#Gestus

[ardor-mohr]

Epic theatre and Brecht

[thebeatifulones]

[eremin0109]

not including a kabedon scene between wade and logan was such a missed opportunity.

just imagine them standing on the street just before the deadpool corps show up, wade yapping loudly about shit when logan smells danger. as the first of deadpools start pouring in, logan mutters a "fuck" under his breath and quickly grabs wade by the arm and drags him towards the donut cart. he roughly pushes him against its door, putting his large hand over wade's masked lips, glaring down at him. "shut the FUCK up" logan mouths, their bodies pressing together in a tight fit as more and more footsteps shuffle outside from the portal.

at this point, wade's face (and his crotch, naturally) has gone through an entire journey. from startled to shocked to "bitch let go of me" to "oooh are we bouta kiss rn" to...well tumblr is a stinky ol' prude and hates smexy times so we will just leave it at that. use your imagination, kids.

anyway so that's how wade ends up being pinned against the rusty metal of the donut cart, hands firmly resting (he was grabbing two handfuls) on logan's ass, wraggling the weird pseudo eyebrows on his mask every which way. logan grit his teeth, knowing well that the shameless freak is enjoying every second of this. credit where it's due though, wade was as still as a leaf on a windless day. bastard was real obedient when he wanted to be. not that logan was gonna spare more than 3 seconds to decipher what THAT made him feel.

"stop that, right fucking now" logan growled, when the groping turned to outright prodding, not proud of how the words came out strained. like this was actually affecting him. as if. AS fucking IF—

"thought we were playing the quiet game, peanut?"

logan feels wade's lips shift into a shitfaced smirk underneath his palm. suffice to say, when wade's balls get obliterated with seven inches of hard adamantium, it's entirely deserved.

[vinstinx]

Sorry orel for never considering ta gestu dans le clip de l’odeur de l’essence.

J’suis à terre il est trop ownfjwjfhwodjeidfjsexy juste like he literally JUST walks but he walks in a hot way anyways

[istherewifiinhell]

Show up for 2 episodes and piss everyone off. Die off screen. As told by shadow puppets it was all in attempted to whatever whatever the girl you love. Incredible

[bee-toess]

IM FEEL SO GAY HAHA

[screeching-bunny]

Need more of our yan slasher,he's so pookie,i wanna bite his cheeks (in a affectionate way) and cuddle with him until the end of times,he's such a cutie 😭💗

Yandere! Slasher Pt.2

Warnings: Obsessive Behavior, Yandere Thoughts, Bad Writing, Stalking, Possessive Behavior, Reader is Referred as ‘You’

Pt. 1

After reading the message sent by Yandere! Slasher, everyone subconsciously looked at you. Never in your life did you want to go home more badly than you did right now. Why did you even decide to go to a party in the first place? You don’t even like people in general! You were definitely never going out to socialize with others after this. If only there were more booze around here you really didn’t want to handle this situation semi sober.

You: “... What are you all looking at me for, they gave out a very vague description of someone. This could literally be anyone in this room with similar features to me.”

The next minute the phone screen immediately lights up with a message.

Yandere! Slasher: “I’m talking about you.”

You: “...”

After a few more seconds of silence, you finally managed to suppress the fear and uneasiness in your heart. You took the phone from the person beside you and carefully looked back at the messages that were sent by Yandere! Slasher. Finally looking down at the text box you begin to slowly type a message.

You: “Sorry, I don’t like guys with dark hair.”

Yandere! Slasher: “I can always dye it.”

You: “I don’t like your face.”

Yandere! Slasher: “There’s always plastic surgery”

You: “How do I know that you're rich? What if you’re lying and actually not broke.”

Yandere! Slasher: “I’ll buy you whatever you want right now. I can even send you my credit card information if you decide to be with me.

Damn you were broke but not broke enough to allow yourself to be with some killer. If it weren’t for your morals you would have probably folded by now.

Yandere! Slasher: “Well it’s not like you have a choice anyways. I plan on making you my spouse either way. You can either come with me willingly or I could take you by force…. Well looks like you’re taking too long. I'll decide for you.”

With that text message sent, you immediately began to feel queasy. You were struggling to keep your eyes wide open and your body was beginning to become very sluggish. Slowly but surely your senses were starting to stop and the last thing that you were able to hear were the sound of your peers screaming for help. With one last attempt to get out of your situation, you try to slowly crawl away. Only for your attempts to be interrupted when someone gently picks you up. “You’re not going anywhere cutie.” and with that you were now fully unconscious.

—

The next morning you woke up with the world’s worst hangover in the world. Never in your life did you feel this fucked up and and groggy all at once. You begin to raise up your body but soon realize that your body was tightly restricted by some rope and you were wrapped in the arms of some guy. The immediate thought in your head was that this was, last night was either the kinkiest night of your life or some random weirdo had ended up kidnapping you. Due to your movements the man next to you begins to wake up and looks over to you with a smile on his face.

“Cutie! I’m so glad you’re awake. We have so many things that we need to discuss right now! I’ve been thinking about the names of our future kids. Do you have any preferences? I don’t really mind what we name them but I want a lot of kids! Wait! I’m being so inconsiderate right now. I never even asked you if you wanted kids. If you don’t like them we can adopt as many pets as we physically can and we–”

As he was rambling it finally hit you. He was the fucking weirdo from the night before. You wanted to fucking die. Never in a million years did you think that you’d have to deal with a serial killer and an extrovert at that. Maybe if you pretended to be deaf he would stop talking to you. You begin to look at him and begin to make gestures with your head and facial expressions to signify that you were deaf. Yandere! Slasher looks at you for a few minutes before laughing.

“Sweetie, that's not going to work. I’ve been stalking you for the last couple of years. I know that you’re not deaf. Besides I’ve looked at your medical, you're perfectly healthy right now. Which reminds me, my precious little darling must be starving right now. It’s my job as your future husband to take care of you. Now wait right here for me.”

With that he leaves you entrapped alone in the room. Although your eyes were still a little blurry you were still able to make out the contents of the room. Scanning the room, your eyes fell upon a glint of metal under a desk —a discarded tool left by neglect or chance. Adrenaline surged as you inched closer, your heart racing in synchrony with your movements. With trembling fingers, you grasped the tool, the cold touch sending a shiver down your spine.

Summoning every ounce of determination, you started sawing at the ropes, each movement a blend of agony and hope. The metallic smell of blood filled your nose as the sharp edges of the tool cut into your skin. With each passing second, the knots loosened, freedom within tantalizing reach. With one last rough movement you were able to be free of your binds. As you made your way towards the window. A creak soon shatters the silence and the door swings open. Revealing your kidnapper's looming silhouette.

“Look at you all covered in blood because I left the room. Did you really think I would leave the room without any monitors watching you? I was hoping that you wouldn't try to escape but I guess I’ll have to be training you from now on cutie. Guess I’ll have to punish you right now. Do me a favor and lay down won’t you?”

[bad268]

Hi I was wondering if you're comfortable with writing one for Andrea kimi antonelli with a chronically ill reader? (I have pots so preferably something similar or about that) but just a kinda fluff/comfort where the reader is having a bad flare up day? Only if you're comfortable but tysm if u do write it I love your writing! (I'm also a writer)

- em

At Least 75% (Andrea Kimi Antonelli X Reader)

Fandom: RPF/F2/F3

Requested: Clearly (I FEEL LIKE HE'D BE SO SOFT FOR YOU) (Also, thank you so much Em <3 Send me some of your stuff if you're comfortable with that, I'd love to read your stories <3)

Warnings:  Chronically ill reader (not explicitly stated what illness)

POV: Second Person (You/your)

W.C. 1181

Summary: Flare-ups and hot tracks are not fun.

As always, my requests are OPEN

MASTERLIST // HITLIST

~~(^Pinterest)

Maybe he would understand if you missed one day. Just one day this weekend was all you needed. You woke up this morning and felt like hell. Your mind was foggy and you felt like throwing up. Honestly, you really did not feel up to walking around period, let alone walking around a crowded paddock in the heat. Still, you knew that you wanted to support Kimi this weekend, and you would do everything in your power to do so even if it meant you would suffer for the day.

You looked to the other side of the bed, seeing Kimi’s side empty. He had an important meeting with Mercedes this morning and told you he would meet you in the Prema garage whenever you got to the track. Groaning, you moved to sit up in bed, almost immediately stopping to lay back down as you were hit with a dizzy spell.

You waited a few extra minutes, taking some deep breaths to slow your rapid heartbeat. When you finally felt it slow to a normal rate, you gradually sat up on the bed. You waited again before swinging your legs over the side and standing up slowly, holding for a minute as you regained your balance. It did not take as long as it normally did, so you decided that was a sign to go about the day as normal.

Well, that was a mistake.

It did not take long after getting to the track for you to feel the wrath of your body. The heat was unforgiving, your head was pounding, your heart was starting to race, and you just wanted to hide away in Kimi’s arms. Thankfully, you were able to hitch a ride from a passing golf cart, but the closest they could get you was the start of the pitlane. Unfortunately for you, the Prema garage was in the middle.

You groaned to yourself, not wanting to walk that far, so you took a seat on a nearby stack of tyres. You pulled out your phone, and just as you were about to text Kimi, he showed up, standing in front of you.

“I was just about to text you,” You chuckled as you weakly wrapped your arms around his waist and leaned against his chest.

“I had a feeling,” he chuckled, wrapping his arms around your shoulders as his hand held your head to his chest. “How are you feeling? Is the heat too much? Please be honest.”

“I don’t think I can walk to the garage, mio vita (my life),” You sighed in defeat as your shoulders sagged, but Kimi held you tighter to his chest when he felt you sink. “It’s been a bad day, and it’s only just started.”

“Why didn’t you stay in the hotel?” Kimi consoled as he rubbed up and down your back to calm you down. “Your health will always come first.” 

“I wanted to support you,” You wined, pulling back a little to look up at him, resting your chin against his chest. “It’s a big weekend for you, and you know I’d never miss qualifying.”

“You’re going to be the death of me,” He mumbled as he left a few kisses around your face. You began laughing, but you cut yourself short when a wave of nausea hit you. You hid your face in his chest once again as you breathed in his scent. Even he could feel your heart rate rising from just sitting there, and it did not help that SkySports had spotted you. They looked like they were going to make their way over, so Kimi tried to pull away slowly, He turned around and gestured for you to hold around his neck. “Hold on. I’ll carry you to the garage, and we can lay down before quali.”

“Can we get food or smoothies first? I haven't eaten all day and I know I probably should,” You whispered into his ear as you laid your head on his shoulder, and he held your legs tightly around his waist.

“I’ll go get you a smoothie after I drop you off in the garage,” Kimi compromised with a small smile as he started down the pitlane. “Look at you remembering to eat! I’m proud.”

“I knew you would like that,” You chuckled to yourself. You almost fell asleep, but you reached the Prema garage before you could. Kimi carried you into the back room where the driver’s room was set up and set you down on the massage table. Kimi pulled off his Mercedes jacket and laid it over your legs before leaning down to leave a kiss on your forehead. As he pulled away, you reached out to grab his hand before he could get too far. “You leaving to get food now?”

