#but also i have no clue if i could ever handle someone loving me

[dogearedheart]

I think I'm too weak for love, I would simply combust. And while I am at it, you guys who are full of love and show it every day, you are the bravest people I know

[moonstruckme]

hihi mae!! in honor of the season, could i request reader convincing bodygaurd!james to carve pumpkins together. and it’s basically just him on the brink of cardiac arrest bc reader is using the biggest butcher knife possible, like an absolute menace, and he’s 100% convinced she’s gonna saw her fingers off lol. thx for considering ♡

Thank you lovely!!

bodyguard!James x fem!reader ♡ 814 words

James has half a mind to find you a plastic knife and let you make do with that. It might take you a while longer, yeah, but at least he wouldn’t have to feel every muscle in his body tense each time you stab the knife you’ve picked through your pumpkin. 

“I thought you were doing a cat,” he says, watching you push another piece out from what will be your pumpkin’s mouth. 

“I am.” 

“Why does it have fangs?” 

“It just felt like it should.” You shrug. “Sort of spookier that way, right? Maybe it’s a vampire cat.” 

“And here I thought it was going to be cute.” 

You smile at him. “No, Jamie. That’s yours.” 

With all his attention on making sure you don’t slash yourself, James has made pitifully little progress on his own pumpkin. He’s only managed to cut out the nose, but when he’s done it’s going to be a classic, smiling jack-o-lantern, except with hearts for eyes. You’d beamed and called it fitting when James told you his plan. He’s been ruminating over what you could have meant by that ever since. 

For his own project he’s using a small paring knife, mostly because he’d hoped you’d follow his example (what wishful thinking that was) but also because James doesn’t tend to do well with precision and he didn’t see a big knife helping matters. You, however, have selected what may be the largest knife he’s ever seen. He can’t comprehend what a beast that size would even be necessary for in a kitchen, much less for carving a pumpkin. Your unskilled grip on the handle makes the hairs on his arms stand on end. 

“I think we ought to find you a different tool,” he tries again. 

“James, you worry too much.” You roll your eyes, hardly looking as you shove your knife through the flesh of your pumpkin. He flinches. “This one is working fine.” 

“Right, I just feel like—” You do it again. James worries he’s developing an eye twitch. “—like possibly I’m not doing my job by letting you handle a weapon like that.”

“It’s not a weapon, it’s a kitchen knife.” 

Again, not a clue what in the kitchen could require a knife that large. 

“I think its capacity for injury is the same regardless, angel. Let me have it, please? That way I can keep working here and you can keep all of your fingers.” 

“You need to chill out,” you say, unnervingly serene for someone who seems to James on the precipice of life-changing injury. “This knife is the perfect size for how big I want my eyes to be. If I have to saw using another one, they won’t look as clean.” 

“Is that really worth risking your hand for?” 

“Yes. I want the triangles to look nice when I stick them onto the top as its ears.” 

“How are you going to do that?” 

“With toothpicks.” 

Right. A more moderate risk of injury, for sure, but James is now too high-strung to imagine anything other than disastrous outcomes between you and sharp objects. He imagines you skewering one of your lovely fingertips on a toothpick, the surprised look on your face when it happens. His own heart bursting straight out of his chest from overexertion. 

“Maybe I could do that part for you,” James suggests weakly. 

“Shit.” You’re looking into your hollow pumpkin. “The eye won’t come out.” 

“Let me try.” 

“No, I’ve got it.” 

Before he can stop you, you’re sticking your knife inside your pumpkin. It comes spearing out the other side a moment later, the triangle of one eye impaled on its tip. James chokes on a gasp as you stop it within inches of your abdomen. 

“There,” you say satisfiedly. 

James makes a strangled sound. “No,” he says, seizing your wrist and carefully removing the knife from your hand. “No, I can’t do it. We’re swapping.” 

“What?” You look at him with wide, wounded eyes. It’s adorable, compelling even, but James won’t allow himself to budge. “But your knife is so lame.” 

James guffaws. He feels half delirious. This is it, he thinks. His love for you has finally driven him insane. 

“It’s not lame.” 

You pout. “It’s tiny.” 

“Sweetheart.” James sets the knife down to hold your face in both hands. You go still with surprise. “If you stab yourself with your giant knife, I won’t be around to get fired. I’ll die of heartbreak. Do you understand?” 

You roll your eyes at him, but you’re softening. “You really like my hands that much?” 

“I like all of you. In tact. You’re perfect as you are.” 

“Fine, whatever.” You pull your face from his grasp, picking up the smaller knife. “I know you secretly just wanted to be the one with the bigger knife, though.” 

“Yeah, you’ve caught me. Can’t get anything past you.”

[imamuzansimp-oldblog-seoseoya]

Hi, may I make a hc request on the uppermoons + Muzan reacting to their human s/o getting her period and BAD cramps & how they would comfort her (if they’d even do it lmao😭) yk.. since blood = food, but they still love their s/o

Uppermoons + Muzan reacting to Fem!S/O with bad period cramps

content warnings: fluff, suggestive, manga spoilers, periods, mentions of blood and cramps, cuddles

word count: ~700

a/n: eeeeeeee!!!!! my first proper request! i’m so excited! i hope you don’t mind i only did the first three uppermoons + muzan for now, but i’ll come back to the others another time.

a/n 2: this is a tad bit rushed since i wrote this right before going to sleep

Muzan

okay but he lowkey has no clue what’s happening

even though he’s had multiple wives in the past, he was never really there. thus, he had no clue what to do

at first he just kinda stood there like 🕴️

but then he realized he should probably do something so he asked you what you needed

“my dear, what do you require?” he’d say. “it hurts…” you whine. your period had recently started and the cramps hurt like hell. “what hurts, did someone bring harm to you? whoever did shall die where they stand!” and you momentarily panic because nobody had hurt you. “no! zannie, nobody hurt me! don’t worry! it’s just my period!” you yelped, worried for the poor soul that narrowly might’ve escaped muzan’s wrath. “your…. period?” it’s rare that muzan appears bewildered, so this is a sight. “yea… basically for about a week every month, women have their periods. basically, it’s a time where we bleed out of our vagina and unfortunately it comes with way. too. many. cramps. there’s also other things like cravings and mood swings.” you explained. you noticed muzan started to get a hungry look in his eye. he had thought he’d smelled blood, but knowing it was from you and not because you were injured, he was resisting the urge to devour it that instant. “are you currently in pain due to cramps?” he asked, ever so politely. you nodded, it hurt like nothing else. “heat usually helps…” you muttered. muzan began to approach you. he snapped, and in just seconds the strum of a biwa was heard and a warm blanket and cup of tea appeared before you. muzan then proceeded to cuddle closer to you in the bed, and before you knew it, he was drinking your menstrual blood as he held your blanket covered waist. thank goodness the tea didn’t spill.

(i sorta got carried away)

Kokushibo

since he had a wife and kid (that he cared for) back when he was human, he knows how to handle it.

the second he smells blood he knows what’s happening and he enters your room with ice cream, mochi, tea, etc. and a pack that has been heated by the sun

he can control himself around your blood, especially because i believe the thought of drinking your blood would disgust him

“koku….” you said weakly as you watched him walk in the room. “my dear…” all six of his eyes softened when he laid eyes on you. “how’d you know?” you asked. “i’m a demon and your lover,  i could sense it.” he rested the heated pack on your crotch and gave you the sweets before he cuddled close. soon enough the cramps faded as your eyes dropped and you fell asleep in kokushibo’s arms.

(omg that was so short compared to muzan’s i’m sorry)

dōma

knows about periods. this is a fact.

drinks your blood. another fact.

nothing else to say except this:

dōma walked in seeing you curled up in a ball on your bed. he chuckled and said in his will-bending voice: “you poor little thing, you’re on your period aren’t you darling?” and you just laid there in pain and whimpered a ‘yes’. he walked closer to you, before putting a comforting hand to your cheek. “well, baby, did you know that stimulation can help with cramps?” he worded a question, though your answer wouldn’t change his imminent actions. “s-stimulation?” you looked up at him.  “oh, baby, you know what I mean…”

akaza

another guy who knows what it is

so respectful and he doesn’t eat women so obviously he doesn’t drink your blood

he just lets you curl up into him as he rubs your tummy 🥹

i’m sorry but akaza got me like 🧎‍♀️

“kaza…” you whimpered as best you could. “‘t hurts” you whined. your boyfriend stepped into the room. wordlessly, he approached you and got under the blankets. the first word he spoke occurred once he latched on as the big spoon with his big hands rubbing your stomach gently. “baby… don’t worry… i’ll always keep you from pain…” you leaned into his touch and stayed like that for the rest of the evening.

[thegoldencontracts]

ONE OF MY TWST OCS IS A TOTAL TSUNDERE WHAT THE HELL

Make twst tsundere content, I DARE you(I'd say I'd match you with content of my own, however it is drama and science finals week and I'd rather not burn myself out on more than one front bc my english final is next week. So I will not guarantee that lmao BUT STILL THAT SOUNDS AWESOME MAKE THAT CONTENT I WILL EAT IT UP)

- thoughtlessdesires

THANK YOU SOMEONE ELSE WHO UNDERSTANDSSSSS

Hello, you there, yes, YOU 🫵 can help make tsundere twst by uhh... idek man it's tsundere twst,,, it's cuteee i swearrr imagine THIS:

I-It's Not Like I Like You!

