interest as he runs his hand lightly over his cock, from base to tip, collecting some of the pre-cum, before repeating the motion. The air is thick with anticipation – you crave his release as much as you crave your own, his slow movements only making you strain, yearn for more. You wish you could hear him lose himself, deep moans and filthy, whispered praises for you, but he’s completely quiet, watching with interest what he is doing to you. It’s almost like he’s not that interested in his own pleasure but rather in your reactions, your desperation, in the power he holds over you. You squirm again, chasing a tiny bit of friction between your legs.

“Am I boring you?” he asks. He’s trying to keep his voice level, but there’s a ragged quality to it that makes you look at him.

Oh.

He’s not as composed as he would like you to believe he is. His brows are furrowed, and his chest is heaving, his breath coming in short, aroused pants. It makes you shudder involuntarily, because with these obvious signs of the effect you have on him comes something else, something dark and demanding and sinister, something he can’t force down. And you don’t want him to force it down; you want him to take what’s rightfully his, want to give him everything he craves, want him to use you until you’ve forgotten everything about your own pleasure, until you’re both just chasing his. You want to see him come undone with the softest of touches, with the whispers of the dirtiest things you can think of.

“No,” you say, and tentatively put a hand on his thigh just above the knee. Your eyes are wide with innocence, a silent plea written all over your face. “Just let me touch you.”

“No,” he repeats your own answer back at you, the hand on his cock stilling for a moment. Then he lets go of himself and holds his hand up in front of you. “But you can have a taste.”

You let your tongue run from the heel of his hand to the tip of his middle finger before sucking two fingers into your mouth. He lets you, helps you by pushing into you even deeper. The taste of him on his skin, on his strong hand, his thick fingers, is almost too much, too overwhelming. He picks up on that quickly and begins to pull out only to shove back inside your mouth with brutal force. Repeating this motion a few times, he watches as you swallow around him, determined to show him what he’s missing. You suck on his fingers, force him to press down onto your tongue until you gag, until his eyes are impossibly dark with lust. Your eyes flutter shut as you moan and he curls his fingers at that, stilling his movements, giving you a short break to taste him, to cherish what he’s giving you. When you open your eyes again, you see a red glimmer in his, which makes you suck and swallow even harder.

When he pulls his fingers from your mouth with a wet pop, a thread of spit still connecting you to him, you moan at the loss. This time, you don’t have the desired effect on him. Instead, his hand, his fingers that were just in your mouth, grab his cock again and he runs it up and down his length with obscenely wet sounds accompanying his movements. You keen, both hands on his knees now, watching the spectacle in front of you while you can feel yourself clench around nothing over and over again in time with his motions, like you’re missing something inside of you, a vital part, a piece of a puzzle that belongs there. You can feel him like a ghost inside of you, stretching you, and you’re jealous, jealous of his hand wrapped around himself, getting to experience the feeling you so desperately crave. The air is heavy with a scent entirely unfamiliar to you, an intoxicating fragrance that makes your head swim, that makes you feel brave and bold and ready to defy the rules.

You grab his wrist in an attempt to still his hand, to replace it with your own or your mouth or your warm, wet folds – you don’t care, you just need to feel him somewhere, but he growls deep and dark and dangerous and lunges forward, his other hand wrapping tightly around your throat, the ring he’s wearing on his middle finger digging into your skin. You gasp, a new jolt of arousal making your entire body convulse and vibrate and ache for him as he tightens his grip, as he holds you in the palm of his hand. You know he can feel your racing pulse beneath his fingers as he stares at you silently, his slightly parted lips revealing the edges of his teeth, making them look like fangs. It’s a battle of wills, a battle that can only have one victor, and you back down too soon when you let go of his wrist. You can see it in the mocking glint in his eyes, in the way the corners of his mouth move upwards in a contemptuous grin.

“Giving up so easily, doll?” he asks. “Would have figured you were more of a fighter.”

“Well,” you say, swallowing around his tight grip, “give me something to fight against.”

He hardens his grasp to a point your breathing becomes labored, your chest rising and falling in an attempt to suck in enough air to keep going. His ring feels cold against your skin even though his hand is warm, and that difference in temperature helps you stay grounded. You push your chin forward in defiance, showing him you can take it, and he accepts the challenge. The hand he has wrapped around himself begins to move again, slowly but deliberately. You know he’s not some kind of inhuman, supernatural being who can hold out forever. He’s human, just like you. But what he says next makes you question this knowledge.

“Tell me.” His voice is so low and raspy and yet fills the entire room to a point it makes your skin crawl. “Tell me what you would do to me if I’d let you.”

