Rating: Mature 

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omg these are so inspiring! Heart is melting into a puddle! Send help!

deemura replied to your photoset “Sherlolly Parent-lolly with a daughter + aesthetic gifs Part 2 ...”

I like that their daughter usually looks more like Molly.

HOOPER.

Helm Operations Officer, Planning and Emergency Response.

He regarded the still form of the ‘woman’ stood in front of him through narrowed eyes. Marcus had created her in the image of a discarded lover, Marlena Moreau, but ‘John Harrison’ had no desire to work with such a monument to the admiral’s ego. “Alter image, authorization Singh two-two-one-b,” he recited.

“Working.” The flat female voice of the computer sounded from his private computer console, and he leaned back in his chair to observe this first, small step into his second rebellion against the slavery imposed on him by Alexander Marcus.

The man he’d vowed to destroy.

The image wavered, shimmered, then stabilized. The hologram was still female, still Caucasian, still aged at approximately late 20s, still petite and slender - but otherwise utterly different. The red hair was now a cinnamon brown; the green eyes were now a honeyed brown. The overly ripe figure - clearly designed for male fantasies - had been slimmed down. Breasts a pleasing handful rather than exaggerated mounds, hips slimmer, lips smaller, eyes slightly larger, nose upturned (that last being a sudden fit of whimsy that had overcome him late one evening after rereading A Midsummer’s Night Dream and picturing Titania with just such a nose).

Of course the hologram’s appearance didn’t matter. He could have altered it to look like anyone - his dearest (dead) friend Joachim, or Marygay, or Gregor (dead, all dead) - but instead had chosen to subvert Marcus’ fantasy woman into his own, for reasons he chose not to examine too closely.

No, appearance wasn’t important, only function - and now that he had been able to access the complex series of programs that brought the hologram into existence, he would be able to infiltrate and subtly alter those functions. Add to them. Make HOOPER more than the sum of her many parts.

“Implement Holmes protocol,” he ordered the computer, once again stating the same authorization code. The one he had gambled that neither Marcus nor his many minions had discovered. If they had, and were merely giving him enough rope to hang himself - well, he’d been a dead man for over three centuries; to truly die would be a relief at this point.

Especially since his crew, his family, were already lost to him.

He pushed away the welling grief with practiced ease. His first instinct had been to rampage, to destroy Marcus as he himself had been destroyed by the knowledge that he was truly alone in this century. But instead he’d managed to rein in his rage, cunning enough to use the savagery Marcus coveted for his own gain.

Revenge was a dish best served cold. The Klingons were attributed that aphorism, but it was the Arabs of a century previous even to his own who had first said it. “It’s very cold in space,” he whispered as he waited patiently for the results of his Holmes protocol - or his own undoing.

A proposal - sort of by @kendrapendragon (Pusblished on FF in Aug 9, 2013)

Sherlock and his unusual proposals are playing with Molly's patience!

Lovely one shot.  Rated k+

Sorry this is so late! But I decided to answer this for Day 4 of Molly Hooper Appreciation Week, so hopefully you aren’t too mad? I hope you like it.

What Could Have Been The Worst Day Ever -The day Moriarty’s video is released to the world, Molly finds that her irritation at not knowing what her relationship with Mycroft is replaced with another emotion altogether, and it’s only when Mycroft arrives to sort things out that things end up well.

Fandom: Sherlock (TV)

Relationship: Mycroft Holmes/Molly Hooper

Characters: Molly Hooper, Mycroft Holmes

Additional Tags: POV Molly Hooper, Undecided Relationship(s), Developing Relationship, Eventual Mycroft Holmes/Molly Hooper, First Kiss, Post-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Molly's Thoughts, scared Molly, Irritated Molly, Caring Mycroft, Mycroft is a Softie, Mycroft is Sweet, Happy Ending, Molly Hooper Appreciation Week 2017

Read @ AO3 | Buy Me A Coffee? | Send Me A Prompt

She had rather hoped that, by now, he would have decided she might be suitable for at least a coffee date out in public. Maybe even a walk in a public garden? But it appeared as though, if this was something resembling a relationship, which she wasn’t entirely sure it was, it was to be conducted in secret.

Which irritated her more and more each day, really.

It would be one thing if he was open about what they were. If they were anything. She was a friend, possibly. When Sherlock had gone off to face Moriarty’s tangled web of sycophants Mycroft had needed a tether, and she supposed that was her. She was the person to remind him he hadn’t sent his brother off to his death, that the two of them had worked this out together and he was supplying Sherlock with intelligence and help behind the scenes when he could and while it didn’t seem like much it was a lot. And at first, she wasn’t even sure Mycroft had appreciated it until one night he had come to her home, haggard and looking as though he had aged ten years in a day and said Sherlock had a near death experience and could she please distract him?

That night they sat on her sofa, her curling against him, and watched the entire first season of Glee with Mycroft offering pointed commentary and wondering why Moriarty hadn’t strangled her on the spot at first and ending with him downloading the soundtrack on iTunes.

There had probably never been a stranger bonding moment in the history of the world, but soon he was a regular visitor to her flat, to the point she started keeping his particular favourites on hand when it came to tea and biscuits and many other little things.

And then when Sherlock was brought back from Serbia by him, she had expected it to stop but it...didn’t. He’d worked their times together around Tom, he said, he’d work it around his meddling baby brother as well.