Summary: The Housewardens deal with their affection in the oddest of ways.

Notes: This is a taste of what we can make possible GUYS tsundere!twst is cute and it's not ridiculously ooc or smth like that i SWEAR- Also the last sentence in Azul's part is literally ripped straight from the third part of his dorm vignette (the tsundere potential of this man is so understated guys PLEASE let me yap here I have a point-)

Night Raven College; a place of raw meritocracy. Sentiment is rarely found, and affection is often mocked. Logic and strength are meant to take priority, and discord between students is common.

So what happens where these students find someone who treats them with kindness, understanding.

...Completely flounder, of course.

The housewardens, during one of their meetings, even discussed the dearest Ramshackle Prefect, so odd, so understanding. Kalim had brought the topic up, of course.

"...Why's this important?" Leona had said, a bored look on his face.

"I-Indeed," Riddle said. "The Prefect isn't particularly relevant to our current topic of discussion, regardless of accomplishments."

Azul sighed in his typical, overdramatic manner of his.

"How cold!" he said. "Kalim was merely doing his duty to discuss the needs of all students, regardless of how-"

His nose wrinkled.

"Talentless."

"Well, the Prefect's not that bad." A lukewarm praise. Even Kalim wasn't speaking highly of the Prefect? Just what was going on here?

"A total normie," Idia had said.

"It's true, the potato could use some work," Vil said,

Wow. These housewardens sure did hate you, didn't they?

Wrong! At that moment, all of the, were lying! They liked you. And no one in that room had any clue how to deal with it.

Riddle hasn't ever really got to experience relationships due to the stifling pressure of his mother. Thus, he has absolutely no clue how to handle the sudden affection for you he feels. He'd often stop by Ramshackle to help you with your homework. Just because you happened to need it way more than the others, of course. N-No ulterior motives here. What do you mean 'his face is red'? You're just imagining things!

Leona's always been treated like a cold, uncaring individual, and that's what he's used to. That leaves him completely flabbergasted when you suddenly start making him lovesick. He happens to "accidentally" drop money and the like while you were near. Not that he wants to help you, of course! He just doesn't really care about the money that much. Why're you looking at him like that? He's not that kind of sap!

Azul's childhood's left him used to rejection. After so long of being mocked for any desire of love and companionship, he's shunned it. Love's just business to him, an easily exploitable emotion. So he'll never be able to admit it now that he's the exploitable one. He gives you stuff... for free? Since when did he do that? Ask him about it and he insists he's just doing it for business' sake. What kind of business? Is he sure he doesn't just like you? W-What sort of foolish questions are those? Do you honestly think him capable of such an illogical sentiment as "attachment"?

Kalim, of course, isn't immune. Even he doesn't understand this. Someone actively returning his kindness? He's absolutely in love, and he doesn't know how to handle it. Although he won't be quite as abrasive as the others, he'll definitely struggle to admit his feelings. He might actually be less nice to you than to others. Not in a rude way, of course, he's just a bit quiet because he's always so flustered around you! Can you blame him?

Vil, too, despite his normal mentality of being candid and mature, struggles to handle his affection. He'll buy you skincare and the like. B-But, he'd do this for anyone, of course. There's nothing particularly special about the way he feels for you! Once again, though he isn't particularly defensive, he'll definitely struggle to admit his feelings, and it causes him boatloads of internal conflict. Why's he being so immature all of a sudden?

Idia doesn't get you. Why'd some normie suddenly have to start talking to him? J-Jeez, it's not like he enjoys your company or anything! Idia can vaguely recognize the word 'tsundere' in his head as he mulls over his interactions with you, but he denies it. Denying his feelings? U-Uh, what feelings?

"Looks like you have some competition, huh?"

"What competition, Lilia?" Malleus's face twisted in displeasure. "The Child Of Man- they're merely a friend."

Malleus doesn't know how to feel. He's never really had these sorts of close relationships before, so when his heart pounds around you and sparks seem to fly, he has no clue what to do. He's so deep in denial, partially due to his obliviousness when it comes to matters of sentiment and partially due to how he's used to being intimidating, and blushing like a schoolgirl around one's crush is the opposite of intimidating.

[mochinomnoms]

Riddle + Yuu’s telepathy for an hour+ Floyd next to him= Why is Riddle looking like he is about to have another Ob?

He now know Floyd is into him, more wild if Floyd has the same 18+ thoughts as Jade. Riddle’s hair is becoming white and his cheeks go as red as his hair because Floyd is also thinking of the most domestic scenarios with him.

He can’t catch a fucking break.

Worse if Yuu and Jade are there. Holy fuck Riddle will die.

When you begged Riddle to let you test your new power and transfer your telepathy over for just a class period, he was just trying to be a good friend.

And he was mildly curious how your mind reading powers worked. He was under the assumption that you had to choose a specific person and listen into their thoughts for it to work. Which made your predicament with Jade all the more humorous to him. If you were so bothered by it all, then why did you listen in?

My cute little Riddle~ Aaaah, you're so bright. So red. I love your red hair, your red cheeks when your mad. Should I call you Goldfishie again? To piss you off? So you can yell at me with those pretty gray eyes and voice? Aha, maybe I should~

I think I should beg for the Prefect's forgiveness after this. I am so, so sorry. I didn't realize how bad it was.

Riddle had no clue how you handled the influx of noise, color, and feeling bashing into your head all day. It was like having a horn ringing straight into his ear while a truck's headlights flashed right in his eyes.

Even worse than that? He could make out the singular, most irritating noise, louder than the rest.

My little goldfish, my little tyrant, my little Riddle~

The bane of his existence. The enforcer of Octavinelle. Currently, the third-tallest student at Night Raven College.

"Uh, Riddle?"

Riddle took a deep breath, closing his eyes and turning towards Silver with a polite smile.

"Yes, Silver?"

Silver opened his mouth, closed it again as he paused, and opened it again.

"Are you alright?"

Cute little goldfish~ So bright and red~

"Yes." Riddle ignored the heat pooling under his face. "Why do you ask?"

"You're incredibly red right now. I think even your hair looks pink compared to your face."

Riddle made a strangled sounding noise as he buried his head into his arms and hid against the desk.

"Riddle?" Silver sounded concerned, and Riddle could sense his hands hovering over him, like he wasn't sure if Riddle needed a pat on the back, or to be left alone.

"I'm fine, I just need a moment—"

"Little Goldfishie~"

Riddle bolted up, his head nearly smacking against Floyd's chin based on the way the teal-haired man felt backwards.

"Wow! Cool it Goldfishie!" Aw, he's so cute! "Just tryin' to say hi~"

The image of himself in Floyd's arms and lap, nuzzled up against each other as the other contentedly played with his hands flashed in his head.

My goldfishie! My little red tyrant! My Riddle! Mine, mine mineminemineminemine—

"NO I'M NOT!"

The room went silent, everyone looking over at the group of three. Noticing that Riddle and Floyd were interacting, everyone shrugged and resumed their conversations after a moment.

"Uh, what?" Floyd looked and sounded confused. Now that Riddle was paying attention to him though, he could make out a soft look in his eye.

Aw, are you red 'cause you're sick? Is my mean little mate sick?

Mate? Mate?! MATE! OH GODS NO!

Do I gotta take you to the nurse? I can do it! Anything for my future mate! Aha~ I love my mate, I'll take such good care of you.

Riddle was met with another image of Floyd and himself in another...sweet scenario. One where Floyd was watching him sleep in with one of the most tender looks Riddle had ever imagined on Floyd's face. As he slept, Floyd played with the coral colored ring on his left ring finger.

"Nothing! It's nothing! I'm fine!" Riddle scrambled out of his chair, face still warm and his stomach nauseous.

"I think I'm just feeling a bit feverish, I think I will step out for a bit—"

"You want someone to take ya to the nurse?" Floyd asked, while Silver nodded along. "I can take ya, come on Lil' Goldfishie—"

"I DON'T NEED AN ESCORT!" Riddle shut his mouth as soon as he opened it, some of the other students giving him a look for his volume.

Aw what, come on! Floyd frowned, though it breifly was hidden by one of Floyd's lazy smiles as he shrugged.

"Whatever you say~" Floyd cooed, his eyes following Riddle as he rushed out of the classroom. Riddle could feel his entire body heating up, like Floyd knew that he knew.

Once he was out of the classroom, he near bolted to the nearest bathroom. Locking the door behind him, Riddle turned to look at himself in the mirror.

He was indeed his characteristic shade of red. Instead of his usual angry expression, though, was one of fluster and breathlessness.

Riddle let out a small, high-pitched whimper as he turned for the faucet for some cold water, splashing it on his face. He looked up at the mirror again, cheeks still bright red, and let out a whine.

I will never make light of you again, Prefect, I promise.

