Latest Posts by vodkabutgay - Page 3
09 Ghost has a designated chair in Soap's office.
Soap doesn't clue into it at first. In the beginning, it was just an extra chair stuck in the corner of his office. It was old and worn, and he had a newer one in the other corner, but it was only for him to use when he needed a break while working, or for company, so he didn't care to replace it. Then Ghost started hanging around after hours, or even just during the workday, tending to his own responsibilities while Soap worked, but every time he'd sit in that exact chair. It confused Soap for a minute, and at first he'd try to make small talk, not wanting Ghost to feel uncomfortable or unwelcome, but eventually he catches on that Ghost isn't interested in conversation, or any interaction. He just doesn't want to be alone. Just wants to have a little company without the pressure of actually having to engage in social activities.
So Soap doesn't say anything when some of Ghost's belongings, officeware and paperwork start accumulating in a small bin under the chair overtime.
He doesn't say anything when he walks up to his office one afternoon to do some paperwork, only to find it unlocked and a bell set on top to alert anyone inside, and merely sits down at his desk to work on his reports when he sees Ghost curled up and out cold in the chair.
He doesn't bring it up when he continues to find Ghost curled up in his chair, sleeping or otherwise, even when Soap isn't in his office. Eventually he gets used to Ghost just being an accessory to his office, like a picture frame or a little basket of pens, always there, even when he wasn't.
He does say something when another recruit is in his office and they go to sit in that chair and he's struck with this overwhelming feeling of just... wrong and politely but firmly directs them to the other chair because 'that's not their chair'.
The first time Soap walked into his office after Shepperd's betrayal, and he sets eyes on that empty chair, he feels like a cold bucket of water was dumped over him, because seeing that chair empty has a whole different meaning now. It didn't mean Ghost was just off training or busy with other things. It didn't mean Ghost was just tied up somewhere else busy working. No, now that empty chair was a sign of pain. A symbol, of how Soap had been betrayed, a constant reminder of how the person that chair belonged to was no longer around to use it.
It takes a solid three weeks of Soap gathering his things and working somewhere else on base before he can finally stand the thought of sitting in his otherwise empty office to do his paperwork. The first time he does, he has to take multiple breaks to sob and pull at his hair and curse the world, and curse himself because damn it he should've known better than to get used to something that could get taken away from him so easily.
A few months later, Soaps snaps at an ignorant rookie who sees the old worn out chair and suggests getting rid of it, replacing it with something in better shape, and he only has half a heart to feel bad after the fact.
That chair never leaves Soap's office, even after he dies, because Price knew. He knew and he doesn't have the heart to clear out Soap's office. Not yet. Not for a long time. It isn't until Price leaves active duty and someone else takes over that that office gets cleared out, and even then, that chair and most of the belongings in that office leave with Price, set up and stored safely in a room in his house, because he'll be damned if he lets the only things left of his teammates just get thrown away, like they never mattered. Because they mattered to each other, more than anything or anyone else.
Sighing
sending “I hope you get that job” vibes to the people out here tryna get jobs
[Holmes Residency, childhood timeline]
11yo Sherlock, bursting in a room: Brother! What do you call it when you're straight but with vegetables?
18yo Mycroft:
18yo Mycroft: Vegetarian...?
11yo Sherlock: Ooo right! *runs out again*
18yo Mycroft, staring blankly: How does his brain work and why do I understand it...
[NY time line]
William, attempting to ask Sherlock out on a date: What if we went to dinner... not as friends?
Sherlock: As enemies???
William: ... Sherly we are past that.
Hii I'm a new one here in your blog! How are you love?
Can I request a tooth rooting fluff of fatigued Mycroft from work (Moriarty The Patriot)x overprotective fem!reader?
Thank you have a nice day <33
a/n: hellooo❕ forgive my late welcome but i really hope you enjoy your time here. i'm good, thank you :) hope you're just as well ! ALSO AAAA i think i went ahead of myself and typed way more angst than fluff 😭😭
##: angst, fluff, maybe implications of depression if you squint ??
MY KIND OF WOMAN 𓍢ִ໋ ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ myc. holmes x f!reader
tonight the moon was far too dipped into the shadows of the dark to come out; too tired, too weary. mycroft seems to deeply relate as he trudges his way in, head throbbing and utterly exhausted.
his younger brother, sherlock, was being investigated for homicide of the media mogul charles augustus milverton but thankfully no proof had risen. yet.
that, atop the stress he's facing with the people of the nation complaining and pressuring that the lord of crime be caught and punished to death—not that he could life a finger, though. he'd already been bound to the moriarty's by the contract and his vow.
“haaa..” he exhales gruffly, taking off his shoes—he barely has enough energy to crawl himself towards the couch before plopping down on it. it's quiet, utterly quiet. and dark; like his current state of mind. dark, yet a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions.
mycroft's thoughts drift to the weight he carries—the responsibility of his work, the burdens of a brilliant mind constantly analyzing and strategizing for the sake of the nation. it was a relentless pursuit, one that often left him feeling isolated and exhausted, tired and battered. wrecked. he's tired, utterly so.