You swallow again and your tongue darts out to wet your lips before you trust your voice enough to speak. Still, what you say comes out pathetically high, your pitch raw with lust. “I would make you feel so good,” you manage before your voice gives in and you have to swallow again. His grip doesn’t weaken. “I would let you come wherever you wanted to. I –”

He interrupts you harshly. “You’re about to let me do that anyway,” he points out, still mocking you.

“I –,” you try again, desperate to come up with something that will make him crumble, will make his façade come down in a mighty explosion. “God … I … I would touch you … I – I would wrap my hand firmly around your … your cock,” your eyes flicker down for a second, “I would stroke you and squeeze you and … my hands are much softer than yours. Wouldn’t you like that? Wouldn’t you –”

“No,” he interrupts you again, crudely. “I like it rough.”

You try to nod, but he doesn’t let you. Instead, he tilts back your head until you are forced to look at him, at his dark eyes blown wide with desire, and he lets you see the desperation in them, if just for a very brief moment, a split second, for the amount of time it takes a helpless little hummingbird to beat its wings once. And you are just like that bird – fragile and delicate, ready to be crushed by this man.

“I would let you fuck my mouth,” you say. “I want you to make me choke, push me, make me- I want you to come down my throat, make me swallow every last drop of it.” Oh, you have him now. The movement of his hand is becoming frantic, desperate. A wet sound fills the room, increasing in urgency with each pass of his hand. “I want you to make me beg for it,” you continue. “I know you want to take whatever you need. And I would let you. I’d let you do anything you want to me, Max.” A small tremble in his hand makes his grip on you falter briefly. You take this opportunity to lower your voice. “You have no idea how much I need you right now. Don’t you want to find out, Max? Don’t you – don’t you want to flip me over, push into me, fuck me into the … into the carpet, use me until you fill me up, with no regard for me? I want you to do that, Max, I want you to stretch me open and make me scream and –”

His grip tightens so suddenly it cuts off all airflow. His ring cuts into your skin and you’re sure it will leave a mark. You feel your own arousal against your leg at that thought.

“Shut up,” he snarls. “Just shut up.”

“Oh, Max,” you moan. Where his voice is rough, yours is soft. “Do you want that, baby? You can have it. I’m right here.”

You begin to shift, but his hand leaves your throat, his fingers now resting against the nape of your neck, and he pulls until you are on display for him and he can see how your pulse races, a steady throb under your fragile skin. Before you have time to adjust to this new angle he’s coming with a low rumble in his chest, his grip on you tightening to hold you completely still. You feel his release hot against the tender skin of your neck and chest, you can smell him, and you make a sound that rings entirely unfamiliar in your own ears as he marks you like this.

Before you can make any move to clean yourself up, he pulls you up towards him, your neck straining with the effort, and then his tongue is on you and he’s hungrily licking you clean, sharply biting down on your skin once or twice when you squirm. You’re so desperate for this man that you’re prepared to let him do anything as long as it means he’s finally going to touch you. His tongue and teeth only drive you towards the edge even more, but it’s not enough, and you realize too late that you’re rolling your hips in desperation. He pulls back, his lips swollen and glistening, and then he shoves a hand between your legs so suddenly, your hips jerk and a frantic scream tears its way out of your throat. Two of his fingers move upwards, pushing the fabric of your panties into you. Your hands find his thighs again, and you squeeze with all your might.

“You’re dripping,” he observes with a cool smirk. “My fingers are wet, and I haven’t even touched you.”

“Please, Max,” you moan, rolling your hips again.

His free hand grips your side to still you. Then he removes his fingers, and you sob at the loss, tears shooting into your eyes. “Looks like you need to take care of that yourself, doll,” he says with a raised eyebrow, a smirk making his eyes sparkle. “I want to see how the movie ends.”

tagging (a few people who showed interest, mostly by liking the announcement post): @acdeaky @ah-soka, @darksber​, @doin-stuff, @kashyyyyk, @leannawithacapitala​, @light-yaers, @millenniumsfalcon​, @minervadobbs, @pedropascaldice​, @odetokeons​, @phoenixhalliwell​ @piscespussybabe​

[honestlyfrance]

The Missing Letters Between Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes and Detective Samuel Wilson

square filled: Detectives AU

warning: innuendo; swearing; the usual gay debunking from historians (subtle); murder cases; car accident

summary:

In the late ending 19th century, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes resigned from his duties as a military officer to follow Detective Samuel Wilson to the ends of the world, even going as far as accompanying the strange and wistful man in his cases. The letters collected by many biographers and museums are only the few correspondents between the two rumored lovers, running between the scrutinized years of 1889 towards the start of 1900, the timeline: The Sergeant running away from a German Spy group after the Detective uncovered a massive Russian Spy Ring decades earlier, calling fair game. Historians still can’t tell the full story that changed Europe, and neither do the letters.

a/n: I have obviously given up on writing, resorting to edits, but I still don’t know if this counts as an edit or a fic lmao anyway they both fit the requirements. Join me in the frustration of this AU and tell me what you think! Brackets mean commentary! Careful - this is pretty long!