[twitchmattentusiast]

do you think matt’s a boy or girl dad

hear me out. he’s both.

when you guys were a year into the relationship, matt realised you hadn’t spoken about kids, and well, considering he really wanted them in the future, he brought it up one night. 

you were cuddled to his side, half asleep but refusing to give into the sleep because you were debriefing how your date went with your hometown best friends.

matt watched you nervously. he had been quiet all day. well, quieter than usual, that is. you had asked him all day what was wrong, but he brushed it off, saying it was nothing; he was just tired, but it wasn’t nothing. the question had been playing on his mind all day and it mattered to him, and that? that scared him.

he had been practicing how he was going to ask you all day. had it all planned out, but since it was 3 in the morning and he was fighting back sleep, it kind of just slipped from his mouth. 

“d’ you want kids?”

you froze, and matt's eyes widened, realising he let it slip. he was not supposed to ask like that. “sorry i-“

his heart dropped as you moved off his chest. you were looking straight in his eyes, and he was so sure that in that moment you’d laugh at him. tell him you didn’t even love him and break up with him.

hey, matt had always been an overthinker.

but instead you leaned forward and pressed your hands to his cheeks, cupping his face with the biggest grin he’d ever seen on your face. “are you freaking crazy? obviously, i want kids.”

he let out a sigh of relief, and you guys ended up having sex. what? the topic of kids made you both horny. 

after what might have been three rounds of the hottest sex you two had ever had. you laid back on his chest, and his hands brushed your hair softly.

“i think i want three.” you said, “no four! wait-“

matt chuckled and pressed a soft kiss to your hair. "think i want three too.” matt smiled. “want some boys and girls, you know a little mixture?”

you nodded your head in agreement. you came from a family of all girls, so you knew how difficult it was to deal with females, but you desperately wanted a daughter. at least one. a little girl you could go on nail trips to the salon with. stay up late at night gossiping, doing her hair. helping her with all of her firsts, she would be too embarrassed to go to her dad, for although matt would try his hardest to help even if his browser history looked a little silly and he wandered through the cosmetics section looking completely lost as he stared at all the pads and tampons trying to find the right ones you had sent him a picture of.

some teenager would probably see him looking all lost and would help him, and he'd thank her endlessly, ranting about how he has no clue what he's doing and he's sure his daughter might be dying. when he comes back home and tells you. you and your daughter make fun of him, though your daughter gives him a hug for being the best dad ever, which he is.

he’d playfully roll his eyes and call her corny, though he's fighting back the biggest smile.

you could picture matt doing all of that. he was so soft, so full of love, he was born to be a girl dad.

but matt came from a family full of boys. With three brothers, males was kind of all he knew. you knew he’d be over the moon having a daughter, but you could also picture him with some sons. probably two, maybe three. enough that matt could pretend to be the goalie while they played football, basketball, or some kind of sport.

when they got older, he’d tell them the only reason he wanted sons in the first place was so he had someone to play video games with, and his sons would get offended, but you’d laugh knowing that was half the truth.

matt would help them with all their firsts because although your sons are major mommy’s boys, he gets so offended at the idea that they’ll come to you for male-related things, so he’ll literally shuffle you out of the room because he can handle it himself. you roll your eyes and tell your sons to just go with it because it means a lot to matt. 

"I want a mix too,” you say, fighting back a smile because you can picture it. matt being the best dad ever to however many sons or daughters you guys have.

matt chuckles and pulls you in for a soft kiss you guys not sleeping because your on such a high talking about it you giggle about what your kids will be like.

two years later, after a year of deciding to wait and then a year of major trial and error. your pregnant with twins. 

you're lying on the bed, matt's hand tightly in yours as you stare at the nurse. excitement in both of your eyes.

“It’s a boy and a girl.” she tells you, and you and your boyfriend turn to look at each other with major excitement.

your not surprised when matt pulls his phone out to call his brothers a second later. “it’s a boy and a fucking girl, guys!” his brows furrowed. “justin, i already told you it was twins. keep up, man, what the fuck?”

he moves his phone away from his ear. rolling his eyes as he tells you. "kid doesn't even remember i told him we're having twins. fake as fuck uncle."

you just laugh, and chris, nick, and justin’s faces light up. "is that y/n?" snd before you know it, the five of you are talking about the fact that there's going to be a mini y/n and matt running around.

[harrywavycurly]

Fake Husband Eddie Part 2: Meeting Someone?

Part 1: here

Part 3: here

Tag List: @alana4610 @fluentmoviequoter @alicentswife @vivalasv3gan @goth-cowgirl-03 @yujyujj @slowgabinaburninroom @zaddyskye69

TW: Cursing and drinking

A/N: Before you all come for me don’t worry there is a part 3 and it’s the final part of this little trilogy lol also idk why I added in Frank and the Hideout backstory it was just something that was sitting in the back of my mind and it fit. Anywayyyy enjoy!!✨

You smooth out the front of your shirt as you sit down on one of the worn out barstools at the back of the Hideout. It’s been exactly a week since you met Eddie and it only felt right that the two of you have your first official date at the bar you met at. Over the span of a week you two have gotten to know each other quite well, you learned that Eddie would much rather FaceTime you than text you because he likes to hear your voice, especially your laugh he loves how it sounds even through the phone. You also learned that he loves his job, he works at the garage in town and he’s always got his head under someone’s hood fixing a transmission or tinkering with a stubborn fuel line.

Eddie has learned things about you as well, he knows that you like to read before bed and he doesn’t know why but it shocked him a bit to learn the two of you have a few books in common on your bookshelves. He notices things like how you try to hide your face when you’re smiling and he just assumes that’s something you’ve always done but he’s made a mental note to try to remind you how pretty you are when you smile because it’s really one of his favorite things to see. You go on little rants about things that have bothered you during the day and he loves how passionate you get because your arms go everywhere and you also always end it with “you know what I mean?” and even if he has no clue he can’t help but smile and just nod and reassure you that yes he knows what you mean.

The two of you have grown close over the past several days and you’ve started to develop a rather large crush on the long haired metal head. Luckily for you though Eddie made his feelings known the night he drove you home from the hideout.

“You know what?” You turn your head and look at Eddie who’s smiling at you as he watches you reach for the handle of the passenger side door of his van.

“What?” Eddie leans over his middle console so he can tuck a few stay hairs behind your ear making you blush as you feel his hand brush against your cheek.

“I think I like you.” You raise an eyebrow at him as you playfully glare at him making him laugh.

“You think?” You tease as Eddie reaches for your hand that has his skull ring on it, you smile as you watch him twirl it around your finger since it’s a little too big for you but you like how it feels so you haven’t taken it off.

“Sorry sweetheart.” He looks up at you as you find yourself leaning into him. “I know I like you.” He adds right before he places a kiss to your lips making you smile as he pulls away.

The sound of a glass being set down in front of you jolts you out of your daydream as you blink a few times before looking around to see if Eddie has shown up yet. You look at your phone and see it’s only ten minutes past six, the time you both agreed to meet so you just brush it off to him being a little late and look up to see the bartender cleaning a few glasses in front of you.

“What can I get ya?” Frank the bartender and half owner of the Hideout asks as he gives you a smile. “I make a mean martini.” He jokes as he shoots you a playful wink making you laugh.

“Uh I’ll just have a vodka tonic please.” He nods and starts making your drink. “Have you worked here a while?” You ask trying to make small talk to help the time pass before Eddie shows up and this is only the second time you’ve ever been here so might as well get to know the bartenders.

“You could say that.” Frank answers as he slides your drink in front of you. “I’m Frank and I may not look it but I’m one of the Hideout's original customers.” You just nod your head encouraging him to continue as you take a sip of your drink, Frank is an older gentleman with long gray hair he has tucked into a low pony on the back of his neck and a few tattoos scattered around his forearms that are only visible because he has his flannel rolled up to his elbows. “I helped them name this place because we used to meet here back in the day when it wasn’t actually a bar, to hideout from people we didn’t want to see or nagging wives we were avoiding so when they wanted to turn it into a bar I said why not just call it the Hideout?” Frank explained and you couldn’t help but giggle at the mention of avoiding nagging wives.

“It’s a great name.” You watch him smile as he looks around the bar to see if anyone needs anything.

“Meeting someone?” Frank asks as he glances down at the giant skull ring on your ring finger.

“Uh yeah.” You’re not sure how to answer his question so you just go with your gut. “My husband actually.” Frank just smiles and nods as he goes back to cleaning glasses as you slowly sip on your drink as you anxiously look at your phone again and let out a sigh when you see it’s now six thirty.

Eddie is elbows deep in a minivan’s engine that is just refusing to let him get his fingers in the correct place to install a new part. He lets out a frustrated groan as he takes a step back from the van and places his grease covered hands on his hips and closes his eyes and looks up towards the ceiling of the garage. He wonders for a moment what you’re going to wear on your date with him tonight, he’s had tonight circled on his calendar all week and he’d be lying if he didn’t say he even added little hearts to it and everything.

“Why do all minivans have to be so damn stubborn?” He mumbles as he opens his eyes and takes a step closer to the van. “I’m just trying to help you.” He explains as he uses his wrist to wipe some sweat off his brow, as he drops it back down to his side he feels his whole world begin to move in slow motion when he catches the time on his watch. “Oh fuck fuck fuck.” He drops the wrench in his left hand and heads for the break room of the garage.