“Yeah, I’ll be back in a few,” He sighed with a loving smile as he leaned down to be at eye level with you. He lifted your entwined hands to leave a kiss on your knuckles. “Your usual?”

“You’re too good to me,” You replied dreamily as you closed your eyes again. “What would I do without you?”

“Starve.���

~

After qualifying (front row!!) and after the debrief, you and Kimi were free to head back to the hotel for the night. Despite wanting to suck it up and celebrate Kimi’s pole position, he knew you better than that. He knew as soon as he saw you sway in the garage after he pulled the car in that he was not letting you lift a finger that night. And true to his internal promise, he did not let you even walk.

“You know, it’s not that hot. I’m okay to walk,” You chuckled as he swept you into his arms and carried you through the paddock. Interviewers and fans that remained got a few pictures that you would be seeing later, but the gesture from Kimi made you happy nonetheless. “Are we going to dinner with the team?”

“Nope,” He quipped back as he popped the ‘p’ as he walked out of the gate and toward the car that Rene was pulling forward since they carpooled. “We are going back to the hotel, ordering room service, watching whatever you want to watch, and relaxing. I need your health at least at 75 percent tomorrow. I know your 100 percent is hard to come by, so I’ll settle for 75.”

You could not stop yourself from laughing. Even after hearing this joke many times, it never failed to put a smile on your face. “Can we make a fort?”