@sambuckyevents​

[ The few letters curated are in code. Historians speculate it’s to hide the two men’s letters, making it difficult for anyone to read them, but what raises questions were the simple code used in each one: Caesar Cipher, a cipher where each letter of the alphabet is substituted for a letter three positions further. Historians then speculate why had the two men used such a simple and easy code to cipher their letters, and to this day, they cannot offer a concrete answer. The only letter that differed in code was from James Barnes, wherein you have to use a special kind of glasses that merges the two different inks used, red and blue, to form a coherent word. The glasses used to read this letter was owned by Samuel Wilson, but his biographers still speculate on the other colors the glasses are capable to read. ]

17, 8196 

[ date still being speculated ]

Dearest,

The only thing keeping me together was you: me wanting you so badly. I couldn’t wait to sleep in our bed, hearing you snore so softly, or watch you pace in the room, a pencil in your mouth, your murmuring dulling me to sleep. I will be awake so 

Beloved, Barns

[ Pages missing ] [ Believed to be unfinished on purpose, but is merely speculation ]

[ To hide coherency between their letters, Samuel Wilson initiated using different papers, ashing pages, and using different inks. In his other letters, Samuel Wilson used several penmanship that barely look the same from the others; this is obvious in his letters to Sarah Wilson, his sister, and James Rhodes, his close friend. James Barnes, however, only wrote in the same handwriting, but he was ambidextrous, and his right and left handwriting were strikingly different, to which he used to his advantage. ]

[ The next letter is said to be Barnes’s last letter sent to Wilson before he finally settled down in his hometown. There were no records that show that Barnes really did settle down somewhere in Brooklyn, or in New York, for that matter, but what is sure is that he had met up with his sister, Rebecca Barnes, in Brooklyn during this time. The rumored letter written by Wilson to which Barnes is replying to was burnt along with the other donations to the Smithsonian Museum in the car accident of Wilson’s last descendants - luckily, no one got hurt. 

This letter of Barnes’s was one of the few that were descriptive enough to set the scene, as seen with the reminiscing of the London Streets of where Barnes and Wilson lived in. Another detail in this letter was the infamous Scarlett Body Case, the gruesome murder of Elizabeth Scarlett, an African-American opera singer, to which Wilson was assigned to. The only ever existing information about this case is in Federal Custody among the F.B.I. who work hard on closing the case the famous detective failed to solve. The Scarlett Body Case is the last case Wilson was known to have before he disappeared. ]

Brooklyn, Dec 16, 1900

To Sam Wilson, down in Washington, D.C.

I have received your last letter with a warm heart, and all I could think about was how tragic your past years must've been. I wish I could've been right by your side, cheering you on as you trek every path that led you somewhere or to a dead end. Just as I read your hefty letter, I could feel myself submerge into the scene. I could feel the London streets and smell the thick air of smoke, feel the chilling winds of November frost as well as your lips tasting of nicotine. I breathe in the pages and could smell the strong scent of your cologne and faint blood. Have you been writing after every lead or case? I love that about you, but that doesn't mean you have to keep that awful habit. Please, at least wash your hands.

I see that you need some help on the Scarlett Body Case, yet, again, that road is past me. I don't feel the adrenaline of solving murders, jewelry thieving, or sudden disappearances, and I'm so sorry I can't give you what you want. As I sit here in my drawing room, a thought dwells upon the air, thick with dread: "Is this the only thing Sam wants from me?" and I always think, maybe it's right. Was that not the reason we left Versailles? Because we couldn't handle the loss? We've been battered and bruised, Sam, and I don't think I could take that grief to my deathbed anymore.

Time isn't kind for us, nor will it ever allow us to breathe freely. This haunts me to no end; I thought I could avoid it until your letter came to me. All the way from America, how are you doing there? You've already said so many times how your new profession is treating you, but have you felt that urgency? have you felt that adrenaline? have you tasted strawberries on another's lips yet? have you found something to exhaust your talents on? You're easy. You probably already have while you waited for this letter to come back to you.

And yes. I still do think about that night. The whipping London air we love haunts me every night in April and all I could think about is the way your hands wrap themselves around mine. I couldn’t dread you for long, and I haven’t felt so much longing until you. I know I said I don’t write much in letters, afraid that future historians might find out that I love you, adore you, cherish you, but I really don’t care anymore. I hope each day that in some other time out there, our letters will be displayed for the masses, so they, too, can know what true love is.