“Eddie?” Greg the parts guy asks as Eddie rushes past him so he can grab his stuff from his locker.

“I’m late!” Eddie shouts over his shoulder as he heads for the door. He quickly jumps into his van and starts the engine as he digs around in his bag for his phone. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding.” He groans when he sees his phone is on 10% battery because he forgot to put it on the charger after falling asleep on FaceTime with you last night. He looks at the clock and silently prays to whoever it is that might be listening to let you still be waiting for him even though it’s well after eight at night and he was supposed to meet you at six.

“Shit shit.” He presses your name in his phone and it rings once before his whole screen goes black meaning his phone is dead. “Fuck!” Eddie feels like his heart is in his stomach as he pulls out of the parking lot of his work and heads straight for the Hideout.

He doesn’t look for your car in the bar’s parking lot because he knows you planned to get dropped off so he could just take you home. He not so gently snatches his keys from the ignition after putting it in park and slams his door closed as he exits the van. He ignores the looks he’s getting form the men outside smoking as he rushes into the bar, he’s sure he looks like he’s lost with his work overalls on tied around his waist and his hair in a messy bun and grease stains everywhere. Frank turns when he hears the door open and he raises an eyebrow at Eddie when he lets out a sigh at all the empty seats in the back of the bar, exactly where you told him you’d be so he could meet you.

“Looking for your wife?” Eddie looks at the bartender and nods his head because you’d been jokingly calling yourself his wife all week so of course you’d tell the bartender you were waiting for your husband. Frank tosses something at Eddie and when he catches it and sees what it is he feels his heart break a bit. “Left about an hour ago.” He adds as Eddie stares at the skull ring that’s sitting in the palm of his hand.

“Oh no.” And with that Eddie turns on his heels and runs straight back out to the parking lot towards his van because no way is he letting him being an idiot be the reason you two end things.

[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

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

@i-have-no-life-charlie

[themorriganwitch]

The Au Pair Diaries Part 1 | Jake Seresin x Reader

Summary: Jake Seresin was in desperate need for an au pair for his twin girls. What he did not expect was to fall in love with the 23 year old girl who is absolutely forbidden but now lives next to his bedroom.

Words: 2,6k

Pairings: Jake Seresin x Reader

A/N: This is the first part of my upcoming series about Jake and his Au Pair. This Series will contain 18+ content, so MDNI. Please be aware that English is not my firs language, so there will be mistakes. Feedback and Rebloggs are always dearly appreciated.

___________________________________________________________

“You can do this”, you mutter to yourself. “Everything will be alright. You just have to ring the doorbell and beg on your knees that he will give you the job. And if this won’t work you could use your position on your knees to suck him mind-blowingly good, so he will give you the job regardless”. 

Yeah, that won’t work. Not just because you have absolutely no clue about giving a mind-blowing blow job, but also because your meeting with Lieutenant Jake Seresin was in exactly 4 minutes and 32 seconds and if you won’t stop running up and down the sidewalk in front of his pretty beach house, you would still be running out here next week instead of taking  your very last chance to not fuck everything up you had worked the last 3 years of your life for.

As you make your way down the Seresin driveway, you try to calm your nerves. 

You absolutely hated the fact that you had be here alone, but since your chaperon, Lily, had called you this morning and told you that she sadly won’t make it to the interview, you had no choice but to go through this on your own. 

You know you should not be mad at her; you were very well aware of the fact that you can’t control when your kids get sick, but after the disaster with your last host family you just wished you had someone to hold your hand and tell you everything will be alright. 

Welcome to adulthood, you guess, where you have to handle any hardships of life alone. 

As you were now eye to eye with the nice white front door of your hopefully soon-to be home, you took a last breath and prayed for a tiny wonder as your finger push the doorbell on your right. 

It only took a couple of seconds until you were hearing footsteps approaching  on the other side of the door and soon you were staring into a beautiful pair of green eyes. 

“Hey, how can I help you?”, the man in front of you asks.

You open your mouth to answer but holy hell if this has not been the most handsome man you have ever seen in your life.

Tall, broad shoulders, perfectly styled blonde hair and a face as gorgeous as it was chiseled by Michelangelo himself.

You were honestly to stunned to speak. 

“Are you okay?”, he asks, a cocky smile forming on his kissable looking lips, like he knows exactly why you were not answering right now. 

You clear you throat, trying to not embarrass yourself any further.

 “Hi, I am y/n. I am here for the au pair interview”, you smile the kindest smile you have to offer. 

Now it was his turn to clear his throat. “Yeah sure, thought you were coming with your chaperon”, it wasn’t a real question, but you answer nevertheless, trying to ban all of the uneasiness caused by your starring scene. 

“Her son got sick, so it’s just all me”.

“Oh. Huh. Do you want to come inside?”.

You nod, following him inside his home where he directs the both of you into his kitchen. 

“My daughters are currently in their room”, he informs you while subtly directing you to take place on a chair in front of the counter. “Thought it would be better if the both of us talk first, before you are meeting them”. 

“Sure”, you agree, looking up to him, waiting that he might ask you a question or anything. Instead of talking to you, you caught him eyeing you from head to toes, similar the way you did at his doorstep. 

Unbeknownst to you, Jake Seresin knew that you were going to be the death to him as soon as he opened the door. 

Your green tank top that fitted you just right, the denim shorts that were not short enough to be called slutty but sat just tight enough that he knew that if he would have seen your backside, he’d had to fight the urge to bend you over the counter and spank your ass for teasing him like this. 

After you fully consented to this, of course. 

And now you were looking up to him with big eyes and pouty lips, and for a second, he questions how you would look with tears streaming out of those gorgeous eyes, your pretty mouth stuffed full of his cock, while he praises you for taking him so well. 

Damn it, Hangman, he tells himself. Get a hold of yourself. She is here to work with your daughters and live with you for fucks sake. You are in desperate need of her help, don’t let your cock fuck this up. 

“So, you already had a host family before?”, he asks you after a moment of silence while he crosses his arms in front of his chest.

Your mouth went dry. Holy Moly, that’s a huge biceps. 

“Yes”, you clear your throat. “But I have only been there for six weeks. It did not go very well, so the agency suggested me to leave”. 

Jake nods: “So how many months do you have left then, for your stay?”

“A bit more than 10”.

Jake nods again.

“I read your profile. You seem to be very qualified. You are 23 and studying back home to become a primary school teacher, which makes you a bit older than most of the profiles I went through. But I would like to hear a bit more of your personality. What are your hobbies back home or how are you planning to spend the time with my kids?”, he looks at you attentively.

You thought about his question for a second, before you answer it truthfully, enumerating most of your hobbies as well as all the free time activates for his girls you thought about, after Lily had told you about their profile. 

The interview goes on, as he asks you everything he comes up with at the moment. 

After he finished, he continues by telling you what he was expecting from you. 

“The girls are at school from 9 to 3, since I must be on base at 7, it would be your job to get them ready, pack breakfast and Lunch and drive them to school. 

After you come back, it would be nice if you could tidy up a bit, nothing wild though. Just like starting the dishwasher and packing the girls’ toys away. I can take care of my stuff, so you won’t have to bother with that. Until the girls are done with school you would then have been time to do anything you like.

Around 3, you would have to pick them up again and then either bring them to their after-school activities or come home and do whatever you come up with to keep them entertained. I’ll be back home around 5, so you won’t have to deal with dinner except for the cases where I’ll be late, which sadly will occur more often than not”. 

“Sounds pretty doable to me”, you say, figuring out that he will tell you the details of his daughters afternoon activities and anything else as soon as he decides if you are going to match. 

Even though you felt like your interview went pretty good until now, you could feel some kind of resistance on his side. You swallow. Lily made you well aware of the fact that Jake Seresins family was the only one who were looking for someone that matches your profile right now, if he declines you as his au pair, the agency would have no choice but to send you back home and all the money you worked your ass up for, to pay the agency. would be flushed down the toilet. 

Something you won’t let happen.

You could not know that the reason for the aviators resistsance towards you was coming from his unexplainable, but primal urge to dick you down. 

“Please, Lieutenant Seresin”, you say but he interrupts you, his jaw clenches while a shiver went down his spine as you use his rank. 

“You can call me Jake, kid.  No need for calling me Lieutenant or God forbid, Mr. Seresin”.

“Fine, Jake”, you start again exaggerating his first name, trying to gain some plus points. 

“I will be the best Au Pair you could ask for; I promise. I am extremely tidy, my food tastes good and I will never complain about working a bit longer on the weekends, when you have to stay on base a little longer or want to out with your friends”.

You look at him with your best pleading eyes. 

Jake sighs, rubbing his forehead as he feels a migraine approaching. This shit was tiring, he went through so many Au pairs, reading their online profiles and spending hours with skype interviews but all of them just weren’t it for him. 

And now you were sitting in his kitchen, hair in a messy bun, the fabric of your green tank top thin enough, that he could see your nipples perking through.

He groans inwardly. The last thing he could do is making such an important decision because his dick told him so, but as he looks into your desperate but yet hopeful eyes, he just could not say no to you.