“....” mycroft pops open the abandoned whiskey on the coffee table, drinking from it. were you drinking? he wishes he could share a glass with you.
it's been too long, hasn't it?
it's been days since he's properly even had the time to look at you. he leaves for work at the break of dawn when you're still asleep and returns in the middle of the night; a perpetual, tiring cycle.
he feels like crying for the first time in a while—the weight is too heavy, too harsh on him. and he dips his head low, ducking his chin, even in the dark. as if someone would or could see him like this, so vulnerable and exhausted. he's glad you're sleeping in your shared bedroom — at least you won't have to see him this way, weak and pathetic.
“mikey?”
mycroft freezes, neck of the whiskey bottle still touching his lips. “...(name).” he croaks out and instantly regrets it. his voice is hoarse, cracked at the end, almost whiny. he hates being this way.
“you okay? how was work?” slowly you tiptoe your way to him—the atmosphere was heavy and you could sense it from miles away. your fingers rest themselves on his shoulder, standing behind him and you realize just how tense his muscles feel.
“the same as always.” he replies plainly—the same neverending work. of course he'd like to say more than just that one sentence to you but he worries that if he starts, he won't stop, and that once he starts, it won't end in a simple complain—it'll end in a breakdown, tears and all.
so he sits there quietly. still as a rock. not facing you.
clack. he says the whiskey bottle down.
“i see.” you mumble. you know he hates being perceived as weak and vulnerable so don't force him to face you either. instead your fingers begin to slowly knead his shoulders, massaging him.
and mycroft swears he feels a lump grow in his throat. he leans back against the chair in silence, further back against you. it feels good, he thinks. to be cared for and loved as much as you do to him.
“...thank you, (name).” he whispers earnestly. he recognises he became so accustomed to shouldering the weight of the world that he had almost forgotten the simple joy of being cared for. “truly.”
plop.
a tear falls down onto his lap.
“..of course, honey. anytime.”
but neither of you say anything.
plop. another tear.
he's embarrassed—the tips of his ears are red but he's also grateful that you're not saying anything further. he likes that you're respectful of him and his boundaries and that you're not forcefully prying it out of him. he would tell you himself, anyway.
“i thought i'd lose my little brother today.”
mycroft says it so suddenly that it makes you pause—and it makes your heart ache painfully. he seemed to be going through a lot these past few weeks.
“i thought that he'd end up behind bars, that we'd never be able to bicker again,” he continues slowly, as if spoken too fast and he'd overwhelm himself with his own words. “the constant demands and pressures placed on me... they never cease.”
your hands have gotten softer on his body, more gentle and kind. “i can see the toll it takes on you, mikey. it's okay to feel overwhelmed.” you press a faint kiss to his nape. “you're only human, after all.”
a small silence. and then he breaks it: “i'm...afraid, (name). i'm afraid of failing. of disappointing everyone. and most of all, i'm afraid of losing you because of this— this darkness that surrounds me.”
he's at last allowing himself to feel infront of you.
and this time mycroft turns his head to look at you; you're faced with a grief stricken mycroft, heavy tears dripping down his face. you are strong. stronger than you give yourself credit for. but even the strongest of people need support and love. let me be there for you. share the burden with me." you cup his cheeks and he nuzzles himself against your warm palms.
“i love you.” he whispers softly. weakly.
“i love you too, mickey. i'll always love and stand by your side. no matter what happens to either of us.”
“even if i were to be brandished a traitor the next day for conspiring with the lord of crime & keeping silent even after i became aware of their true identity?”
“even then i would love you.”
“and if i were to be executed the next day?”
your heart hurts for him—you realize this is one of his genuine fears that he's been constantly wracked with. “then i would follow you wherever you go, mickey—even after death, i will forever be yours.”
a mix of emotions flicker across mycroft's face! fear, longing, a glimmer of hope. he takes a shaky breath, his voice barely above a whisper. "promise me you won't give up on me, no matter how difficult it gets."
“i promise.” your voice is filled with determination and he breathes a sigh of relief—something he desperately wanted to do for a long time now. “you're not alone, mycroft; you never will be. as long as i'm alive you will always be well and protected.”
mycroft nods silently, lets himself be embraced by you—he'd allow himself this much of respite. he could face all the horrors the world has to show tomorrow. as long as he can rest in your arms tonight.
there were still a lot of thorns and you were certain there'd be more along the way, but you would never allow even one of those to graze him. you were dead set on clearing a better, smoother path for mycroft and make sure that no one would stand in his way.
you look down and for the first time you feel him softly sobbing into your chest. you kiss the crown of his head and hold him tighter.
yes, you think to yourself as you pat him. the scheming and mind wracking can be set aside for tomorrow. all you want to do is be with him right now.
and you're sure mycroft feels the same.