“By we, you mean me?” He joked, looking down at you just as Rene pulled up. Kimi helped you stand on your feet momentarily, so he could open the door. Then, he helped you sit down. Even going as far as to buckle your seatbelt for you. Once he clicked it in, he moved his head, so he could leave a small kiss on your lips. He pulled away slightly before whispering, “If you want a blanket fort, I will happily make you one.”

~~~~~

© BAD268 2024. DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION.

[romaritimeharbor]

a platonic writer? thats so awesome!!! for the open kny slots, would it be okay to ask for a reader & giyuu found family troupe? would be nice if reader was in their teens♪ mainly about the dynamic and perhaps post final battle

ELUSIVE CARE. — In which the Water Hashira unwittingly attains a younger sibling.

— trigger & content warnings. none applicable.

— pairings & notes. fluff, found family. tomioka giyuu & teen!reader. reader is gender neutral (they/them pronouns used). 1.1k words.

— author's thoughts. giyuu's so silly. such a guy. very older brother coded tbh <3

✧ FIRST MEETING

giyuu, though a quiet and reserved soul that often believes himself to be inadequate, is certainly not a heartless man nor is he one who cares too little (perhaps it could even be argued that he cares too much). he wouldn't ever let someone die if there was something he could do to prevent it, and maybe it is killing a demon that first leads him to the little teenager that he will one day grow fond of, [name].

his first instinct is, of course, to reunite them with their family if they have any living relatives. if that is not an option, his next instinct is to send them off somewhere he knows they'll be safe—maybe urokodaki needs someone to stay with him, a companion. he's always been a good caretaker even when not training a demon slayer to-be, and surely he gets lonely in his older age..? or maybe those girls at the butterfly estate would take them—shinobu's... nice enough. to young kids, that is. not him, of course, but he doesn't dare deny her kindness towards younger ones. she would probably be more than happy to take them in, or she would be pissed that he would have the audacity to ask something like that of her... but he still believes that she would do it.

ultimately, wherever he does leave them, it's almost guaranteed that he'll encounter them again. teenagers are rarely known for being obedient; as such, he would probably find them actively seeking him out at his estate. to thank him, to simply visit and stay for a while, to bring him gifts... they aren't annoying per se, but giyuu does wonder for how long he will have to endure it before their visits lessen in number.

he did save their life, so maybe he should just accept it.

and perhaps, once the final battle has passed and the greatest threat to the world has been eliminated, he will not be so opposed to having a regular guest. maybe he'll even ask them to stay.

✧ GENERAL DYNAMIC

giyuu is not known for being open and friendly. that said, i do think he would have some kind of a soft spot for a young kid who has suffered the effects of demons roaming the earth.

maybe he sees a little of himself in them. he wasn't always this way, you know? there was a time where he was softer, more open, and had a more positive outlook about the world. so maybe, just maybe, he sees some of that in the little teenager he saved from death.

his kindness shows in weird and hard to understand ways, and he would rarely make it obvious that he was checking up on them; he probably wouldn't visit often. that said, if [name] were to ask around, maybe they would hear about a recent influx of letters from a certain water hashira concerning a certain victim he recently saved.

as he grows closer to them, he would begin to buy them little trinkets. if he sees something he thinks they would like, he would totally pick it up for them and leave it by their room's door at wherever they're staying. he never signs the gifts, but it is nonetheless very clear who is buying them.

he also does what he can to ensure that they're well-cared for—contributing to the cost of caring for them, mainly.

giyuu, to me, seems like a very attentive person. he's a type i would describe as having a quiet love language—someone who does things subtly (more or less). so, while he does not verbally connect with them often, he can offer a listening ear and will always pick up on the small things.

headpats. giyuu is a headpat man. it's a fond gesture that he uses to communicate a number of things—'i'm proud of you,' 'good job,' 'you're alright now,' 'i'm here for you.' it's one way he communicates nonverbally. he's not great at expressing his care with words, but there are plenty of ways such as this one that are more than sufficient without the use of any words at all.

given that his haori is made up of two halves, each from someone he deeply cared for, i think it's safe to say that he has a certain sentimentality about him. any gifts they give to him will be treasured (and if they happen to give him something he can wear without getting in the way of his job, he'll find a way to incorporate it into his uniform).

he's quite fiercely protective of them. if someone is bothering them, giyuu is more than happy to simply stand behind them and give the one annoying them a simple stare, which is more than enough to solve the issue permanently. as a hashira, the lower ranked corps members are already rather scared of him, so he doesn't really have to do much at all to deter anyone from harassing them...

on a similar note, he will put extra care and attention into killing off any demons lingering around the area that they reside in. he's failed so many people before and is not keen on doing so again.

he would very much prefer if they didn't become a demon slayer, especially after his relationship with them has developed a little more. any attempts to ask him about joining would be cut off with a short, firm 'no.' though, with enough insistence... that answer could change.

ultimately, what they do is up to them, but giyuu would prefer that they stay as far out of harm's way as possible. not every victim is meant to, nor do they have to, become a demon slayer—he hopes they know and understand that above all else.

✧ POST-FINAL BATTLE

following the end of the final battle, giyuu would be a little more open with them in quite a few ways.

for one, he's more expressive, offering them something other than his usual stoicism every now and then—a smile. his expression in general softens significantly in their presence once everything is over.

he also grows a little more comfortable expressing himself verbally with them. he's still not exactly... articulate when it comes to expressing his care with words, but it's the thought and effort that counts.

he would also move them into his home at that point!! since he doesn't have to be away constantly now, he feels more comfortable having them stay with him. before, if a demon had showed up to his secluded estate while he was gone, it may have very well ended poorly, had they been staying there. given that this is no longer a concern (and he's also home far more often now), he doesn't mind the company whatsoever.

post-final battle, he would also spend more time around them. it would be then that they would really get to know him. his hobbies, his interests, maybe his past. eventually.

things take time. opening up takes time... and once muzan has been defeated, there is plenty of time for them to get closer with their elusive older brother-like figure.

please consider supporting me if you enjoyed! the best ways to do so are as follows: comments, asks, reblogs, and reblogs with tags.

[gaylordscooter]

Nightmare('s) Blunt Rotation

He almost laughed when Nightmare handed it to them, but then he realized that this was their torture for the day.

“a blunt?” Horror questioned.

“Weed, cannabis, marijuana, whatever you want to call it.”

“and you're giving this to us because?” He narrowed his eye sockets.

Killer snatched the blunt from over Horror’s shoulder. “yoink!” He examined it, smile curling up as he realized it was real.

Nightmare’s eyes flicked from Killer to Horror. “You are to share it—equally amongst yourselves. Decide who’s room you all want to stay in. I will not let you leave it until tomorrow.”

“you're trapping us all in the same room and expecting us to smoke weed?” Horror surmised.

Killer let out an exaggerated gasp, “like a sleepover?”

“oh hell no.”

“If that's what you want to call it, sure. A ‘sleepover’,” Nightmare confirmed. “Now if you excuse me, I have to hunt Dust down.”

Nightmare sunk into the ground as if he entered the shadows.

Killer diverted his attention to the blunt in his hands. “we don't have a lighter…you think a gaster blaster can light it?”

“i think you should try that while it's in your mouth,” Horror grumbled.

“great idea, buddy!” He patted Horror on the back, earning him a violent glare.

Dust was hiding somewhere in the castle. Nightmare could feel his presence. It was annoying that he had to seek him out, but the thrill of the hunt was almost worth it.

He was in the great hall, lying flat underneath one of the long tables.

Once Nightmare spotted him, he tried to teleport away, but he was able to grab him with a tentacle before he could. He dragged him closer by the leg with a sly smirk.

“Hiding is futile, Dust,” he reminded.

His mismatched eyelights stared at him, unamused.

“Oh, don't complain. I’m letting you three relax for the day, even though yesterday was supposed to be a calm day, yet Killer skewed things off course. Aren't I nice?” he asked. He picked Dust up and made his way over to the halls where Killer and Horror were in. He plopped Dust down on the floor in front of the two. His face contorted into confusion as he realized Killer had a gaster blaster aimed right at his own face. “What are you doing.” It didn't even come out as a question, because not a single answer could explain the display.

The blaster disappeared and Killer gave him a look of a child being caught with a hand in the cookie jar. “you didn't give us a lighter,” he said with his teeth still holding the blunt. He pointed at Horror with his thumb. “he gave me the idea.”

“he’s lying.”

“nuhuh! you told me to light it while it's in my mouth,” Killer retorted.

“it was a joke and you were the one who thought about using a blaster to light it in the first place,” he said through gritted teeth.

“oh so you tricked me!”

“i didn't trick you, you're just stupid!”

“at least my skull’s still intact, humpty dumpty!”

Horror lunged for Killer and the two ended up squabbling on the floor like two rats fighting over poisoned cheese.

Nightmare looked down at Dust as the two bickered. “Have fun.” He dropped a lighter next to Dust and disappeared into the ground.

Dust grabbed it and shoved it into his pocket before he stood up. He grabbed the two’s souls with a ping and wrenched them apart, practically launching them as he did so.

“fuck, dude, what the hell?!” Killer groaned as he recovered from the toss.

Dust walked over to him and extended a hand out to him.

“aw, you helping me up now?” Killer reached for his hand, but Dust smacked it away and snatched the blunt from his mouth.

He took out the lighter, put the blunt in his mouth and lit it. He proceeded to take a long hit from it.

Horror was almost impressed by his boldness, if he didn't see his desperation.

“hey! nightmare said to share it! and we gotta choose someone’s room to stay in,” Killer pointed out. He hopped up to his feet.

Dust blew the smoke in Killer’s face and turned to walk towards his room.

Killer walked ahead of him. “your room it is, then.” He opened the door and gestured for Dust to go ahead, “ladies first.”

Dust threw his fist at him, but halted right before he made contact, making Killer flinch. His shoulders rose and fell as he laughed silently and went inside while taking another hit.

“must be hitting him quick if he’s already joking around,” Horror said as he entered the room as well.

“pun intended?” Killer asked as stepped inside and closed the door.

“what do you take me for?” Horror quirked a brow bone.

“dust, stop hogging it.” Killer extended his hand out and motioned for Dust to give it to him.

Begrudgingly, Dust handed it over.

Killer giggled like a gossiping high schooler before taking a drag.

Dust chuckled.

Killer gave him a look, blowing the smoke out. “what? something funny ‘bout the way i smoke?”

“have you ever smoked weed before, killer?” Horror asked. Motioning for the blunt.

Killer slapped it into his hand. “‘course i have!”

“you gotta let the smoke get to your lungs—metaphorical lungs. you sipped on that shit like a straw, it's not a cigar.” Horror pressed the blunt to his mouth and inhaled deeply. He exhaled a couple of seconds later and passed it to Dust.

Dust made his way to his bed before taking another hit and laid down.

Killer tried to sit down near him but was kicked off and passed the blunt. “asshole,” he chided. He settled for sitting down on the carpet and leaning on the bed frame.

Horror sat down as well, leaning back against the door. “yeesh, it's strong,” he muttered. He wondered where the hell Nightmare got something like that.

Killer hesitated this time before taking a hit, taking Horror’s advice in mind. He immediately started coughing.

Dust chuckled at him.

“fuck—” he coughed some more, “you.”

Horror snorted in amusement as Killer's coughing finally died down but Dust’s laughter continued.

“ok, i’ve never smoked weed before,” he admitted. “but i have taken edibles!” he added with a bit too much pride.

“damn, we got an adult over here,” Horror joked.

“fuck off…” Killer crossed his arms.

“you get any in your system or did you cough it all out before you could?”

“i said fuck off!” He turned his head to Dust. “and stop laughing!”

“you two go ahead n keep smoking, ‘m good for now.” He leaned his head back, pressing it against the door. He was already pleasantly buzzed, taking another hit might be going overboard. Dust already took three. They had the same body so he doubted they had different tolerances.

“aw, tapping out now?” Killer teased. “i’m feeling fine after two.”

“that's cause you didn't smoke it properly.”

Dust hastily grabbed it out of Killer’s hands.

“yeesh, ok, junkie,” Killer mumbled. As he waited for Dust to hand it back, he got an idea. “hey, this is like a sleepover, right?”

“no.”

“we should play some games. y’know, to pass the time.”