“Fine, we can try this”, the blonde man announces. “But you will have to meet the girls first and if I have the feeling that the three of you will work out when I’m gone, you can move in, and I’ll talk to your agency”. 

“Oh my god, thank you so much”, you say, standing up from your chair and hugging him tight before you could really think about it. 

But as soon as you feel your hands on his hard, muscled back, you just realized what you were doing, and your hands were gone as fast as they had approached him.

“I’m sorry”, you state awkwardly, avoiding his gaze while panic arises inside you mind. 

Holy hell, not enough that he caught you eye fucking him in the very beginning but now he has to think you are encroaching too.

You already open your mouth again, a ton of excuses on the edge of your lips, as you make yourself ready to beg for his forgiveness, but Jake simply clears his throat, an amused glance in his green eyes as he nods his head towards the hallway.

 “Ready to meet the girls?” 

________________________________________

The Double Trouble, as their dad lovingly introduces his twin daughters to you, were two beautiful ocean-eyed girls at the age of 8.

Charlie, the older one, by exactly 2 and a half minutes as she tells you proudly, closes you into her heart forever as soon as you compliment all 13 Taylor Swift Poster that were hanging on her side of the room. 

“You like Taylor Swift?”, she asks you with doll eyes. 

“Oh, I love her”, you reply smiling. “My favorite Album is Reputation. Which is yours?” 

“Lover”, Charlie tells you, her long blond curls bouncing wildly as she hops up and down in excitement. “But I really love Fearless too. Daddy is also a huge fan”.

You turn your head back to the doorframe, where Jake was standing. “You are?”, you ask interested. He lifts his hands defensively: “All I ever said was that her Debut Album sounds okay, for country music”.

“Daddy, you told us not to lie”, Charlie says, the look in her green eyes was way too mischievous for a girl her age. “He loves singing to her with us in the car, he also has a special dance move he does when we- “.

“Charlotte Seresin, there is no need to tell everyone your dad’s secrets, alright?”, Jake reminds his daughter, who he knows inherited way too much of his cocky manner. 

“That’s why I sometimes call her ‘little devil’”. There was definitely no explanation needed where this nickname was coming from. You smile to yourself, already knowing that Charlie would be a handful.

“What about you, Izzy?”, you ask the other twin, who has been silent  for most of the time since you had entered the room. “Do you also like Taylor Swift?”.

She shakes her head. “Not really. I listen to her with Charlie and Daddy but not by myself”. You take a step closer to her bed, where she was sitting, before you kneel in front of her. 

“Well, what do you like to do when you are by yourself?”

She crooks her head slightly, the same blonde curls as her sisters framing her face. Where Charlie seems to be the outspoken and louder on, Izzy was quieter and more reserved. 

 “I like to read”, she then answers. 

“Really? Me too. I absolutely loved the Harry Potter books, when I was your age. Do you know them?

Her eyes light up as you mention the book that was currently laying on her nightstand. She takes it with her tiny hands and offers it to you. “I am reading book three”, she tells you, smiling shyly. 

“It is my favorite book from all of them”.

“It is a really good one”, you agree, reciprocating her smile. 

“Do you also like to read, Charlie?”, you look back to the other side of the room, where Charlie was sitting on her own bad. 

“Not really. Daddy also does not read”, you heard Jake sigh in the doorframe at her words. 

You chuckle to yourself, if Jake really lets you stay, you think, you will really have a great time with his daughters. 

The next couple of minutes you were talking to Izzy and Charlie about music and books and anything else each of them comes up with. Charlie was currently telling you about a particular beach day the twins had with their dad and some of his friends, when Jakes phone rings and he excuses himself out of the room to answer the call. 

_____________________________

“Is this the phone of Lieutenant Seresin?”, a voice asks.

“It is, yeah”, Jake answers, leaning his back on the hallway wall where he still gets a good view of you sitting in his twin’s bedroom. 

“My name is Lily. I am y/ns advisor in her au pair agency. I am calling to ask how the interview went?”

“Oh”, Jake stutters, thinking about a good answer. The interview went well, really well.

 And it seems like you were doing great with his daughters too, especially with Izzy. 

He knows his younger twin sometimes has a hard time with her bubbly sister, but as he could now hear her voice down the hallway how she tells you excitedly how he lost a match of Mario Kart to Bradshaw once  and then had to jump into the ocean, fully clothed, he feels his heart swelling with pure adoration for his daughter but also for you, pulling this side out of her so easily. 

“Lieutenant?”, he hears Lily asking. “Are you still there?”

“Yeah”, Jake clears his throat. “The Interview went well”.

And as soon as I stop thinking with my cock, I hope it also stays well, he thinks to himself.

“That’s great. After everything that went down with her old family, I was really rooting for you to be her new host family. So, do you think it will work out with the four of you?”

That’s the moment he hears you laughing whole heartly at something Charlie said to you and it was one of the purest sounds he had ever witness. 

Even though he did not know about it right know, his future self was thanking him with his entire being for the decision he was about to make, while his current one was sure that this would end in an absolute disaster.

Nevertheless, he answers Lilys question honestly. 

“Yeah, I think the four of us will work out pretty good”.

_________________________________________________________

Part 2 can be read here

[thatharringrovehoe]

I love 'stuck in a time loop' fics where the characters slowly fall in love with each other. But right now I'm thinking of Steve rushing downstairs wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and his left sock while someone pounds on his front door in the middle of the night. When he opens it, there stands none other than Billy Hargrove, sweaty and exhausted.

And carrying an axe.

Steve tries to close the door but Billy's already jammed his boot up against it, holding it open. Billy's voice is a croak in the otherwise eerily silent night.

"The first pet you ever had was a cat named Sampson. You found him in the alley behind Melvald's and hid him in your room for six weeks before your mom found out and gave him away while you were at school. You were eight."

Steve is sure there's smoke billowing out of his ears from how hard the gears are turning in his brain. But try as he might, he has absolutely zero fucking clue what to do with this information. Somewhere in the house an antique clock strikes midnight.

Billy flinches, grip creaking around the axe propped up on his shoulder.

Steve chooses his next words very carefully.

"While I'm really glad you and Tommy are swapping childhood stories about me, it's getting late-"

"-And you have a shift in the morning. Yeah. I know. I also know that in the past one hundred and fifteen days you've never once even made it till morning. So I'm here to keep you from becoming monster chow and then maybe my fucking life can go back to normal"

Billy's shouting by the end. Steve's heart thunders in his chest.

you've never once even made it till morning

monster chow

The image of a demon falling out of the Byer's ceiling in a cloud of plaster and rot bubbles up with a growing panic. Billy's tapping his fingers anxiously around the handle of his axe, eyes darting to the side every now and again like he expects something to be there. Steve swallows down a hysterical laugh with the thought that the best case scenario right now is Hargrove took some type of hallucinogenic drug and drove to Steve's house in the middle of the night with a weapon.

The worst case scenario...

An owl hoots in the darkness and Steve feels like he might vomit with the surge of adrenaline. A stray breeze rustles the branches of the forest around them.

What if it's a prank?

God please let it be a prank

"All my friends knew about Sampson. Hell, the lunch lady knew about him."

Billy's jaw tics. "Look, I'm trying to keep us both alive so would you just shut up and let me in? The last place I wanna die is bumfuck Indiana."

He moves to shoulder past but Steve doesn't let him through. From this close Steve could count all the freckles on Billy's nose, air tense as a piano wire. Billy stares back, gaze wild.

Desperate

And one hundred days is a long time to get to know a person.

"I'll let you in. But-!" Steve's hand shoots up to press back against Billy's chest as he attempts to shove past him. His heart beats like a hummingbird under Steve's palm. "You have to make me believe you."

Billy breathes a harsh sigh through his nose, leveling a glare at Steve. The axe thankfully does not lodge itself into any part of Steve's person. For now.

"What do you want from me Steve?"

A coyote howls in the distance. Guttural and wrong. Chills erupt down Steve's spine.

"Tell me something I've never told anyone. Something only I would know."

An expression Steve can't parse flashes across Billy's face. Whatever it is it looks painful. Sad, but not for himself. There's more rustling out in the woods. This time without a breeze.

"You're adopted"

It's like a punch to the sternum.

Steve lets him in.

.

[crusty-chronicles]

hiii! i hope im not bothering youu but i really like your airheaded s/o hcs and i was wondering if you could make one with urahara from bleach!

Yessss! I love this dopey science man with my whole heart!

BONUS AIRHEADED S/O HEADCANNONS: Kisuke (Bleach)

Absolutely enamored by you.

Everything you do is just so fascinating to him

One of the few brainiacs who absolutely doesn't mind you can't formulate a thought without hurting yourself

You lost a whole shipment of new candy?

Aww, it's okay. He can always order more, so don't be upset.

You damaged your Gigai?

Clearly it wasn't strong enough. He'll just have to make better ones. Thanks for letting him know.

You broke open the shop door because you lost your keys?

Baby sweetheart, you should've just called him. Maybe wear a key around your neck next time.

It isn't physically possible for Kisuke to be mad at you.

More than anything, he likes cooing at you when you make a mistake.

You're just too precious to him.

