my dearest holmes

oubliela / multi verse, enhanced spy oc / main

sansvoeus / supernatural + superpowered multi / main

sensevive / human only multi muse / main

*givenwork / reimagined holmes characters / medium-low activity

possiblexfile / quartet of monster muses / low-ish activity

suchlovin / human, writer, sugar baby oc  / scattered-low activity

lonesurvived / ellen ripley + newt / hiatus

seizuresight / alice cullen / inactive (?)

how relentless she can be sometimes,   he forgets.         here,   plops herself onto his lap,   they’re far too comfortable with each other by now to care,   personal boundaries ignored more times than he could count.         eurus is right,   he knows she is —— hard as it might for him to admit,   sometimes he needed a person to look over his shoulder,   give a careful nudge.         in this situation,   a nudge is a pile of finger sandwiches placed for him to eat.         he feels the hunger within,   he feels it deep,   smothered by his stimulant cause lack of appetite.         ❛    just one.     ❜         he repeats,   briefly looking up at her as he takes a sandwich out and reluctantly bites into it.         ❛     i cannot stomach more than one.     ❜         it’ll be a miracle if he manages to shove this one down.

Threads where Eurus overstims herself when she’s making out with someone. Where she’s getting a lot of input and it gets too much even though she’s enjoying it, and she has to like stop for a few minutes or hide her face against / under her partner’s shirt to dial stuff back. Honestly part of why she like being blindfolded is because it lets her be aware of other stimuli and the visual isn’t disrupting the rest of what she’s experiencing. She likes intimacy in the dark for that reason as well, but not always.

“ Yeah,  how  about  we  finish  dinner  first?  Maybe  we’ll  be  so  full  we  won’t  even  be  able  to  look  at  ice  cream. ”  Even  as  she  says  it,  Molly’s  nose  wrinkles,  eyes  shining  with  the  amusement  mirrored  on  her  lips.  They  both  know  it’s  a  lie,  they  both  know  that  there  is  always  place  in  their  bellies  for  ice  cream.  Wine  used  to  be  on  that  list  too,  but  Olivia  can’t  have  it  and  frankly  Molly  should  cut  it  out  of  her  daily  routine  as  well.  

 Molly  hands  a  fork  and  a  bowl  to  Olivia,  her  own  held  in  the  other  hand.  “ We  should  turn  on  The  Graham  Norton  show  reruns  though.  Hugh  Jackman  was  on  last  Friday  and  I  missed  that. ”  Giddiness  in  full  swing,  she’s  brushing  into  the  living  room,  snatching  the  remote  from  the  coffee  table  and  plopping  down  into  her  favorite  armchair,  legs  curled  underneath  her.  Suddenly  her  eyebrow  quirks  up,  brown  eyes  darting  back  to  her  sister.  “ Unless  you  watched  it already? ”

𝐈𝐂𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐇𝐄'𝐃 𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒, 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐎𝐅 𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐒 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐃. Now she finds a certain comfort in cooking, in experimenting with food, in doing things for people (mostly Molly, because she’ll always feel some semblance of guilt for hurting her). She burned too many bridges with her addiction and the sense of grandeur it gave her. She’s mending them with her bare hands now. 

She brought lunch. An array of various options that she probably only pick at. A burger, a salad, there is a vegetarian lasagna somewhere in the pile. It was her contribution; if we’re eating at yours, let me bring the food. Usually, she doesn’t feel the need to balance things out with her sisters. They’re the people you can pretty much take advantage of. Come round, eat their food, not clean the dishes. But something about their last couple meetings has made Cee almost weary of Madigan? If she wasn’t her sister, it would feel like Madi was about to break up with her. There’s a tense awkward atmosphere; a lead up to something.

Today feels like the day. They’re over-polite. Cee insists on getting the plates and cutlery. Usually, when Madi asks how she is, Cee will begin a long and in-depth rant about everyone in her life but today she just says… fine. For almost two minutes conversation dies out and the only sound is forks on plates. “Oh god, was is it!?” Cee throws down her knife, looking her sister full in the face. “You’re killing me, Madi. Is it Eurus? Is she okay? Look if this is about putting her into some full-time care thing, I won’t do it. Nate is fucking great with her!” 

𝐈𝐓 𝐀𝐋𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐂𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐀 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐄𝐔𝐑𝐔𝐒, but then again she often is the topic of their conversations. What does (and shouldn’t) surprise her is how Cece throws down her knife and calls her out on her anxious tenseness. “Eurus is fine,” Madigan replies, and for the first time in a very long time, that statement is true. Eurus is fine. “Eurus is thriving.” She gets choked up on that last word, and just like that she’s putting her own fork down and covering her eyes with her hand as tears drip down her face in earnest. 

Head bent over the table, intent about his work ( he’s studying stills from the surveillance footage Jim had sent through, searching in them for one face among thousands of others ), Sebastian doesn’t glance up—not even when he hears a second set of footsteps echoing around the supposedly empty warehouse. Smoke curls from the end of the cigarette clamped between his teeth. One hand creeps ‘round his back, fingers curling around the handle of the gun tucked into his belt, as if to reassure himself that it is still there.

Not that he needs it now. This newcomer is not a threat; they approach slowly, announce themselves from the doorway. A quick look out of the corner of his eye shows him that both of their—sorry, both of her—hands are visible, and both of them are empty. He takes another drag of his Marlborough and turns his attention back to the photographs fanned out in front of him. “Yeah?” His tone is brusque, he dislikes being interrupted. “What do you want?” 

@givenwork​ for a starter.

❛    i’m fine,   really.     ❜         even if stimulants suppress his appetite enough for him to forget eating isn’t optional,   and perhaps taking a step back from work is in order —— he looks up before drawing his attention back to the computer,   fingers tap through the keyboard,   lips part for a short sigh.         ❛     i’ll eat when i get home.     ❜

Jim gives Ira a quick glare glance in the mirror before the compliment tempers him into a light sigh. He looks down to button up the shirt he’d just slipped on. He’s been very indecisive about his outfits lately, finding everything boring and repetitive. Sometimes a second opinion didn’t hurt. 

“Mmm if only allure could properly attend your sweet little gala THEN command a room of hyper-masculine men expecting a fat old mafia boss or something ridiculous.” He pulls a slightly disgusted face. People have a lot of expectations of what Moriarty looked like and it is amazingly rare that he ever aligns with those expectations. There’s always that moment of surprise, and with the type of men he’s meeting tonight, it is often followed by annoying disbelief. “Should I just change between? It’d keep them waiting… could make an entrance at least.” He smooths out the shirt, considering.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐀𝐋𝐀 𝐈𝐍 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐃𝐈𝐃𝐍'𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐀 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐃𝐄, 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐈𝐑𝐀 𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐘 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐊 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓, and it isn’t even the print one he’s really wanted him to wear. Ira stands, strolling over the Napoleon of Crime and smooths his elegant hands over his shoulders. “I don’t think a desaturated plum silk shirt would wound the egos of your client’s, darling,” he says assuredly. “And you look so fine as it stands.” 

He moves his hands but does not move away from Jim. “Just throw on a suit jacket after the gala, that will be enough,” he says in a tone of surety. Ira has played to the whims of many a type of man and woman in his day. He knows the type who feel insecure in the presence of another man who is so confident in himself that he doesn’t care about colour or movement or love. The same types, men and women alike feel threatened by a fluid gender presentation.