“i say we skip right to the ‘sleep’ part,” Horror said, already closing his eye sockets.

Killer took a hit, inhaling slower and less this time. He managed to exhale without coughing, but he did clear his throat. “c’mon, bud, when's the next time we'll get to do this? just hanging out and chillin’.”

Horror sighed and opened his eye sockets. “truth or dare?” he asked.

“that's more like it! hmm…dare!” He handed the blunt to the impatient Dust behind him.

Horror took a second to formulate one. “next hit you take, hold it for five seconds.”

“you just want me to cough again!” he accused.

He winked, “what? you gonna chicken out?”

“hell no!” He motioned for Dust to hand it over. The hooded skeleton sluggishly handed it over. He took a deep breath in and out before bringing it to his mouth.

“gotta prepare?”

“shut,” he snapped. He inhaled deeply and held it.

Horror counted for him, “five. four. three. two…are you crying dude?”

He breathed out harshly, choking out a “one.” He coughed, once, and willed himself to stop there. “ok,” he composed himself, “truth or dare?”

“truth,” Horror answered.

He cleared his throat again, eliciting another laugh from Dust. He shot him a look before saying, “how many times you got laid?”

Horror chuckled. “what are you? twelve?”

“i ‘unno, dude! this shit’s hitting me harder than i thought it would! i can hardly think.” He felt tugging at the back of his neck and realized Dust was playing around with the fluff on his hood.

“‘m starting to think nightmare’s targeting you with this one. anyway, zero,” Horror responded.

Killer’s eye sockets widened, forgetting about Dust. “really?”

“nada, zip, zilch, never.”

“...huh.”

“why? have you?”

“i’m not inclined to answer that.” He looked down at his hands, noticing the blunt was gone. He turned to Dust. “you’re still going?!”

Dust shrugged and blew out a ring of smoke at his face.

Killer waved it away. “yer crazy…hey, how about you? truth or dare?”

“wasn't it my turn?” Horror asked.

“dare,” Dust responded aloud.

The other two froze like they'd blow up if they moved. Rarely did Dust ever talk. He must've been real high.

Killer smiled mischievously. “i dare you…to kiss me on the cheek!”

“ok, wow,” Horror said, eye sockets going blank. “that got weird quickly.” He was silently thankful he only took one hit. He expected Dust to punch him or something. He expected Dust to back out.

A second later Dust grabbed Killer by the collar of his shirt, bringing him onto the bed, and leaned in, clinking their teeth together.

Killer’s eyelights flickered on as the kiss continued. He didn't know if it was the weed that was affecting him but damn was he feeling euphoric.

Even though they were high out of their minds, it wasn't half-assed. There was passion.

His soul fluttered. He closed his eye sockets, letting ecstasy flow throughout his body in waves as he leaned into it.

When was the last time he felt like this? Has he ever even felt like this? He doubted it.

It was like he was flying or falling. Either way, it felt amazing. He was convinced he died and went to heaven, hallelujah.

There was warmth. There was peace.

Everything was nice. Everything was beautiful. He was beautiful. God, why couldn't he feel like this sooner—

“hello? you two have been making out for five minutes now,” Horror’s voice pierced through their illusion of heaven.

They opened their eye sockets.

Killer was looking at Dust; Dust was looking at Horror.

Hands he didn't notice until now gripped the back of his jacket and skull tightly.

Horror’s eye darted from side to side, as if looking directly at them was difficult. “if i remember correctly the dare was a kiss on the cheek…”

“oh yeah…” Killer whispered.

Dust let go of Killer and pushed him off the bed again.

It stung. It was like he ripped him from a hot tub and dunked him straight into a tub of ice.

Dust pulled his hood even further over his head and laid down, presumably not planning to get up until next morning.

“...yeah let's just. let's just move on to the sleeping part,” Killer said, completely out of it.

“...yeah,” Horror agreed.

No “goodnight”s were exchanged. No words in general were exchanged after that.

Despite sleeping on the ground with no cover or pillow, he managed to doze off pretty well. That wasn't that much of an accomplishment when any of them could sleep standing on hot coal.

WAKE UP.

His eyes snapped open at the command, and then he registered who spoke, in disappointment. It was in the middle of the night. No idea exactly what time it was, but he knew it had to be a few hours since they'd started sleeping because he could hear him again.

WERE YOU TRYING TO SMOKE ME OUT LIKE A BEE?

Yea.

I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU. ACTUALLY, YES I CAN. I JUST OVERESTIMATED YOU.

It was just a dare.

JUST A DARE—ARE YOU AWARE OF WHAT YOU ARE HOLDING RIGHT NOW, FIEND?

What was he holding right now?

Oh.

He was currently hugging another skeleton as if he was a body pillow. He could've sworn he kicked Killer off the bed…

YOU DID BUT YOU CARRIED HIM BACK UP HERE, HARLOT.

Harlot??

Yeesh, he did not remember doing that. Where was that blunt, did they ever put it out??

OH, GUESS WHERE THE BLUNT IS.

Where's the blunt.

YOU SMOKED IT ALL. THE REST OF THE BLUNT? YOU KNOW. THE WHOLE THING. BY YOURSELF. YOU SMOKED THE WHOLE THING.

Okay, sheesh.

YOU GREENED OUT, YOU IDIOT!

Now Papyrus certainly did not know that term.

AND YOU’RE STILL CUDDLING WITH HIM!

Oh yeah.

…

How the hell was he going to let go of him without stirring him?

YOU COULD KILL HIM.

He was not gonna kill him.

JUST PUSH HIM OFF AGAIN. BLAME IT ON HIM.

He was going to push him off.

….

WELL?

OH.

OH, DON’T TELL ME YOU DON’T WANT TO.

YOU’RE SICK.

tell me something i don’t know.

He let go of Killer and rolled to the other side of the bed, facing away from him.

Luckily Killer didn't stir.

Goodnight.

The next morning was rough.

Dust’s skull was screaming at him in more ways than one. He did not want to get up. He wasn't completely lucid, but he was thinking clearly enough to question what the fuck was wrong with him.

Killer woke up confused, having no idea how he got on the bed or how he got in Dust’s room or what transpired last night.

Horror was fine, physically. He was still reeling from seeing two alternate versions of himself makeout like there was no tomorrow. He was never playing truth or dare with them when high. Or ever.

None of them bothered getting up despite the fact they were all awake. There was a mutual agreement to stay silent and still for a bit longer.

It wasn't until Nightmare barged in that they had to get up.

“Seems like some of you enjoyed that,” he stated.

“yea? didn't go according to plan?” Killer asked, despite having no clue what “that” was.

Dust shoved a pillow against his face, he couldn't handle hearing his grating voice right now.

Nightmare ignored his question. “You three should eat soon, it's already noon.” And with that, he left.

“leave,” Dust managed to say.

Horror was already on his way out the door.

Killer scrambled out of the bed to follow after him.

Once the door closed behind them, Dust brought his hands to his face and let out a shuddering breath.

What

The

Fuck!?

What the hell was wrong with him?!

[artyandink]

𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐮𝐬 | 𝟏

𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐲

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: You were the only one Sherlock ever truly loved, and it was true. No lady ever caught his eye, no woman stole his attention the way your wit and charm did. He supposed it was his own fault for losing you, his own fault that you walked out his door, leaving a young child with him that was now old enough. Old enough to want to find her mother. He wanted to find you. But he also didn’t want to. It meant to face his own truth.

𝐓𝐖: angst, set after Enola Holmes 2, bad father-daughter relationships, child abandonment, heartbreak, stubborn Sherlock, oc!daughter, stubborn daughter so the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, identity concealment

𝐀/𝐍: surprise! Decided to post early ;)

𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓/𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆: I MISS YOU, I’M SORRY BY GRACIE ABRAMS

𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐢𝐧

𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐘, 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐇𝐀𝐃 no one learnt their lesson yet?

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He groaned, stepping past the burly police guards to get into the scene of the bank robbery— oh, now they’re stopping Watson, what was it with these blasted, bloody policemen? Guess nobody had bothered to even instate smarter policemen after Grail and his cronies got fired (in Grail’s case, a very broken neck). “Didn’t I tell you not to be ridiculous? He’s with me. Holmes and Watson.”

“Sorry, Mr Holmes, sir.” One of the policemen muttered, gesturing for Watson to pass through, the man looking a little bemused and unfamiliar with his surroundings. Ah. Right, Watson wasn’t acquainted with the life of a detective.

He stepped up beside Sherlock, looking around at the bustling room of policemen who were trampling all over the crime scene, which made his job that much more frustrating. “What are we looking for, exactly?”

“Clues.” Sherlock replied, rubbing his chin for a moment then spotting an approaching Lestrade from across the room. Oh, bother. Lestrade. “Act busy, Watson.”

The question seemed to baffle Watson, as he raised his eyebrows in confusion and bewilderment. “What? Why—”

An obnoxious laugh, followed by— “Mr Holmes? Or is there still an invitation for Sherlock?” The lack of laughter clearly told him no. “Ah. Well, apologies for the bother,” yes, you are a bother, Lestrade, “but we have someone claiming to be your daughter.”

Oh, bother. Again.

“I’ll handle it.” Sherlock muttered, knowing exactly who Lestrade was talking about. With heavy footsteps — and heart — he made his way across the room, seeing a girl who looked startlingly like her mother, something which tugged at her heartstrings. She had a scrutinising look that mirrored his often as she looked at the crime scene, but she was not meant to be here. Not at all, not now, not any day. “Clara.”

She turned around, huffing slightly at the stern tone, an eyebrow raising in response to his short and sweet sentence. “You could sound happier, you know.”

“I’ll sound happy when you’re not trodding on my crime scene.” He grimaced, gesturing around at the marbled bank. Really, what was it with people making his day more difficult? Even if Clara was his daughter, yes, he could give her more favour, but he wasn’t in the mood today.

That was the excuse he’d given for the past sixteen years of your life.

The deceivingly polite hum she gave in return mocked him, he knew it, he’d been hearing it more times than now. “I don’t see your name on it.”

“You don’t need to.” He took her arm, giving her a stern look once more, because why on this green Earth does his daughter have to trouble him so? “Clara, I highly advise that you return home. It isn’t safe to do my job.”

“And yet you let Enola do it.” Ah, that was true, but Enola was a rather frustratingly free spirit and he had less control and watch over her than he did you. So he could make that odd excuse for himself.

Couldn’t he?

Watson approached the two, which gave him the chance to divert from the rather valid point, gesturing between the two. “Ah, Watson. This is my daughter, Clara.”

“Dr John Watson.” Watson offered a friendly smile, to which Clara did too and shook his hand— this man seemed amicable, to say the least.

“Pleasure.” She replied warmly, feeling rather friendly towards this man. The firm handshake ended as Clara turned her attention back to Sherlock, a smirk playing at her lips. “Alright, Sherlock,” she began, voice laced with a playful defiance. “If it’s so unsafe, why don’t you show me? Let me see what you’re so keen on keeping me away from.” She glanced at the scattered, chaotic scene. “Maybe you need a fresher pair of eyes on this anyway.”

Sherlock’s expression tightened. He’d managed to avoid bringing her into his world all these years, and now, in the middle of a chaotic crime scene, she was pushing him to let her in. “This isn’t the time or place for amateur eyes, Clara,” he said in a low tone, already feeling the familiar pulse of frustration beginning to rise. “And I would advise you to stop before you make a fool of yourself.”

Clara shrugged, undeterred. “Just thought I’d offer. You never know, I might surprise you.”

Holmes bit back a retort as Watson watched the exchange with bemused curiosity, clearly amused by the sight of someone matching Sherlock’s intensity without a hint of deference. “I see stubbornness is a family trait,” he muttered, folding his arms as he leaned in beside Sherlock.

Lestrade, who had been standing off to the side and soaking in the drama, took the opportunity to interject. “Mr. Holmes,” he drawled, crossing his arms as he looked between father and daughter with raised eyebrows, “are we here to solve the crime or conduct a family reunion?”

Holmes’s mouth twitched in irritation, but he let it pass. “Right. Watson, you’re with me. Clara—” he pointedly ignored her expectant expression— “you’re waiting here with Lestrade.”

Clara rolled her eyes. “Oh, wonderful. I’ll stay here and learn all about the art of loitering from Inspector Lestrade.”

Lestrade opened his mouth, but Sherlock cut him off, heading toward the center of the room with Watson in tow. “Now,” he murmured as they stopped beside the broken bank vault, “let’s have a look.”

Watson peered inside the gaping vault door. “They took quite a haul, didn’t they?”

“Not just any haul,” Holmes murmured, narrowing his eyes as he took in the disturbed items, the displaced dust, the carelessly strewn stacks of paper. “This was messy—too messy.” He crouched down, scrutinizing a particular set of footprints in the dust. “It’s almost as if they wanted us to believe they were inexperienced.”

Watson frowned. “But why would they do that?”

Holmes traced a hand over the edge of the vault’s interior. “The more time we spend looking for amateurs, the less time we spend looking for professionals.”

Watson nodded thoughtfully. “So they’ve planted a false trail, hoping to throw us off their scent.”