Loves testing out inventions on you because you're so resilient.

But he's always careful the chances of it actually hurting you are low. Mostly.

He's known you from way back since he was in the Soul Society

And even back then, he was completely smitten with you.

Requesting you be a part of The Department of Research and Development just so he can keep an eye on you.

He knows you tend to be accident prone.

He used to love explaining how some of his inventions worked while you sat and nodded along.

Having no clue what he was talking about, but were just happy to be there.

Kisuke realized he loved you when you followed him to the world of the living.

Not believing for a second he was testing out hollowfication on other soul reapers.

It made him feel all warm and fuzzy to know you had so much faith in him

And ever since then he's been trying and failing to court you.

About a century and he still can't tell if you're dating or not.

He's not gonna bring it up just in case you aren't.

I mean, he's taken you out on several dates.

That has to count for something right?

This man doesn't hesitate to baby you.

In fact, he overdoes it.

To the point where even you're like, 'No, I think I can handle it from here.'

"Do you want me to carry that box for you? It's got some glass and I would be DEVASTATED if you got a paper cut. Might even close the shop so you can recover 👉👈"

He's dead serious about it too

"I can carry it just fine, but thank you."

And he's pouting in the corner, sulking because you didn't want his help.

It's all for show though, so don't feel too bad.

Mostly to embarrass Jinta and Ururu

Maybe Ichigo if he's around.

Kisuke also has the most embarrassing and outlandish nicknames for you. Also for show.

Calls you: Sugar Bear, baby, pookie, shnookums, apple of my eye, ect.

But, in a serious atmosphere, in complete privacy, he'll call you love or angel.

Jealousy?

He'll make a big deal if you're giving someone else attention

Sighing dramatically or draping his arm over your shoulder. And once again, it's mostly for show.

But does Kisuke ever actually get jealous?

Not one bit.

You followed him from the Soul Society after all.

If that doesn't prove you love him then he doesn't know what does.

Yorichi loves your presence.

She thinks you're a great match for Kisuke because you're both so easy going.

That and you're about as strong as a captain.

Taking out an espada with a single punch.

If anything, she's the one telling him he better not break you're heart.

"You've got a great thing going on with them, don't ruin it."

"I DON'T EVEN KNOW IF WE'RE TOGETHER!"

"Then figure it out or else I'll take them."

MASTERLIST

[brucewaynehater101]

Hey just wanna ask about something:

Do you ever think that Tim would want to sacrifice himself bcs he thinks that the only way out of his problems is to do something for someone even though they never asked for it but he just wants to keep them safe from any disasters that befall on them.

Yet, his path is not to change but to save someone.

Unlike his brothers Tim probably still has that thought of losing someone he loves to die again. So he will be prepared for anything, like he prepared an armor/suit for every apocalyptic stuff happened, a base that have daily stuff so one of them can be safe and comfortable in that place whenever they need alone time or just wants to hang out, he would also prepare the strongest weapon he could make or find so that he could give it to them if he does die or he wants them to survive as long as they could and I think Tim will go ballistic if his love ones get injured in front of him but not that brutal bcs he can do anything especially backstabbing.

Tim also prepares some tasty information of every person even the people outside of Gotham so that he can identify and set a message to his teammates of the person whereabouts or current state.

But when someone does save him from something or someone he just says "thanks" yet his face looks disappointed bcs he thinks that he's not strong enough to save himself from his problems (which is kinda true Tim you need to go to therapy fr) and every time he got saved by someone he thinks that person probably felt pitiful for him but he doesn't tell them that probably thinking he would be a burden for voicing his opinions or thoughts.

Anyway, I just want your idea of self-sacrifice Tim Drake bcs I think it will be worthy of angst material.

Hello!!! Just to summarize, you stated that you see Tim as the type to go to great lengths for the safety of his loved ones while not accepting or feeling shame if that was reciprocal.

There are several traits for Tim that one can play around with: his selfless need to help, his self-sacrifical tendencies, his desire for independence, and his continued forgiveness.

People will hurt him, and he'll still go out of the way to ensure their safety. It's a trait about him to admire at the same time it makes me frustrated as hell.

Then, there is the chance that he feels that he isn't enough or isn't doing enough. He does compare himself to others and how they would handle the situation better than him. He uses this messed up logic to state that he isn't trying hard enough or doing well. Great angst to be had.

I find fics or AUs that highlight Tim's subtle/silent support as great ones. For some reason or another, Tim no longer provides the care and diligence he did behind the scenes. The batfam then realize just how much he was taking on.

There's a ton of fics that have the AU of Tim sacrificing his life for the Bats. Here's some other forms of sacrifice I think would really drive in that angst:

his childhood (if you go the "Bruce only treated him as a soldier/coworker" route)

memories (of the Bats or of his parents loving him)

his independence/freedom

his brain (his ability to think/put together clues)

his ability to feel love or happy

his last name (either Drake or Wayne)

his ability to fight

I personally like the AUs where he goes back in time and sacrifices his ability to be with the Waynes as a family (he saves all of them [or tries] and they don't even know him).

I'm down to talk about any of these more!!!

[ametrictonofaudacity]

Okay so consider!!!

Yandere platonic Geralt!! Generally very cool!! Very nice!! But if you fuck up you have to deal with (what you have dubbed) the get along cuff. Which is literally him just making you sleep next to him and tying your leg to his with a bit of leather cord. It’s thin so he can easily snap it if there’s a danger, but he’ll wake up if you move it.

Also Jaskier being completely fine and okay with this would be hilarious, I would love to see you write a scenerio!! (Idk why but I picture a modern reader, like one who got dropped in the Witcher from the modern world)

I love this ask!! I also love the trope of a modern character in a medieval setting, I think it was all the ‘Modern Girl IN Middle Earth’ fanfics I read (an actual tag on ao3) so I have a weakness for it!! Also Jaskier just going ‘eh’ is so funny to me.

Warnings: forced proximity, captivity, kidnapping, some level of being infantalized, being tied to another person as a form of being restrained, future Stockholm syndrome. Jaskier is complicit, up to you whether he is also a yandere or not. Also the fact Geralt can smell emotions

“You know this could be like, an actual danger?”

You try and reason your way out of your situation, like reason has ever worked on Geralt before. He ignores you, mostly, concentrating on tying the knot around your wrist in a manner that you cannot undo the knot but it also didn’t cut off your circulation. He slips a finger under the cord, testing the knot and the cords strength, and you hear him make a satisfied rumble. You were still getting used to that, to the various sounds the Witcher made to express emotion.

“No it’s not. The cord’s thin, and if I have to fight I can snap it easily. Plus this area doesn’t normally have monsters, not this time of year.”

He stands, towering over you from you spot on the ground, near the fire, and you tilt your face up. The yellow light throws his features into a harsh countenance, makes his face all angles and scars, golden eyes reflecting the light the way a predators would as he glared down at you, scowling. You tighten your fingers in the wool cloak he had given you, so long ago, the fibers catching in your nails.

He must see something in your gaze, or maybe it’s the way you know you probably reek of anxiety right now, but his stance softens, the scowl melting away into something softer, not a smile because you knew he was still very, very upset with you, but not a harsh frown that made you feel small and stupid and like all the things he thought about you were true.

He crouches, making himself smaller next to you, and you feel your shoulders start to unwind. It was strange, being around someone who was so perceptive to your emotions, but seemingly had no clue how to address or handle them, beyond his own instincts as a Witcher and his limited interpersonal skills. His very limited interpersonal skills.

Seriously. You were pretty sure the guy only had two friends.

“You’re going to try and run again. Maybe not tonight, but I clearly can’t trust you to behave without me keeping my eye on you at all times. Since I can’t do that while I’m asleep, this is the solution.”

He motions to the thin leather cord, and you scowl, face twisting into something you know is ugly but doing it anyways. He wouldn’t be intimidated, you knew, he seemed to view you as some helpless kid, even though you were a fully grown adult who had been attending college.

“You wouldn’t have to watch me if you just let me go, Geralt. You can’t… you can’t just not let someone go home, that’s not right.”

You snap, fingers burying further into the cloak to stave off the chill that was only getting colder, creeping up your arms and legs to your torso and making you shiver. It had just gotten dark, the little fire Geralt built crackling away and too small to provide much warmth but rapidly gaining strength, and you shiver, leaning toward the fire and away from the Witcher.

“We’re not having this conversation again. You can’t survive out there on your own.”

Your face flushes, angry, and you bury your face further into the cloak. He had a point, to some extent. You weren’t used to the world of the Witcher, with its monsters and it’s hardships, weren’t used to the roughness of medieval life and all of its struggles. You were used to the modern world, where distances could be travelled by car, not horse, and you didn’t have to endure biting cold in the winter and blazing heat in the summer.

“That doesn’t mean I can’t at least try, Geralt. What kinda person would I be if I didn’t at least try to get home?” You protest, and there’s the sound of rustling, a muttered curse. Looks like Jaskier was back with wood.

“Ah. Seems I walked into a horribly tense situation.”