Yes, she is fine.

Yours, forever and always,

Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes

[ The one paged letter is said to be incomplete and may have more pages describing Barnes’s past life in England, but that is merely speculation. This letter is also under investigation by the F.B.I. to help understand better Howard Stark’s murder on December 16, 1900 to which the letter is dated; the investigators hoped that the letter would reveal any information on the aftermath of the case but the abrupt ending of the letter didn’t answer anything. ]

[ The famous line “Let your lover go, you said; I didn’t want to go” came from this letter of Barnes’s. This, in addition to the rest of the letters, were speculated to be love letters, but historians claim that there weren’t enough evidence to prove that this affair happened. 

It’s in this letter where Barnes had helped Wilson with his cases after the aftermath of their separation, and it’s this letter where historians concluded that they still exchange letters. The case with the Sir Willobough character does not exist and still stump historians and biographers to this day. ]

Brooklyn, Jan 24, 1901

Dearest Sam Wilson

Have you tried asking Sir Willobough for the napkin? You’ve recalled that he wasn’t in both places, but his alibi may be strong, but so was he: the two streets are near his store, is it not? This is the only letter you may find help from me, for I still take my stand, I do not want to help. That life is past me. My friend, have you not realized? 1892 scarred me. It has scarred you. I don’t want to take part in any endeavors that may harm you. I love you too much to see you hurt like this.

The post office was quite clumsy this whole month, because I had only received your last two letters dated Dec 12, 1889 and Dec 30, 1889 just yesterday, and I don’t know what came over me, but I had sat myself down in the drawing room and had written all of this mess. Yes, I’ve written the first page last to apologize for the mess you shall see. I didn’t want to display myself so bare like that but it had to be done: I miss you badly, I must admit. I cannot dwell on the fact that I had to leave you. We had a steady life and income, the stars cannot touch us with our fame and wealth, but, as all legends do, we died, and hence, we are forgotten. I’ve been left wishing for you to live forever but I know technology isn’t as advanced as that. I just wish you to know, may it be my final breath: I always wonder if you had loved me too, because I really couldn’t know. If you did, we would’ve stayed, but, yet again my mind surprises me, love isn’t supposed to be entrapment, it’s supposed to be free. Let you[r] lover go, you said; I didn’t want to go, Sammy. 

[ Page 2, 3, 4 missing ]

[ The fifth page is the only accompanying page of the complete letter that survived. It is where Barnes had described the night in which they had both met. The public, in addition to the historians, still debate over what the two men truly did in the library. ]

All I could think of was the day we met: I was in my uniform, had just told my superior officers to bugger off, had finally resigned from my post, and suddenly you appeared. I still remember the host of the party. His name was Howard Stark, an old and dying man, who gave out parties so extravagant, may there be stories about it. Every room was illuminated with golden lights that the stars were jealous of, and there was food from all over the world, something so delicious I had filled myself to the brim. Everyone who was everyone was there. My General’s aides-de-camps were there and I had told them to “fuck off” as I had put it gently, then right at the top of the grand staircase was an angel, yelling at the top of his lungs, ‘General Valhan, you are under arrest for arson and homicide!’ Everyone’s head turned to you and laughed, but the guards weren’t laughing, handcuffed my General and I laughed the loudest. It must’ve come as insulting and even after a decade I still apologize for it. I’m sorry. You should’ve seen his face! I have never seen such terror on a man’s face, and I’ve been to war. 

I had caught you right at the moment, chased you up the stairs, and you saw me, ran away, and we played cat and mouse until we cornered each other in the library, locked the door, and had the best night of our lives. If anyone knew what we did there, we could’ve been killed for it, but, Bah! I love it. I love you. I still remember the coat you wore and how you threw it on the floor, how we wrestled each other on the floor before kissing so gently the angels cowered at the softness. I have never seen anyone so beautiful wearing only glasses, but then again, I hadn’t met you. And all was swell, all was sweet, we shared a cigar and I asked for your name. I still remember the fake names you threw at me: Jack Smith, Richard Wilkes, Patrick Stevens. Only when you gave me your business card was when you told me.

Another memorable moment was when I had chased your train and joined you to Versailles. Everyone was stunned. Everyone hated us. I loved that so much. I would ride that train again and again if you wanted to.

[ Another notable detail in the matter were the fake names Wilson gave Barnes, because those names were the names of his lesser known solved murder cases in which all victims died by strangulation and/or air-deprivation. There are a lot more Easter Eggs of Wilson’s many cases in the single page but the most talked about is the train express to Versailles, because it is here that Barnes and Wilson were being followed, ensuing the infamous manhunt for the two men by the unnamed Russian Spy Ring. ]

[ missing pages ]