“Precisely.” Sherlock straightened, his mind churning through the details. His gaze flicked back toward the corner of the room, where Clara stood. Against his better judgment, he motioned her over. “Alright, Clara. Since you insist on staying, why don’t you tell me what you see?”

Clara’s eyebrows shot up, surprise flashing across her face before she schooled it into an air of composed observation. She glanced around the vault, taking in the state of the room as her father had done moments before. After a few seconds, she looked back at Sherlock with a wry smile. “They’re trying to lead you down the wrong path, aren’t they?”

Holmes’s eyes widened, just slightly. “And what makes you say that?”

Clara pointed at the shoeprints left in the vault. “The prints are too heavy-handed, too deliberate. Someone’s been stomping around as if they wanted to make sure every detail would be noticed.” Her gaze shifted to the scattered papers on the floor, arranged just a bit too carelessly. “Almost as if they’d never done this before—and wanted to make sure we knew it.”

A proud smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth despite himself. “Not bad, Clara. Not bad at all.”

Lestrade, who had wandered over to listen, snorted. “A chip off the old block, eh, Holmes?”

Holmes ignored him. Instead, he glanced at Clara, a faint glint of approval in his eyes. “Very well. Since you’ve already inserted yourself into this, let’s see how much you can keep up.”

“Gladly,” Clara replied with a smirk, her tone far more confident now that she’d received a sliver of approval.

Watson chuckled, nudging Holmes with his elbow. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a new apprentice, Holmes.”

Sherlock groaned, but there was a resigned acceptance in his expression. “Don’t remind me.” He turned, leading the trio out of the vault. “Lestrade, call in the forensics team, and see if they can track down anything unusual with those footprints. Watson, Clara—let’s move.”

As they began to exit the bank, Watson glanced sideways at Clara. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him that rattled,” he whispered, grinning. “You’ve a knack for keeping him on his toes.”

Clara shrugged, the glimmer of pride unmistakable in her eyes. “Someone’s got to.”

Clara adjusted her bonnet in the small, gilded mirror in the parlor, smiling at her reflection with a touch of nerves. She rarely dressed up, but today was different. She was meeting Enola—her aunt, yes, but more than that, her friend, her confidante. Enola understood Clara like no one else in her family, and Clara had looked forward to this afternoon, knowing it would be a rare moment of laughter, freedom, and truth. Besides, she had an idea that her sharp-eyed aunt wouldn’t mind a bit of teasing about her newest friendship with the charming Lord Tewkesbury.

Peeking out the window, she saw Enola striding down the street with a familiar energy, her chin tilted high and her gaze direct. Enola moved as if she belonged to no one and nothing, and watching her always made Clara feel a thrill of admiration. Moments later, her aunt burst through the parlor door, her face lighting up when she saw Clara.

“Clara, darling, you look radiant! Has something thrilling happened?” Enola asked, her tone teasing, but her gaze keen.

“Oh, nothing terribly exciting,” Clara replied, unable to keep the grin from spreading across her face. “But I could say the same for you, couldn’t I? You’ve that certain glow… perhaps from all the secret meetings with Lord Tewkesbury?”

The smile flickered from Enola’s face for just a heartbeat before she laughed it off with a wave of her hand. “Honestly, you’re incorrigible.”

They settled into the cushioned armchairs around the tea service, with the delicate china cups and a plate of scones, but Clara could see that her words had struck something in Enola. As her aunt poured tea, her movements were brisk and efficient, but Clara noticed the faintest blush on her cheeks, a telltale sign she was rarely allowed to show.

Clara let the silence linger for a beat, sipping her tea with a knowing look, until Enola finally laughed, giving in. “I ought to know better than to try hiding anything from you. Sherlock may be the great detective, but you’re the most observant one in this family, Clara.”

“Guilty as charged,” Clara replied, grinning. “And it’s hardly my fault—you’ve hardly hidden the signs. I’ve noticed that particular look in your eyes each time someone mentions his name.”

Enola’s fingers tightened slightly on her teacup, her lips pressing together for a moment as if unsure of how much to say. “Oh, it’s nothing, really. He’s just… interesting. He treats me like a person, you know? Not like I’m some delicate flower to be admired from afar.”

Clara raised her eyebrow, refusing to let her aunt off so easily. “Interesting, hmm? That’s an understatement if I’ve ever heard one. He’s called on you half a dozen times in the last fortnight. Are you certain it’s ‘nothing’?”

A faint, wistful smile touched Enola’s lips, though she tried to disguise it with a sip of tea. “Fine, if you must know—he has expressed a certain… interest. He asked if he might call on me more formally, in fact.” Her voice softened, and Clara could see a flicker of uncertainty there that she’d rarely seen before.

Clara bit back a smile, hiding her excitement behind her teacup. “Oh, Enola! And what did you say?”

“I told him I’d… consider it,” Enola admitted, looking away for a moment, clearly conflicted. “But, Clara, it feels so dreadfully conventional, doesn’t it? I’ve never wanted to be one of those women, sitting pretty at someone’s side and pretending I’m satisfied with needlework and society visits. But… there’s something about him that feels different.”

Clara’s smile softened, and she reached out, placing a reassuring hand on Enola’s. “You’re not one of those women, Enola. You’re extraordinary. And if he’s calling on you, knowing exactly who you are, then maybe he sees that too. I don’t think you’d have to change a thing.”

Enola looked down at Clara’s hand on hers, her expression thoughtful. “You really think so? I’ve always told myself there was no room in my life for courtships, for the expectations that come with it all. But with him… I feel as though I could just be myself.”

“Exactly,” Clara said softly. “Maybe he’s more than just ‘interesting,’ after all.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, both of them lost in their thoughts. Clara watched her aunt carefully, seeing the subtle changes in her face as she considered her words. She’d never seen Enola uncertain about anything before; her aunt had always been fiercely independent, but there was a tenderness in her expression that was new.

After a moment, Enola broke the silence, smiling at Clara with a touch of mischief. “But enough about me. What about you, Clara? Surely there must be some gentleman interested in the great Sherlock Holmes’s daughter?”

Clara nearly choked on her tea, laughing. “Oh, absolutely not. For one, I doubt any man in his right mind would willingly subject himself to Father’s scrutiny. He’d investigate everything about him before we’d even finished tea.”

Enola chuckled, nodding. “I can only imagine. Sherlock would be positively unbearable if he suspected someone was pursuing his daughter. But you mustn’t let that stop you from living, Clara. I can tell he’s proud of you, even if he doesn’t say it outright.”

Clara’s gaze softened, and she let out a small sigh. “I know he is, in his way. But sometimes I feel like he’s more protective than proud, almost possessive. As if he’s afraid I’ll leave him somehow.”

Enola’s face softened, and she reached out, squeezing Clara’s hand gently. “I understand. Sherlock has always struggled with connecting to people, even family. But you’ve done more than anyone to draw him out of himself. Even if it is merely an inch.”

Clara looked down, trying to hide the sudden rush of emotion. “It’s comforting to hear that. And it’s a relief to talk to you about these things, Enola. I can’t say them to anyone else.”

For a moment, they sat in quiet understanding, sipping their tea and watching the afternoon light filter through the lace curtains. Finally, Enola’s voice broke the silence, her tone soft.

“You know, I’ve often wondered what it must have been like, growing up as Sherlock’s daughter,” she said gently. “Did you ever feel lonely?”

Clara hesitated, letting the question settle around her. “Sometimes, yes,” she admitted. “Sherlock’s mind is always working, and it was hard to reach him. I grew up thinking that was normal, that fathers were supposed to be distant and distracted. But it wasn’t until I grew older that I realized how unique he is—and how much I love him for it, even if it’s difficult at times.”

Enola smiled, understanding. “You’re right to love him. He’s a complicated man, but I think he knows he has something precious in you.”

Clara returned the smile, feeling a warmth in her chest. She leaned back, looking at her aunt with a thoughtful expression. “Sometimes I wonder if we women of the Holmes family are destined to lead lives more complicated than most.”

Enola chuckled, raising her teacup in a playful toast. “Perhaps so. But we’re Holmes women—we’ve always known how to rise to a challenge.”

“To the Holmes women,” Clara echoed, tapping her cup against Enola’s. They drank, sharing a smile that held years of understanding and unspoken support.

The dim, late-afternoon light was fading through the frosted windows of Clara’s modest flat as she unlocked the door and stepped inside, letting out a long sigh. Her day had gone from thrilling to exhausting in a matter of hours, thanks to her father’s stubbornness and the chaotic mess at the bank. She barely had time to set down her bag when she heard a faint knock at her door. Opening it, she found the postman standing there with a single letter in hand.

“Afternoon, Miss Holmes,” he said, tipping his cap.

She accepted the letter, thanking him politely, and shut the door, examining the envelope in her hand. It was thicker than usual, her name written in swirling emerald ink. Something about it felt… unusual. She moved to her small kitchen table, where she gently broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

My dearest Clara,

You must be wondering who I am. I am your mother, and this letter is long overdue. I left when you were only a year old—not out of a lack of love, but out of circumstances I could not control. It has been one of the deepest regrets of my life, and not a day has passed without thoughts of you.

I am certain you have many questions, perhaps even anger, and I will understand if you do. But know this, Clara: I loved you then, and I love you now. Your father and I… well, things grew complicated, but I miss him as well, even though I know his heart is not easily won back.

With all my love,

Your mother.

Clara read the letter twice, her hands still. She was unsure how to process the surge of emotions. Her mother… a woman she had no memory of, yet had spent years wondering about, had suddenly reappeared in her life with only this brief, tantalizing message.

Her mother was alive. And she missed her.

Her fingers traced the elegant, swirling letters as her mind raced. She felt a strange mix of excitement, anger, and wariness that left her stomach knotted. She’d spent her entire life wondering about this mysterious figure, and here was the chance to finally know more. But, at the same time, there was a gnawing sense of resentment—the feeling of abandonment, the ache of growing up without even the smallest memory of her mother.

But this was not a decision she could make lightly. Sherlock had always been tight-lipped on the subject, dismissing questions or deflecting with wit or cold silence. Now, she’d received more about her mother in a few sentences than her father had given in sixteen years.

Clara’s thoughts were interrupted as she realized she hadn’t moved in nearly ten minutes, still clutching the letter as if it might vanish. She quickly slid it back into the envelope, setting it down on the table. Then she paced back and forth in her cramped flat, glancing every so often at the envelope as though it might hold all the answers she needed.

Finally, she sank into a chair, the letter held in both hands as she tried to calm her mind. She recalled moments over the years—questions she’d asked Sherlock, the clipped answers, the discomfort that shadowed his otherwise composed demeanor whenever the subject of her mother arose. A part of her wanted to storm back to Baker Street and demand answers, but she knew he’d only retreat behind a wall of indifference.

For now, she’d have to rely on the letter itself, on the words her mother had chosen so carefully.

The hours slipped by as Clara turned the letter over in her mind, running her fingers over the rich green ink and wondering if the faint scent of lavender clinging to the page was intentional or a mere coincidence. When she finally managed to pull herself away from the letter, it was nearly dusk, and the world outside her window was settling into the quiet hum of evening.

There was something raw and earnest there, a vulnerability that felt deeply out of place in her life—something almost… foreign.

She was almost startled when the knock at the door echoed again. Her mind raced, wondering if somehow her mother was on the other side. Heart pounding, she went to open it, but it was only Mrs. Donahue, the elderly woman from down the hall, who’d come to check in on her, as she often did.

Clara managed a smile, exchanging small talk and listening patiently to the latest updates on Mrs. Donahue’s collection of pet cats. All the while, though, her mind drifted back to the letter. Once her neighbor had left, she sat down with her notebook and pen, beginning to draft a response.

Dear Mother,

Thank you for reaching out to me. I must admit, receiving your letter has been… unexpected. I have questions, certainly, and perhaps even some anger that I cannot yet name. I grew up knowing only my father, and while he was… well, Sherlock, he raised me alone, and I had few memories or even stories of you.

I don’t know what to think about your leaving or how I’m supposed to feel now that you want to see me. You’ve said you miss me, but I need to know more—about you, about the circumstances that led to your departure.

I really do want to meet you again.

Yours sincerely,

Clara.