Sherlock: [fast forwards all the way through a romcom movie]
John: You can't just skip to the happy ending!
Sherlock: I don't have time for their problems. I have plenty of my own.
I have made so many Mycroft edits but I will never post them anywhere because of how terrified I am 😃
The song West Coast - Lana Del Rey is literally *his* song!!!!
Albert: How would you describe Sherlock Holmes?
William, without hesitating: Mine.
Sometimes I feel like I don't even deserve to see him on my phone's screen. He's so beautiful with his long/medium unruly curls with the darkest of blue mixed along with black. His eyelashes that can rival a little deer. He's so freakishly tall but somehow seems like a tall child stuck in an adult body. He's such a goofy little guy but he's also the smartest man in the room given any situation (minus if his brother is there sorry Sherly).
I like how he's so passionate about everything, be that chemistry, literature or music...oh his music! I wonder if Sherlock ever sits at his desk writing music sheets over his violin and wishes if he could play all the stringed instruments. The way he is, he probably tried. I'm sure John gets most of his rants when Sherlock is fixed on a topic. I wonder if William got to see this beautiful side of Sherlock during those three years they spend in New York. I wonder if Mycroft was the one who got him into music when he couldn't give him time because of the age gap so Sherlock became dependent on this particular hobby to distract himself. I wonder if he ever wanted to compose the music he wrote. I wish our little detective was real.
I hope he knows John forgave him for his absence. That John only wants him safe and sound.
And I hope he knows his brother was mourning him. That it's about time they offer eachother closure. That his brother loves him.
And most importantly, I hope he knows his Liam views him as hope. That William will burn the world once again if something happens to him. He's the only remaining light in William's life and always will be. They don't ever have to go through something alone ever again, be that tragic or beautiful. They have eachother.
Sorry guys I got a little emotional with this one :3
[Post time skip era]
Louis and Sherlock: *finally getting along over cool dagger tricks*
William: *staring at Sherlock*
Albert, chuckling: Hey, don't be jealous Will. I'm sure you're still Louis' favourite person.
William, without blinking: I'm not jealous, Albert-nii. I'm gay.
[Time skip Moriarty Gang]
Albert: Sherlock's eyes are blue right?
William: They’re sapphire! With hints of deep blue and silver when the light hits just right.
Louis: And when was the last time he smiled?
William: This morning. 10:38 am when I offered him tea!
Sebastian: Right...and when is my birthday?
William:
Sebastian: When is my birthday Will?
I might start writing one shots with the contents I have in mind. I'm so bored, but I'm scared no one will give a shit :(
[After the incident of A Scandal In Bohemia]
Sherlock: I've been told by many people that I "light up the room".
John: That was arson, those people were witnesses. You blew up our whole second floor.
[Talking about William]
John: You should date him!
Sherlock: Why?
John: You guys would be cute together!
Sherlock: So I'm not cute by myself?!!!
Sherlock: So basically I am your late birthday gift.
Mycroft, pretending to be unimpressed: Can you live one day without your god complex Sherly?
Sherlock, grinning: And was the shared arrogance your return gift for me?
Mycroft: I knew we should have put you up for adoption 😐
Louis: Brother...am I ugly?
William: Nonsense. I'm looking at you right now you're the most beautiful boy in the world.
------------
Sherlock: Brother, am I ugly?
Mycroft, without looking up: Very much.
[making dinner together after an argument]
William: Look, I can taste all the love you put in the soup you made!
Sherlock, deadpan: I put hate into it.
William: Sherly, I said I'm sorry for making suicide jokes (´-﹏-`；)
[New York time skip]
William: Sherly, what does IDK, ILY, & TTYL mean?
Sherlock: I don’t know, I love you, talk to you later.
William: Okay, I love you too, I’ll just ask Billy.
Sherlock: ...darling that's not-
John: I really like this whole 'good guy, bad guy' thing you guys have going.
William: It’s not an act, it’s just that I’m evil and Sherly isn’t.
William: Why do guys lick their lips before they talk?
Sherlock: To marinate their lies.
Extremely offended about how the media has portrayed Sherlock Holmes as a serious detective who's a sociopath, where Sherlock is just a fun little detective who's a chemistry nerd with amazing violin skills. His endearing excitements whenever he excels in his chemistry experiments, or when he finds a clue about the cases, his respect towards other humans yet his distaste of socialising, his adoring personality with his elder brother Mycroft yet his banters like normal siblings. Most importantly his friendship with John Watson, and how much he loves having him around. Sherlock isn't perfect but he's not someone who's unlikable, rather someone pleasing to be around. Really hate how BBC and other TV shows has completely mischaracterized such an exceptional figure. And very much in depth of gratefulness towards Moriarty The Patriot for bringing that side of his character.
Sorry for the rant but he's my favourite detective so I had to get this off my chest.
Gaslighting myself into believing I'm fine.
I started the semester with straight A's but now am not even straight anymore...