Jaskier remarks, but his voice is light, not taking your predicament seriously, even as his eyes land on the tether around your wrist and Geralt’s as he feeds wood into the fire, which licks up the logs and sticks eagerly, hungry for fuel. You scowl, face buried in the cloak to hide your sour mood as much as possible. Geralt didn’t care if you were pisses off or not, he cared when you were afraid not when you were mad, but Jaskier would do everything in his power to pull you out of your bad mood. From telling stories to playing little tavern songs, he would be relentless in making sure you cracked a smile at least once, and you didn’t feel like having to endure the bards attempts to cheer you up right now.

“Is tying them to you really necessary though, Geralt? They look like a kicked pup, can’t you be a bit more lenient?”

Jaskier wheedles, and wow, he might actually be your favorite person right now. You peek up from the fold of the cloak, and he’s got a hand on a hip, shifting his weight with a concerned frown. He looks entirely disapproving of the whole thing, which makes your heart soar. Maybe he would actually be able to get Geralt to listen to him.

“They’re lucky I don’t tie them on Roach all day.” Geralt grumbles, setting up the bed rolls. You could feel every small movement he made, the motion tugging gently on the thin tether.

“Oh you grump. Stop being so rude.” Jaskier huffs, sitting next to you, and you quietly despair how easily he gave in, how quickly he yielded to what Geralt wanted to do. You tuck your face back into the cloak, dejected.

“Hey now, it isn’t all bad. There are worse places to sleep. I can recall a few of them myself.”

Jaskier’s hand lands on your shoulder, and you glare, annoyed. You didn’t want company, or comfort, or any of it. You wanted one thing, and it was something that the both of them were denying you.

Jaskier, because he was Jaskier, seemingly didn’t notice. Which wasn’t the greatest.

“Yeah, sure, I guess. Never slept tied to somebody, though.” You say pointedly, and the annoyed rumble Geralt gives is almost worth it. Sharp gold eyes narrow at you slightly, before Geralt huffs, turning back to his task.

“I have! Well, it was more I had been knocked unconscious, but it still applies, I think! And those ropes were rather coarse, my wrists were aching for days!” Jaskier recalls. “Geralt had to rescue me, it was quite the adventure. I wrote a song about it, at some point, although I never published it. I really should rework that song, actually, come to think of it.”

He rambles, his voice filling the tense silence between you and Geralt, and you feel your shoulders start to relax. He was good at that, chattering to fill the silence that would drag on for hours between the two of you if it wasn’t for him. You sigh quietly, leaning into the warm hand clasped on your shoulders as the fire grows in strength, the bedrolls almost fully prepared.

“Alright. Jaskier, you take first watch, and I’ll take over in an hour or so.” There must not be many monsters around, you think, for Geralt to be so comfortable letting Jaskier take watch. Jaskier nods, slipping away your side as Geralt approaches.

“Not a problem! I was feeling wired tonight anyways, a few more hours though and I should be able to sleep well enough.” Jaskier agrees amicably. “Although I am a bit surprised, you normally insist on first watch.”

“Wanna get (Y/N) down.” Geralt huffs, and Jaskier nods.

“Fair enough, I suppose. They are criminally lacking in the sleep department, they’re beginning to get bags, poor thing.”

You scowl at Jaskier, annoyed.

“I’ve had these since middle school, first of all, not my fault I have insomnia.” You scowl, and jerk when Geralt all but drags you to the bed roll, barely waiting for you to finish talking.

“Hey!” You protests, annoyed, but he’s too busy ‘getting you settled’ as he liked to call it. Fussing over the blankets and the best roll, making sure your body was protected from the harsh winds that even the fire couldn’t stave off.

“Jaskier, stop keeping them up.” Geralt grumbles, sounding more tired than annoyed. He drags you closer, and it must be a Witcher thing to radiate heat like a furnace, because he was chasing off the cold without even trying, the same arm that you were tied to securing you against his chest.

“Pretty sure I can sleep on my own.”

You snark, and Geralt rolls his eyes.

“Not for the next week you aren’t, if that. Now go to bed.”

You scowl, glaring up at him. With the blanket over you, the fire, and the heat radiating off his body, you were tired, sure. But not tired enough not to say something, not when you were being treated like an idiot who couldn’t do anything for themselves.

“You can’t just- Geralt this isn’t right, and you know it. You can’t just- keep me here!”

You protest. Arguing with Geralt was much like arguing with a wall, honestly. Stubborn and just as likely to listen to you as the bricks that made up the walls of your old college.

But walls could come down. You just had to get through to him, make him realize that what was doing wasn’t going to work. You weren’t strong enough or fast enough to escape him, not without some clever plan or tricks up your sleeve, and you were pretty sure that an Olympic level athlete would still have issues trying to outpace him. So your only hope was getting him to listen.

It was a fragile hope, but it was the only hope you had.

“We’re not talking about this right now. Go to sleep.”

Geralt grumbles, and you open your mouth again. The warning rumble in his chest cuts you off, and you swallow.

The sound was exactly that. A warning. Geralt had never hurt you before, not really, but whenever he got mad things were miserable. Jaskier would be irritated with you for ‘putting Geralt in a mood’ as he put it, and you would be without the bard’s chattering to fill the heavy silent between you and Geralt. Not to mention the awkwardness of being forced to ride atop Roach with Geralt, the silence thick with tension between the two of you, or the way you would hope desperately for the day to end so you could go to sleep.

No, it was better to keep the Witcher happy. For all parties.

“Alright. Good night.” You finally mutter, and he sighs, the tension leaving his body. You feel his torso loosen, relaxing behind you, and you feel your hand shaking, just slightly. Or a little more than slightly. Your stomach twists, and Geralt sighs.

“I know you don’t understand. But you’ll realize this is what’s best for you.” He says it like it’s supposed to be an assurance, smoothing a hand over your hair like you’re a particularly fussy child, and you consider, for a second, twisting and biting that hand. Driving your teeth deep enough to draw blood and make him listen to you, for once.

You don’t, mainly because you know he would just move it fast enough your teeth would just snap at empty air.

You close your eyes. With the almost stifling heat behind you, and the too-heavy weight of the cord on your wrist that logically shouldn’t feel as heavy as it did, sleep does not come easy. Eventually, though, you feel your consciousness slip away into oblivion.

[almayver]

Alma dear, you’ve said that you’ve been on the jealous peem train for a long time. How do you think he’d act? What are the most juicy scenarios you can conjure with jealous peem?

Hey Cole! So yep, i’ve been in the Jealous Peem train for months now, but the funniest thing is I actually have no concrete idea?

Because the thing is, I don’t think Peek would know how to act either. He has probably only ever felt like mild envy towards Qs talent and things like that, but this? This has this weird tint of possessiveness to it that I don’t think he would know how to handle. And I think that’s what would make it interesting. Because you know our boy loves open communication, but it's hard to communicate when you don’t fully understand your feelings and when you feel like you shouldn’t be having them, right?

Ok this turned into a full-blown rant and doesn't make total sense but, putting it under the read more so I don't put a wall of text in the tag

So exploring that, I also believe it would be very specific. Like someone says that Phum is handsome and/or compliments him? Yeah, Peem at most rolls his eyes because yeah his boyfriend is the most beautiful person on earth, and he is great, those are just facts, actually more people should be saying it. Someone flirts with Phum? Well that’s just funny to him, they would probably make Phum flustered and Peem loves to tease his boyfriend. Also, he is just so secure on his boyfriend’s feelings that the fear would never be that Phum is going to leave him or find someone better. So what would make Peem jealous?

Well, jealousy at its core is about insecurities, right? So possible scenarios here that would make Peem feel weird (jealous Peem, you feel jealous)

The first one is a soft, fluffy friendship one! Peem is very much someone that is very good at comforting people, and with the comment of “You made me feel I couldn't be your comfort zone” we know how important that is to him, specially with Phum. But maybe down the line Phum feeling like shit for whatever reason and Q is the one to comfort him for some reason, maybe Peem is busy (I'm never leaving the Q-Phum besties agenda, I live there actually). And the fun element here would be the warring emotions of being so fucking happy that not only two very important people in his life are so close and comfortable with each other, but also the fact that this means Phum is not lonely and has so many people in his corner and that is the best thing he could hope for.

But. But there is this weird thing in his head that feels weird, this pure want of being the one that comforts Phum, the one that knows exactly what to say to make him feel better. And I think he would have that spiral of “what if I'm not good enough support for him, what if I'm a bad boyfriend, am I a bad friend and boyfriend for even thinking like this”. And he is maybe a little bitter, but he hates feeling like that. Eventually of course both Phum and Q would notice and be like “dummy, come on”, Q would probably actually call him dumb, while Phum would just go full puppy eyes and reassure him and also say something like “Honestly Q mostly calms me by talking about you.”

Ok got sidetracked by friendship feelings there sorry not even sure if that counts as jealousy, but I had to get that scenario out there

The others would be a bit more classic silly jealousy, I think.