As she finished, Clara took a deep breath, sealing the letter and addressing it to the return address her mother had provided in the countryside. It felt surreal, sending a reply out into the unknown, as though reaching through a foggy past. She didn’t know what would come of it, or even if she wanted a relationship with this woman who had so suddenly re-entered her life. But she did want answers—and she knew she couldn’t ignore this chance, however strange it felt.

With her reply tucked away, Clara took one last glance at her mother’s letter before extinguishing the light and preparing for bed. She lay awake, the darkness only sharpening the conflicted feelings swirling within her. It was a strange mixture of curiosity and trepidation, mingled with the faintest glimmer of hope she was almost afraid to acknowledge.

The morning was cold and gray as Sherlock stepped out into the brisk London air, tugging the collar of his coat up against the biting wind. He’d been summoned by Mycroft, and, though he didn’t care much for such meetings, he’d decided it was best to comply this time. The man never summoned anyone without purpose—especially not his own brother.

Arriving at Whitehall, he was ushered through the labyrinthine halls with all the formalities expected of government offices. The building loomed around him, its thick stone walls and tall, narrow windows giving the place a sense of unyielding authority. Everything here was impeccably neat, everything in its place—a stark contrast to the chaos of Baker Street, with its cluttered stacks of books, scattered notes, and curious relics from cases past.

Sherlock reached the last corridor, a long, dimly lit stretch of polished wood and brass fixtures. Mycroft’s office lay at the end, an austere and intimidating corner of the building, its large oak door carved with intricate designs. Sherlock paused, his hand on the brass doorknob, glancing at his own reflection in the polished surface. His face was calm, but there was a hint of weariness around his eyes—a faint remnant of the sleepless nights spent on the latest string of cases. But here, he needed to wear the veneer of composure. Mycroft would tolerate nothing less.

He opened the door, stepping into his brother’s domain. The office was vast, with tall ceilings and large windows draped in heavy burgundy curtains that framed the muted gray light outside. Shelves lined the walls, filled with meticulously ordered files and ledgers, the dark wood glistening from years of polish. A massive mahogany desk dominated the room, its surface immaculate, save for a single crystal inkpot, a brass letter opener, and several neatly stacked documents.

Behind the desk sat Mycroft, every inch the imposing government official. His perfectly tailored suit, his carefully manicured hands folded on the desktop, and his steely, inscrutable gaze all contributed to an air of detached authority. He watched as Sherlock entered, his expression giving nothing away.

“Sherlock,” he greeted, his tone cool and measured.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock replied with a slight nod, crossing the room to stand before the desk.

For a moment, neither spoke, each studying the other. There was an old, familiar tension between them, a silent rivalry that had never quite faded. Though Sherlock prided himself on his ability to remain unfazed by most things, Mycroft’s scrutiny always had a peculiar effect on him, as if he were a schoolboy called to account.

“Sit,” Mycroft finally said, gesturing to the leather armchair opposite him.

Sherlock lowered himself into the chair, crossing his legs and lacing his fingers together. He kept his gaze steady, waiting for Mycroft to state his purpose.

“I trust you know why you’re here,” Mycroft began, his voice carrying the quiet authority of a man used to being obeyed.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “An assumption, Mycroft. I would have thought you’d know better.”

A flicker of annoyance passed over Mycroft’s face before he leaned forward, clasping his hands on the desk. “I called you here because of Clara.”

The mention of his daughter’s name caused a subtle shift in Sherlock’s expression, though he quickly masked it. He inclined his head slightly, waiting for Mycroft to continue.

“I received reports that she recently received a… peculiar letter,” Mycroft said, his tone carefully neutral. “From her mother.”

The words struck Sherlock like a physical blow, though he refused to let it show. He had spent years building walls around that part of his life, shutting away the memories of his former wife with a determination that bordered on ruthless. Yet, here they were, dragged back into the light, as if the mere mention of her name could summon a past he had tried so diligently to bury.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, his voice cool, almost detached. “A letter arrived for Clara recently. Written in emerald ink, her mother’s handwriting unmistakable.” He paused, the memory of the letter fresh in his mind. The flowing, ornate script, the words carefully chosen yet laced with sentiments he had long since ceased to indulge. “It seems she wishes to reconnect.”

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, his gaze never wavering. “And what are you planning to do about it?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock replied. “The matter is for Clara to decide. She’s old enough to form her own judgments.”

A slight frown creased Mycroft’s brow, his expression hardening. “Sherlock, we both know that allowing Clara to engage with such… sentimentality would be unwise. You cannot afford to be swayed by remnants of a life you abandoned long ago. I need you to remember the person you are now, the clarity you’ve achieved. Falling back into old patterns would be… detrimental.”

Sherlock held his brother’s gaze, his own expression growing colder. “I’m not a fool, Mycroft. I’m aware of what’s at stake. I haven’t forgotten the reasons for that chapter’s closure.”

Mycroft studied him in silence, and in that silence, Sherlock could feel the weight of his brother’s unspoken expectations. He knew that Mycroft regarded sentiment as a weakness—a flaw that had no place in their carefully constructed lives. And Sherlock had once shared that view, perhaps even more fiercely than Mycroft himself. But Clara had changed things. Clara, with her sharp mind and fierce independence, was a constant reminder of the life he had built after severing ties with his past.

“My point,” Mycroft continued, his tone colder, “is that you have responsibilities—both to Clara and to yourself. Indulging her curiosity could lead to complications that neither of you are equipped to handle. And as for… her mother…” He paused, his face hardening, as if even the mention of the woman was distasteful. “Reopening that door would only invite chaos. I trust you haven’t forgotten that.”

Sherlock’s jaw tightened, a flicker of defiance in his eyes. “I am perfectly aware of the risks, Mycroft. But I won’t dictate Clara’s choices. She is her own person.”

“Her autonomy is not the issue here,” Mycroft countered sharply. “The issue is that she is a Holmes, and that comes with expectations. Emotions and nostalgia have no place in this family. We were raised to understand that.”

For a moment, a surge of resentment flared within Sherlock, memories of his own emotionally barren upbringing surfacing unbidden. He had learned early on that sentiment was something to be kept under lock and key, that any display of vulnerability was a liability. Yet he had fought against that conditioning for Clara’s sake, wanting to shield her from the colder aspects of the Holmes legacy.

But now, sitting across from Mycroft in this austere office, he felt the weight of that legacy press down on him once more, suffocating and inescapable.

“I understand your concerns,” Sherlock said finally, his tone measured, carefully devoid of emotion. “But I will handle this situation in my own way. Clara is not a child, and I refuse to impose limitations on her merely because they suit your sensibilities.”

Mycroft’s gaze grew colder still, but he remained silent, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the surface of the desk. The room felt heavy, the air thick with unspoken tensions that seemed to settle over them like a shroud.

“Very well,” Mycroft said at last, his tone clipped. “But consider this your only warning, Sherlock. I won’t tolerate any lapses in judgment where she is concerned. Sentiment is a distraction, and distractions lead to vulnerabilities. And vulnerabilities, in our line of work, can be fatal.”

Sherlock held his gaze, feeling a pang of resentment at the admonishment. He knew Mycroft’s words were rooted in a twisted sense of duty, but they grated against the part of him that wanted, however reluctantly, to trust Clara’s ability to navigate her own path.

“Understood,” he replied curtly, rising from the chair. He cast a final, lingering glance around the office—the shelves stacked with secrets, the air thick with the scent of leather and ink, the oppressive quiet that seemed to permeate every corner of this place. It was a stark reminder of the life he had chosen, of the sacrifices he had made, and of the distance that now separated him from the man he had once been.

As he turned to leave, Mycroft’s voice stopped him.

“Sherlock.” The tone was softer this time, almost a warning. “Don’t let sentiment blind you. You know what it cost you the last time.”

Sherlock paused, the words hanging heavily in the air. He knew, all too well, the price he had paid. And yet, for all his resolve, he felt a flicker of doubt—a faint, nagging whisper that refused to be silenced. But he crushed it down, turning his gaze to the door.

“Yes, Mycroft,” he said quietly, his voice a cold, measured echo in the stillness. “I remember.”

“Father.” It was one word which caught Sherlock’s attention as his daughter simply burst into his flat as he was working the details of the bank robbery with Watson the next day.

Oh, go ahead, just sweep into his apartment like a small tornado right when he’s busy. His daughter summarised in just one sentence. “Clara.”

“Clara.” Watson piped up, probably to not feel left out of the cold exchange and to make it a little more friendly.

Clara smiled at Watson, clearly more accustomed to him than Sherlock. “John.” That raised Sherlock’s brow, as what just happened? That wasn’t normal, that wasn’t ever normal.

“John?” He repeated incredulously, glancing between the two of them to try and fathom the use of first names. “Since when was it John, pray tell?”

Clara rolled her eyes; trust her father to be a nosy busybody about all her business. She looked pointedly to Watson, who got the hint, gathering up his things. “I’ll have a cuppa with Mrs Hudson.” He muttered as he hurried.

“No, Watson, ask her to make me…” The door slammed shut, a heavy sigh from Sherlock fading into a pensive expression that spoke many volumes, his hand dropping to his side. “Mrs Hudson makes… wonderful tea.”

“I’m sure she does.” She replied dryly, inviting a glare of incredulity from Sherlock— Mrs Hudson deserved the world, she was an exemplary landlady, why the tone which sounded like it had been through a substantial drought. “Now, we have to talk.”

He frowned slightly, taking a puff from his pipe and setting it aside. What could you possibly want from him? “Yes? What about?”

“Mother.” The word stiffened him up, everything rushing back. He never thought he’d find the day, but he supposed you were inevitable.

You. It was always you, it always came back to you.

You were Sherlock’s one exception, his only mistake, but it was a mistake that he’d most likely make a million times over. It had felt like his vision was in dull noir before it burst into glorious colour the moment he laid eyes on you, the witty, oh-so-charming woman who’d stolen his heart so effortlessly. You were beauty in its finest form and good Lord, you had a brilliant mind that rivalled his own.

In truth, you were the enigma he took true pleasure in decoding.

He had been young, foolish, and he’d fallen for you, courted you, and you’d done the same. It had come to the point where even a few hours spent away from one another made your hearts ache and experience pain greater than the most devastating blow. So he’d married you, loved you, cherished you, and it felt like a whirlwind. His mind, his cases had become nothing more than a speck of dust and you had consumed him— mind, body and soul.

It wasn’t extensive to say that no matter who he saw or who attempted to have him, he’d always be yours.

Barely a few months after the marriage, you had turned out to be with child, and he had never been happier, never been more elated, more protective of you, abandoning all cases that came his way to keep you safe, to focus on you. And what’s more is that he became a new man once Clara was born. The second light of his life, and everything seemed so vibrant, so surreal, sublime, and he knew that he’d never find a love like this. A love that made him feel alive.

Good things were never meant to last, however, for a month after Clara’s first birthday, things had seemingly got too dangerous for you once you and Sherlock had resumed taking cases while Mrs Hudson cared for Clara. You’d left with only one conversation, not allowing room for him to plead with you, to tell you to stay, that you were his driving force.

To no avail, for you left, and you left him a broken man, unable to look at his child — your child — without seeing you. It hardened him, forced tunnel vision in front of his eyes as he no longer saw Clara, just the woman he’d loved and lost because he hadn’t fought hard enough. He couldn’t bear to see you in his daughter. Mycroft called it sentimentality.

Sentimentality was his sin.

He muttered your name, his thumb moving to rub over his wedding band, every small memory you both shared seared into his vision and into his being. Sometimes he wished he had a lesser mind, at least then he could forget you. Or stop loving you.

He couldn’t let Clara suffer the same.

“What about her?” His voice had gotten sharper, he noticed, almost like the dagger that had twisted in his heart the day you left. To this day, his heart still bled, like a dead man walking.

Clara showed him the letter, and yes, he immediately knew it was you. Your handwriting was unforgettable, the way you wrote the letter ‘S’, the small teardrop next to his name and the emerald green ink that had always stained your pointer finger on the page in beautiful lettering. “She wrote to me. I want to find her, Sherlock.”

Oh, dear Lord. No, he couldn’t. He couldn’t have his heart broken again.

“No.” He shook his head.

The air in Sherlock’s flat felt thick, and every nerve in his body tensed as he faced his daughter, the letter clutched in her hand like a weapon ready to break open old wounds. Sherlock's fingers gripped the edge of his chair until his knuckles turned white, as if holding on for balance against an emotional tide that threatened to pull him under.

"No," he repeated, his tone colder than he intended. "I won’t allow it."

Clara’s eyes narrowed, and her face twisted in a mixture of disbelief and anger. "What do you mean, 'won’t allow it'? I’m not a child, Sherlock. I can make my own choices."

Sherlock felt the familiar pang of guilt gnawing at him. His gaze flickered to the letter, the one written in that all-too-familiar handwriting. It was as if just seeing her words, her distinctive, elegant hand, brought every memory flooding back, each one pressing down on him until he could hardly breathe. But he forced himself to maintain composure, his voice sharp and unwavering. “You don’t understand the implications, Clara. She left for a reason. Digging into that past—” He stopped himself, taking a steadying breath. “It’s not wise.”

Clara stared at him, eyes wide with anger and hurt. “Not wise?” she echoed, her voice thick with emotion. “What isn’t wise, Sherlock, is to keep avoiding this. She’s my mother, and you can’t just erase her from my life because you’re afraid of facing whatever it is that happened between you two.”

“Afraid?” Sherlock’s lips curled in an incredulous sneer, but it was a mask, thin and brittle. “You think this is fear? I am protecting you.”

“Protecting me?” Clara repeated, her tone scathing. “No, you’re protecting yourself. This has nothing to do with me, or what’s good for me. You’ve never even told me anything about her, Sherlock—not one detail. I know more about John and Mrs. Hudson than I do about my own mother, and that’s because of you. You never gave me the chance to know her.”

Sherlock’s jaw clenched as Clara’s words hit him like a series of blows, each one harder than the last. He knew she was right—she deserved to know about her mother, about the woman who had left them both behind. But every time he’d considered it, his heart had balked, resisting the idea of opening himself to the pain he had buried so deeply. To speak of her was to relive the joy and the anguish, and it felt like reopening a wound that had never fully healed.

“This isn’t about denying you knowledge,” he said, but his voice sounded hollow, even to his own ears. “Some things are better left in the past.”

“Because you say so?” Clara shot back, her hands shaking slightly. “I have the right to find her, Sherlock. She’s the one who reached out to me, not you, and I’m not going to let you stand in my way.”

He rose from his chair, the motion sudden and forceful. “Clara, you don’t know what you’re dealing with. Your mother isn’t the person you imagine her to be. You were a baby when she left. You don’t understand the complexity, the danger—”

“The danger?” Clara’s voice trembled, and she laughed bitterly. “There you go again, always shrouding everything in mystery and secrets. Do you ever think that maybe I’d be better equipped to handle things if you’d just told me the truth from the beginning?”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence between them was filled with unspoken words, regrets, and the weight of years spent in avoidance. Sherlock’s eyes softened for a fraction of a second, and he considered, for the briefest of moments, telling her everything. But the years of habit, of training himself to keep his heart locked away, proved stronger.

“This discussion is over,” he said finally, the words cutting like ice. “I won’t permit it.”

Clara stared at him, disbelief and hurt flashing across her face. “You really are heartless, aren’t you?” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. “All that intelligence, all those brilliant deductions, and yet you can’t see what’s right in front of you.” She took a step back, shaking her head. “I thought, maybe, there was a part of you that could care… that there was some semblance of family left between us. But I was wrong.”

Without another word, Clara turned on her heel and stormed out of the flat, the door slamming behind her with a force that rattled the windows. Sherlock flinched, a rare, unguarded reaction breaking through his normally stoic expression.

For a moment, he stood there, the silence of the flat pressing in on him like a weight. The letter sat on the table, the emerald ink glistening faintly in the dim light, taunting him. He resisted the urge to reach for it, to read the words he knew would cut deeper than any blade.

“Sherlock?” The soft voice broke the silence, and he looked up to see Mrs. Hudson standing hesitantly in the doorway, having been drawn by the commotion. She took one look at his face, and her expression softened with concern.

“Oh, dear,” she murmured, her eyes drifting toward the letter on the table. “Would you like some tea?”

Sherlock took a deep, steadying breath, forcing his composure back into place. He nodded, though his voice sounded distant, as if it belonged to someone else. “Yes, Mrs. Hudson… I think I would.”

𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @goldngguk @sweetpeachbombshell @slut-for-stiles @staple-your-mouth @daddyscrimsstuff

@dob-4-life @marcis-mixtapez @nonoreas0n @gabrielasilva1510

@lucyholmes13 @pandadork-blog1 @nicolstancu @malusinhaaaa @dybalabandolero

@a-cup-of-nightshade @tomatoessoup @sh0rtcakee @fall-06 @mckaykay-fandoms

@b3th13

@demonxangelomegaverse @deanwinchestersgirl87 @capailluiscedove @i723l-interrupted2323 @niyomiii

@all-the-fan-fic @eviekinevie8 @sunflowerlover57 @1-800-dean-winchester

@darichvep @idk-usernme @supernaturalmarvel3000 @ega2025 @deanbrainrotwritings

@targaryenluvs @bucky-hydra-hoe-barnes @leigh70 @aintnowayboi @ripoffsteveharrington

@gleefulleve @sacrosankta

@riteofpassage77 @eevvvaa @thedevilortheangel @thorsballhair @barbienotdoll

@4e1h3r @wolfieblue03 @kianaleani @vicky199625 @sassyslut2003

@impyrz

@didisull @miwp @lastcallatrockysbar @rizlowwritessortof

@zepskies @angelbabyyy99 @autisticgothic

@yourgoldengirls @deansobsessedgirl @mrsjenniferwinchester

@aylacavebear @lailawinchesterr @brightlilith @arcanaa @hobby27

@lyarr24 @ximm19

@a-girl-who-loves-disney @jeneelsworld @deans-spinster-witch @deanspinsterwitchs-readinglist @kayleighwinchester

@cheynovak @d3ndroslim3s @phantomtea19 @homewreckingwreck @annoyance-for-u

@i-have-no-life-charlie

[zer0brainc3lls]

Newtmas headcanons pt2!

Newt and Thomas both read and they just sit in bed together reading all the time, ever so often gasping and going "you'll never guess what just happened-"

Newt is a chronic clothes THIEF. he doesn't buy baggy clothes because he will just go and steal Thomas's stuff 😭 "its not your shirt, its OUR shirt. big difference." "I BOUGHT IT?!" "AND I PICKED IT FOR YOU!" "YEAH I SEE WHY NOW"

Thomas would see little trinkets or flowers and just give it to Newt with little to no context except maybe "for you!" "i found this" Newt has kept every single one. he presses the flowers and keeps them in a book, the trinkets are in a box.

Newt got told by a doctor he should be using a cane, Newt refused but made the fatal mistake of complaining to Thomas about it.. Newt now has a cane decorated with stickers.

before Newt got the flare he had a weaker immune system then the other guys (aka they have really strong immune systems and his was just normal so everyone thought his was weak) but after he got the flare and got cured it ACTUALLY got weak, like a cold for someone else will have him in bed for days vomiting :( Thomas however almost never gets sick.. so he takes care of sick Newt OFTEN

Newt loves taking care of plants, Thomas cannot keep them alive.

Thomas is wearing shorts in the freezing cold, Newt is in multiple layers the moment the temperate gets even slightly cold

Newt is a flower crown/bracelet WARRIOR. Anytime Thomas comes home with flowers he found if he has enough Newt makes them into bracelets for Thomas to wear around (sometimes he makes crowns but he usually makes bracelets because it’s more practical for Thomas)

Thomas won’t take the bracelets off unless he’s showering/sleeping (so they don’t break) and will wear them till they have withered off

Thomas BEGGED Newt to teach him how to plait hair, once he got it down he plaits Newts hair for him

Thomas sometimes has a hard time focusing, and will sometimes not look at people while they are talking (not in a rude way!!) and Newt will just tap him on the shoulder if it’s someone else but if Thomas is “ignoring” HIM.. yk that move he did to frypan when he was looking at Teresa? Yeah. That gets Thomas’s attention alright 😭 example:

Newt: yeah so then-

Thomas: *staring off into the distance, fiddling with his hands deep in thought*

Newt: *rolls his eyes and grabs Thomas’s face and makes him look at him* y’know you’re s’pose to look at people when they talk to ya Tommy

Thomas: *red in the face* uhm- yeah you’re right- sorry what did you say hun?

(Newt knows this gets Thomas flustered btw. Uses it to his upmost advantage)

When Newt got the cure (I’m insane) he still suffered from the rare burst of anger/paranoia and on very very bad days hallucinations, since he was past the gone when he got the cure. No where near as bad to when he had the flare but still bad none the less, Thomas reassures him constantly and helps him calm down.

Being sick is a massiveee trigger for Newt. Fever, flu, vomiting you name it he’s on edge. Sometimes he gets in his own head and second guesses if he’s really cured but once again Thomas saves the day and is always there for him when he’s sick, staying home more to make sure he’s ok. (Writing a small fic about this btw!!!)

Newt is a back rub fanatic. Loves them. Receiving end or giving he does NOT care!! Thomas figured this out and whenever Newt is upset Thomas rubs his back

Fav kiss placements (giving and receiving):

Newt: gives cheek and neck kisses, loves receiving normal, forehead/hair kisses & neck kisses

Thomas: gives normal, just all over Newts face & neck kisses, loves receiving neck kisses and cheek kisses

More on neck kisses specifically there is a reason beside lust!! Its pulse points, reminds them that this is infact real and the other is ok :)

When they hold hands they sometimes check each others pulses out of habit, if in a uncomfortable scenario one will check the others and if it’s higher they gesture with a head nod if the other wants to leave

They both underestimate their own injuries, the other freaks out when the other is slightly sick/injured because in the scorch tiny cuts or the flu were very dangerous. Not much medicine or anything. Even in the safe haven, it’s a habit they won’t get rid of convinced it keeps them safe. They had a rule in the scorch that they had to tell the other if they were injuried since they own they themselves won’t see it as a big deal. Example:

*in the safe haven*

Thomas: hey Newt I got this cut on my hand today *shows palm, slight cut still bleeding*

Newt: *eyes widen in shock, grabbing Thomas’s hand careful not to touch the wound dragging him away*

Brenda: where are you going?!

Newt: to bandage it!! *tugs Thomas’s faster*

They do the whole deal. Cleaning, bandaging double checking etc :( poor boys

Newt tops, Thomas bottoms. No further questions!!

They are NOT picky eaters. At all. Plates fully clean, they do have favourites though

Newt: he loves sweet foods but also loves spicy food, adores pineapple with his whole heart

Thomas: loves salty food, not the biggest fan of spice. Loves carrots and apples though (the carrot one is canon I think)

Going on about food, they share food without question. Apple? Cut in half. Got a snack? Got extra for the other. The other still has food on their plate (very rare) the other will finish it off.

In the wicked facility whenever Thomas ever saw Newt besides sneaking out (rare af) sometimes they would purposely bump into each other just for an excuse to say hi, very very quickly whispering anything important before being ushered away

Sometimes, the others wouldn’t be there when Thomas snuck around so there were a handful of times it was just Thomas and Newt. Newt remembers this and told Thomas, Thomas however doesn’t and is very sad about it. :(

They have perfected lip reading to a tee. Having full on silent convos while everyone else is just like “really?! AGAIN?” Example:

*Newt and Thomas silently talking, gesturing a fuckton with there faces*

Minho: *whispers to Brenda* I’m slowly figuring out that lil shucking language they got going on

Brenda: *whispers back* how?!

They started learning in the scorch, since they rarely got a moment alone they would silently talk strategy. Slowly but surely it turned into silent flirting in the safe haven so Newt will just mouth something and and Thomas will go OUTLOUD “NEWT. NOT HERE!!” “Tommy they don’t know what I’m saying remember??” “… oh yeah”

Before they got together they got into heated arguments and even got slightly physical, all jokes of course but they would shove eachother around and grabbing each others shirts to “emphasise their point” (GAYYYY 🫵🫵🫵🫵)

Another long yap session, expect more. Also new lil fic on working on but do not threat!! I bet on losing dogs chapter 4 IS COMING OUT SOON. And I may write a short lil spin off of Thomas’s worst flare moments in his pov if yall would enjoy that. And soon one of my moots requested a Jeff x reader fic I usually don’t write those but that will be out soon too!!

[sadark-angel]

"Będziemy mijać się bez gestu i bez słowa, nie pamiętając, że przez krótki czas kochaliśmy się na zawsze."

W. Szymborska

[ivystoryweaver]

With You part 16 - conclusion

previous || Fic Masterlist || My Masterlist || next

Summary: We are Moon Knight

Pairings: Moon Knight system x you (gn!reader)

Word Count: 2.4k

Content: mostly fluff, mentions of food, not beta'd

PREVIOUSLY, on "With You"...

"You have to settle it. You have to decide if you are Moon Knight."

"I am," he answered resolutely. "I am Moon Knight."

Marc Spector stood gallantly on the rooftop of your building, peering out over the darkened city. Clenching his fists in determination, he drew a calming breath as the ceremonial armor of Khonshu wrapped itself around each muscle.

Fierce brown eyes chilled to a somber, glowing white as a thick, white hood enveloped his dark curls. A heavy, ashen cape unfurled behind him, swept aside by an ominous gust of wind.