So the second one that came to mid would come from how different their fields of study are. Imagine Phum working on a project being very excited talking about it (I was going to give an example, but I did 5 years of engineering and I still have no clue what civil engineers do so idk vague project it is) and it all sounds like Greek to Peem and Phum is scared that he is boring him so he stops rambling about it. But then Peem sees Phum talking with other engineering students, and it's just *sad kitten noises* because he doesn't know enough to talk like that with his boyfriend, and he is jealous of everyone that gets his attention in this very specific way that he can't get. (He later realizes that Phum feels the same way when he talks with Q about art and throughout their relationship they both just learn to listen to the other talk even when they don't fully understand and accept that the other just likes to hear them talk about things that they are passionate about)

The final one, tho? That's the one i crave. Because you know what I think would make Peem weirdly possessive and go all “MY puppy”? Someone making Phum laugh.

Phum, mister “casual small smirk 90% of the time but when I fully smile it looks like the sun came out”. They are maybe out in a bar or a party or whatever, and Phum goes for drinks or something and Peem is talking with the group about something when he hears Phum's laughter. And he stops and perks up like a meerkat because I'm sorry what. That sound normally only occurs when Phum is near him what is happening, something isn't right in the universe. And he looks towards the direction of the sound a Phum is cracking up because of some stranger and Peem is SEETHING, and he doesn't understand why, but he is angry and bitter and petty (everyone in the group is completely amused, they have never seen him like this)

But how would he react to that weird bitter feeling? Because i feel like even with the jealousy, he would never be mean or rude to someone that isn't doing something wrong. And also he wouldn't accuse Phum of anything because he knows that he would only feel sad. So I think he would go the other direction and basically do the equivalent of marking his territory. Like he suddenly ups the devoted attentive boyfriend thing to 200%, and he turns into a clingy koala. And he just keeps trying to make Phum smile and laugh because dammit, that pretty smile is his thanks. That is his personal sunlight, thank you very much. (Phum is delighted and just keeps smiling like the sun which just makes Peem want to make him smile even more, its a very fun cycle) But idk, that's a possibility.

(There's another more elaborate scenario that keeps bouncing around in my head that maybe ill turn into a fic but if it stays a half formed idea ill throw it in your inbox dear)

...that was A LOT. Thanks for sending this ask Cole that turned into a fun thought experiment.

[byslerr]

reasons why Will Graham cannot be my single father and i logically need both him and Hannibal Lecter:

Will would be a good father! He has the want and will for it, he has skills and knowledge about various topics ranging from fun to useful like; fishing, mechanical engineering and psychology. He would make a good attempt and probably be a fairly chill father to hang out and have a drink with.

what's the problem then? well, while he's capable of handling a lot he has a bad tendency to take on too much and straight up ignore his mental and physical health.

this is not a good look for my father figure. Will would overcompensate and feel guilty for his mental instability AKA for not always being an emotionally available parent. this would create a feedback loop of me feeling bad for being an inconvenience just by having problems to talk to him about.

6/10, we could survive well together.

but what if we wanted to thrive?

think. Will is capable, but needs someone to help him check with himself and respect his own boundaries, to replace his coffee with decaf without telling him, to help him carry the heavy load that is responsibilities and life and toxic at best friends (not you bev. love you bev<3).

in comes Hannibal Lecter. the emotionally stable parent to balance him out. a fellow autistic of a different flavor but with a common interest in psychology.

responsible, more than financially stable has great connections and no care for other people's opinions of him, sees the values of self care, has his own skills and knowledge to add to the table, will encourage me to kill my abusers but also teach me how to get away with it.

three potential cons:

1. might kill you if there's ever a risk of his relationship falling apart, this is simply smth you'll have to accept in exchange for a good quality of life.

2. i know he's known as a rlly good chef but his meals look like sensory hell sometimes and I'm not sure there's a polite way of conveying: "I'd rather die than touch this".

3. i have no fucking clue what is going on with his taste in interior design. what. why do you have samurai armor casually in your bedroom or hallway or smth. are you good man

9/10!

in conclusion: Will would do.his best, but to balance him out and have the ideal parental figures you(i) must have both.

i have to wake up in 5 hours so i will not be rereading this or putting effort into making this make sense. good night!

[ptn-imagines]

Hello, I hope you're having a good day/afternoon/night! If possible, would you be able to do relationship headcanons for Uni with fem Chief? I love her so much :>

Thank you for your patience! Part of why this took so long was simply that I hadn't done Uni's interrogation until now, and, well, seeing as she has no appearance in her debut event...

Anyway, let's play a game: it's called spot the autistic Uni headcanons I didn't know I had until I wrote these.

Uni x F!Chief

Absolutely neither of them have any idea how it ended up here. Chief had entertained thoughts of being in a relationship from time-to-time, but definitely not with Uni; the surgeon herself hadn't considered it at all.

After Luna's death, Uni had felt quite certain that she would never love anyone ever again. All those vain people with their fickle wants and greed… What was desirable about that?

And then the Chief came along, with her shackles. At first, Uni thought she had wanted her eyes; now, she knows that had wanted the Chief’s connection all along.

More than what the shackles could give, Uni fell in love hard and fast. The realization she was in love? Not so much. Months straight of daydreaming about what it might be like to kiss the Chief, errant musings about holding her hand; these were all written off by Uni as intrusive thoughts, or, at their worst, perhaps just a form of aesthetic attraction. Even Uni was not immune to the vice of beauty; in some ways, she was more vulnerable than anyone.

It wasn't until she heard the Chief laughing one day, and recognized the fluttering of her heart in response, that Uni realized she was in love.

Her first thought? Shit.

Feelings were complicated and messy, and Uni wanted no part of them. Unfortunately, it didn't seem like she had a choice. Uni was screwed.

Uni is also notoriously bad at flirting. She's the kind of girl who sends their crush a note telling them to “get out of my school/work/neighborhood/etc”. She can't exactly tell the Chief to get out of the Bureau, though. Which sucks for Uni, but is probably a long-term good thing.

Nevertheless, the Chief is very surprised when Uni suddenly gets colder and ruder to her. Uni had been… defrosting around her, so to speak, but now she was all ice and sharp teeth again. It almost felt like Uni was even more abrasive than before?

Asking around, other Sinners and staff said that Uni was just the regular level of rude to them. Her being singled out baffled the Chief at first, but, in combination with the shackles, it was eventually the vital clue that led her to her answer.

Not that confronting Uni about it was any less stressful. If she was wrong about this, Uni's sharp tongue would probably kill her, and not in a pleasant way. Not that there were ways to die that were exactly pleasant, but – she was getting off topic.

Finally steeling her courage, the Chief called Uni to her office. The Sinner was scowling, looking like she'd much rather be anywhere else. Chief took a deep breath and tried to look confident.

“Uni… Allow me to be blunt. Do you… have feelings for nothing?”

Uni didn't reply, but the way her eyes went wide and she sharply averted her gaze, a fierce blush crawling up her cheeks to her ears, was answer enough. That was even before taking into account the spike in the shackles.

“So you do.” Chief leaned back in her chair, sighing. “Uni, I–”

“Forget it,” Uni suddenly snapped, though she still kept her gaze fixated on a random potted plant in the office as though it was the most interesting thing in the world. She probably didn't even like it. “I know you don't feel the same, so forget it.”

“Uni.” The sharpness of the Chief's tone is what finally dragged the surgeon's gaze back to her. “What I was going to say was… I'm willing to go out with you.”

So that was how their confusing and messy relationship started. And in many ways, messy was an understatement.

Going steady with someone didn't magically make Uni good at handling her feelings. In fact, it may have even made her more of a disaster.

Thankfully, a lot of things would go away with time. Some things would never change, though.

For one: Uni hated being touched. Chief learned that quickly. Touching was reserved for rare, special moments, and she was otherwise to keep a respectful distance.

Despite that, Uni tended to hang around Chief like a shadow. When asked, she just said it was “more worth her time than anything or anyone else.”

This meant that Uni was in the Chief's office a lot. It also meant that Chief heard Uni's complaints about her decor a lot. Eventually, they reached a compromise: Uni would get to decorate her own little sitting corner if she let the Chief be. She agreed.

Dates between these two are pretty much always the same thing, due to Uni's tastes. There's one particular cafe that does their desserts and milkshakes and iced chocolates and such just right, and she always insists on going there in their free moments. Chief doesn't really mind, because the food and drink there is good and she doesn't want to stress Uni out during what should be a fun moment for them.

Uni also likes to buy Chief small jewelry pieces or accessories that fit her aesthetics, which usually isn't a problem. The one point of contention that commonly arises is Chief refusing to take off her one asymmetrical earring in favor of a pair Uni bought for her; it drives the surgeon crazy. The fact she can't even explain why is even worse! It's a testament to just how much Uni truly loves the Chief that this isn't a deal breaker for her.

Finally, even though she may not want them for a mad Frankenstein experiment anymore, Uni is still entranced by her eyes. Now that she's no longer seeing Luna in them, Uni can appreciate their beauty in full. And by far, they're the most beautiful pair of eyes Uni had ever seen.

Chief tensed a bit when Uni first complimented them, causing the other to scoff and say that she meant it in the normal way, this time. This was affirmed by the shackles, so Chief eventually learned to relax and take Uni's compliments as, well, compliments, and nothing more than that.

Overall, Uni can definitely be a difficult partner at times, and she knows it. But Chief is willing to stay with her even so, and Uni can’t express how much she appreciates that.