"Marc Spector," the menacing voice of Khonshu boomed, the sound chilling his avatar to the core. "Jake Lockley assured me you would not interfere in our affairs again."

"Jake is me, in a way," Marc returned confidently. "He's a part of me. So your business with him is your business with me. It's my body too."

An ancient metal clang rang out in the night as Khonshu thumped his staff against the rooftop. “Jake Lockley asked for your protection, so long as you stay out of our affairs."

"Cut the shit," Marc bit out, turning to face the ancient one. "You need an avatar. That's me." Folding white, bandaged arms over his chest, he returned his gaze to the city below. "I'm the reason you're free. And you promised to set us free."

"You and Steven Grant," Khonshu corrected, moving around with a dramatic whirl, to block Marc’s view. "I did not promise the freedom of Jake Lockley."

"We come as a package deal, like Steven said," Marc huffed, glancing back up at the annoying deity.

"Jake Lockley is my perfect avatar. Nothing will change that," Khonshu argued, leaning in menacingly. 

"Then why didn't you protect us?" Marc hissed, not caring to debate the logistics of being a system with a literally boneheaded god. "Why did you take your armor away that night?"

An eerie chill swept across the rooftop.

"You wanted to be free, Marc Spector, so I set you free."

"You left me to die in an alley, outnumbered three to one with no armor...while I was trying to save a woman from God knows what!"

A condescending chuckle echoed. "Save? If you were my avatar, you would know how to protect the travelers of the night, and when to be my Fist of Vengeance."

"I was trying to!"

From your vantage point, hidden across the rooftop, you listened intently, proud of the stand Marc was taking. Khonshu probably knew you were there, but it didn’t matter. All four of you had decided to face the old bird.

You couldn't see him, but you tried to follow what was happening from your husband's side of the conversation.

“The woman you tried to save was meant to die that night. I was ready to give Jake my orders, but you interfered." The god’s voice explained.

Marc scoffed, starting to pace across the rooftop agitatedly. “You wanted me to kill a woman who was being attacked? What the hell is wrong with you?”

Okay, you might be proud of Marc, but you were still concerned. You couldn't take him getting hurt again. But that's why Steven and Jake were with him. It was pretty rare for the three them to be co-conscious but this was essential to you all getting on with your lives. 

"That woman was the vilest of humanity," Khonshu explained, disappearing momentarily, only to reappear directly in Marc’s pacing path. 

Marc listened to how the woman he was trying to save that night was actually the person who deserved "real justice". Apparently, she was the actual worst. Trafficking. Ew.

"Uhh, that information would have been a bit more helpful from the start," Steven piped, wagging his gloved finger condescendingly.

You gasped in amazement as Marc's white bandage-looking garb dissolved into a crisp white, three-piece suit. Damn, you loved those tight pants.

"I wasn't talking to you, worm," Khonshu grumbled, gesturing dramatically with his staff.

"Well this worm's not about to let you off the hook so easily, silly old bird," Steven countered, shrugging both shoulders with his hands up. "Can't expect Marc to go around delivering justice if you don't give him the right information, can you?"

"Marc Spector doesn't listen to me, so he can no longer serve me as my avatar."

"No one is serving you, pendejo," Jake interjected, hands landing on his hips. The three-piece suit transformed once again, back to the ceremonial armor of Khonshu, but this version had Jake's delicious thighs, torso, arms and face wrapped in jet black. You had never witnessed this suit in person. It was kind of hard to concentrate on the extremely critical conversation with all this skin tight armor.

"We help you; you help us," Jake went on. "No more games. No more orders."

The black portions of the Moon Knight suit brightened to an ancient white once more.

"That's the deal," Marc finished. "Take us or leave us." Searching for you on the rooftop, he extended his hand, inviting you to stand before Khonshu. You scurried to your husband’s side, gripping his white bandaged hand. You still couldn't see who he was addressing, but you were there to support him no matter what.

"All four of us," he added. "We're Moon Knight."

Khonshu spared you one glance...Marc told you later. He didn't really have eyes - just bony socket holes. Then he turned his beak away and thumped his staff again. "Very well. Be my Fist of Vengeance and you will all have my protection."

Steven and his white suit appeared one final time. "Time to update the Fist of Vengeance though, innit? How about hand of justice?"

Khonshu made an annoyed grunting sound and disappeared.

"Do you remember the first night you met me?" Jake murmured against the shell of your ear, tangling his thick fingers with yours as you lay side by side.

You shivered as his soft lips tickled the sensitive spot right behind your ear. "Mm-hmm. You let me hold your hand just like this."

He squeezed your fingers affectionately, planting sweet kisses down the side of your neck. Warm puffs of breath made you tingle with love and desire. "Do you know how it felt to lay beside you all those nights and never be able to touch you?"

"I think you've more than made up for it," you giggled as he found the ticklish spot just above your collarbone.

"Uh-uh, not yet," he playfully refuted, between kisses. "Never enough."

Releasing your hand, he climbed on top of you - always moving like a panther, this one - since that first night. You could tell right away that he didn't move like Marc or Steven.

"Never thought I could have this with you, mi corazón," he breathed, tracing the shape of your jawline with his fingertips. His head cocked to the side as he studied you, unable to believe you were his.

"You do have this with me, Jake," you assured him, wrapping your arms around his back to pull him even closer. "I think I loved you from the second we met."

"Then marry me," he blurted, dragging his thumb across your bottom lip tauntingly. "I know we are...technically married, but I-I want to..."

"You want to be there?" You softly asked, running your hands over his muscular back, scratching softly.

He nodded, smiling sweetly down at you. "I want to be able to say the things Marc and Steven said to you. But I want it to be from me."

Staring into your eyes, he whispered your name. Leaning closer, he nuzzled your cheek with his nose before sealing his mouth over yours.

A while later, you and Jake cooked dinner together, with him humming and singing little phrases in Spanish. Afterward, you cuddled up on the couch to unwind.

Jake shuffled around in the "couch basket" - a collection of various bits of entertainment to enjoy while relaxing. Jake had his crossword puzzle book, you and Steven shared a couple of word search books. There were a few of fidget toys for Marc, who definitely did not find any relaxation in putting pencil to paper. But since he was a man wound rather tight, he liked to have something in his hands.

There was also a sudoku book that no one ever touched.

The four of you shared a nighttime journal and a set of brush pens, where you would jot thoughts from your day, doodle and leave notes for one another. Now this, Marc would participate in, because brush pens seemed like markers and drawing with markers was fun, unlike boring crosswords and word searches.

Marc liked to draw little cartoons - he was pretty bad at it, which made it so, so cute. There was always a deeper meaning to his drawings too. He could be quite passive aggressive with them when he wanted to be.

A stick figure with dark curly hair and a cap, holding a sandwich, under a red "NO" sign meant Jake should stop eating Marc's food out of the fridge. Obviously. Sometimes he drew fish for Steven or hearts for you. It's not that he was terribly creative, it was just adorable.

Jake handed you both the journal and the word search book. You smiled at him, motioning for the brush pens. You quickly flipped to a blank page and pulled out a marker. In all capital letters, you wrote, “YES” and passed the book back to him.

He smirked cutely at the journal but raised a dark eyebrow questioningly. 

“Yes, I’ll marry you, Jake,” you clarified, reaching for his hand. “You asked me before, but I didn’t get a chance to answer.” The two of you had been busy for a while after he kissed you. “But my answer is yes.”

Fall turned to winter and Steven aced yet another round of finals for his university classes. You passed your nurse’s exam and moved on to the next level of nursing, which came with a raise.

It was the third night of Hanukkah - not the biggest of Jewish holidays, but still one your husband had started to celebrate with a bit more gusto now that the pain of the past was a little more of a dull ache, rather than a raw, sharp thorn.

To that end, you had gathered the correct ingredients for latkes, which Marc was going to attempt to make with you tonight.

You turned the key in the deadbolt to the door of your flat and entered a darkened environment. 

Shit. Every time you got home to a dimly lit flat, there was sure to be alcohol involved. Okay, maybe not every time, but - 

“Hey!” Marc greeted, in a way that contradicted his typically grumpy eagle exterior. He appeared out of nowhere and you jumped a little.

“Sorry…sorrry,” he grasped your arms, leaning in to kiss your cheek. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I have a surprise.”

“Oh?” You chuckled. “Was the surprise like a haunted house surprise? Because you got me.”

“No, no, I was working in the bedroom and it got dark in the flat and then…just come on.” He grabbed your hand and dragged you down the hallway- a move much more typical of Steven. 

You followed without question, melting a little at his enthusiasm. It was a rare treat to see him this way. 

“Okay, I’m just gonna…” He eased behind you, cutely reaching up to cover your eyes with his hands. “It’s not a big surprise,” he warned, “just something I finished.”

Finally, you made it into the bedroom and he removed his hands.

Before you sat the broken table. The one Marc had been promising to fix for…well over a year now. It was one of the many broken things he collected, but this one, he actually completed.

“I thought you could use it for a night table, or…well, wherever,” he quietly gushed, his dark eyes sparkling proudly. “Do you like it?”

“Marc, I love it,” you assured him, running your fingers along the freshly polished surface. “When did you have time to work on it?”

He laughed, “I’m unemployed - I have plenty of time,” he teased. 

“Well, I love it.”

He explained that he’d been plugging away at it on Steven’s days off, while you were at work. He stained the wood up on the rooftop, so the smell wouldn’t overpower the flat. 

“You should do this with other found pieces,” you encouraged. “This is really beautiful work, and people love this repurposed stuff.”

Marc swallowed, his eyes dancing from your gaze to the table and back. “You think so?”

“I do,” you nodded eagerly. “It could be a hobby for you or…maybe even something more. And besides,” you went on, reaching for his hand, “I just got a raise, so maybe we could get a bigger place - give you some space to work.”

A space just for him? He loved the sound of that. And there might be another reason he wanted a bigger place…

Later that night, after some yummy latkes and a huge kitchen mess, you were flipping through the shared nighttime journal while Marc tinkered with another chair he’d found on the street.

You saw where Steven had jotted some notes for his finals - just a bit of a brain dump, really. Jake had left you a note in Spanish, which made your heart do flip-flops. (He wrote you a lot of notes after finally reading all the ones you had written him months ago).

And Marc had drawn another terribly adorable picture.

In it, he drew all of you, in stick figure form.

Jake had his hat. 

Steven had his glasses.

Marc was just Marc.

You were just you.

And there was a teeny, tiny stick figure in your arms.

Above you was a big question mark. 

Before you could react to what you were seeing, you felt Marc’s eyes fixed on you from where he was working on the old chair. 

“I was thinking…maybe we could talk about adopting,” he softly supplied, pushing his hair out of his eyes as he slowly made his way over to you. “You-you don’t have to give me some sort of answer right now, but…I thought maybe…um - well, I’m sure a lot of kids need homes, and I would hate for a child of mine to have…”

“Yes,” you instantly answered. “Yes, I want kids with you. Any way you want them, we can talk about it.” You reached out to caress his cheek as he scooted over close to you on the couch. “We can figure out how, but yes. Definitely yes.”

“Really?” He breathed, sighing in relief. “Oh god. I was really hoping you wouldn’t mistake that baby for a dog.”

You burst out laughing, throwing your arms around your husband - the love of your life - your superhero.

END

Read the standalone sequel Still With You

Thank you all for making my first Moon Knight story and my first tumblr-posted story such a sweet and wonderful experience! Hugs and high fives all around! Stay tuned for my next MK fic, dropping Sept. 1st!

*bear in mind, this was a gn!reader, so Marc presents adoption as one of several family-starting options

@apollo-enthusiast

@i-still-dont-like-your-face @wordacadabra @lilacspider @imonmykneessir @saints-and-sinners

@steven-grants-world @thewinterv @aquaarietes @suddenlysteven @ohantonia

@deputy-videogamer @toecurlingstories @zephyrixx @juleshadalittlelamb @tsukkie-daisuke

@pockcock @minigirl87 @uncle-eggy@cookielovesbook-akie @wyldeflovver

@animechick555 @tiffanypooh @thexsanctuaryx @majestic-jazmin @rosecentaur1916

@deezisnotreal @serren-diamandis @alexxavicry

@stormydaysxx @laaundromat @kindlover @flyestvenustrap @spxctorsslxt

@stevenknightmarc @marvelouslovely-barnes @evilbubu @usualsworld @ssp3ctor

@rivalriotrenegade @this--is--music @avengersinitiative2012 @lockleywife @poppyflower-22

[woundedprincess]

Minęli się jak obcy,

Bez gestu i słowa,

Ona w drodze do sklepu,

On do samochodu.

Może w popłochu,

Albo roztargnieniu,

Albo niepamiętaniu,

Że przez tak krótki czas,

Kochali się na zawsze.