She could tell he disliked Tom. He never voiced it, not specifically, but it was there in the inflection of his voice when he spoke about him, in the fact he always made sure to give better versions of Tom’s gifts, of the fact when Tom displeased her he made his life just a tad bit harder until Tom apologized. And really, he shouldn’t have, but that was how he was. Sherlock was more upfront about it, camping out in her bedroom in his boxers. Mycroft was more...subtle. Either way, eventually Tom was gone. She wasn’t entirely sure if that was a bad thing or not.

And yet there was still questions of what, exactly, her relationship with Mycroft was. What his feelings towards her were. She knew he was a man of few words, but dear God, she wished he would turn them towards this situation and use a few. More than a few.

And maybe stop keeping her a well-kept secret while he was at it.

She knew tonight was usually a night he would turn up at her home with food for them both, usually from some personal chef or hard to get into restaurant, but today was also the day Sherlock was flying away to Russia. He had been locked into solitary confinement for what he had done to Charles Augustus Magnussen, and Molly knew it had pained Mycroft. He had put himself on a more or less solitary confinement as well; she hadn’t seen him in some time, only having phone and text conversations. And as irritated as she was with their “relationship,” whatever it was, being a secret, she missed him.

Which probably meant her feelings went deeper than his, but that was a problem for another time, another day. Not today.

It was with horror, then, that she saw the video of Moriarty on the screen, and she nearly dropped what was in her hands in horror. The man was dead; she had insisted on doing the autopsy herself. There was no way he could be alive to make this video. But yet here it was. She shut her eyes, composing herself, and then set everything down and turned the telly off. Her hands were shaking so hard she nearly dropped the remote, and she sat down in her chair and then just as quickly bounced up, went to the door and closed it quickly, locking it as soon as it shut, and then put her back to it.

And then her phone rang, and she shrieked, the sudden sound piercing the silence.

No, she wasn’t going to answer. It could be him. He would know she helped. There was...he would know.

She went to the metal storage cabinet that held the extra lab coats, opened it up, and crept inside, sitting on the bottom. Her handbag was there, and both Greg and Mycroft had given her many illegal self-defense items to protect herself when Moriarty was alive. She’d had promises they’d get her off Scot-free should she ever have to use them. She was prepared.

And now she’d wait.

---

The noise of her door being jimmied open caused her to wake up. The door had been shut completely so it was pitch black inside, and she had no idea how long it had been. She was reaching very slowly, making as little noise as possible, to open it just a crack when she heard the office door open and she froze until Mycroft called out “Molly?”

She opened the storage unit’s door and scrambled to her feet, not saying a word but going over to him and putting her arms around his waist. “Is he back? Did I autopsy the wrong man?”

“No,” Mycroft said, his voice firm. “His agents have put the video up to stop my brother from being sent away. You are safe.” He slowly embraced her back, running a hand up and down her back in a motion that seemed foreign to him but soothing to her. “Why didn’t you answer my call?”

“I didn’t know it was you,” she said.

“Ah,” he replied. “You could have saved yourself hours in a cramped cabinet if you had answered.”

“Better safe than sorry,” she replied.

“Which is why I think you should...stay with me for a time,” he said slowly. She pulled away and looked up at him, surprised. “Just because it was not Moriarty himself that ran that video across the nation does not mean there are not problems. Even though you are not in immediate danger, I would feel better if you were to stay with me for a time.”

“Why?” she asked.

“I care for you. A great deal.” He paused as though this next part was hard to acknowledge. “As, perhaps, more than you can imagine.”

“Then why don’t you tell me?” she asked.

He gave her a pained look. “I’m trying.”

“Would showing be easier?”

“How do you mean?” he asked, confused. She paused for a second, then leaned in and kissed him softly. She could tell he was surprised, but after a moment he kissed her back, in a way that showed he had thought a great deal about doing so, and she took that as an invitation to move a bit closer. After a few moments, he pulled away and gave her a small smile. “I appreciate the clarification. I think that is precisely what I meant.”

“Good thing I feel the same way,” she said, giving him a smile of her own. “You know, since we’re not in any danger...maybe we could stop for food on the way back to your home? I don’t think either of us really need to cook tonight.”

Tags: Sex Worker!AU, escort!Jaime, voyeurism, loneliness, longing

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Taking a deep breath, Brienne takes a look around, hands on her hips, her thin blue top clinging to her sweaty chest. Finally done. The last box unpacked. Brienne Tarth, daughter of a little island with same name in the Stormlands, raised by a single dad, mocked for her looks her entire life, after more of a decade of hard work, has made it to the top. CEO of the most succesful high-class security company in Westeros, she has just moved into the famous Red Keep, the high-priced apartment building for the rich and beautiful. Well, she isn't beautiful. But hella rich. If she told her young, hard studying teenage self how much money she'd have one day, she'd never have believed her. She could probably buy Tarth at this point. After all, it has been family owned once upon a time. Brienne pins the thought to her mental wall of plans and goes to take a long bath in her ridiculously big bath tub. Finally, she can actually relax in a bath. Over an hour she enjoys the hot water, the bath salts and the meditating music. Tomorrow, the stress will hit her full force. She needs to be prepared. What she isn't prepared for is the view from her bedroom on her return. She doesn't have curtains yet and the building resembles a fork, meaning the next row of apartments is right across from her. And - for whatever reason - the curtains aren't drawn either. Brienne's jaw drops. A woman, pressed against the window. Naked. A man behind her. Also naked. The first is holding on for dear life as the second's trying to pound her through the glass, apparently. From the sweat on his face and chest she can tell they've been at it for some time. A shudder runs through Brienne. Tension builds in her abdomen. Heat rises from between her legs up her body, flushing her cheeks. His tight grip on her. His puffed up chest, the drops of sweat running down his defined muscles, making them glisten in the sparse light that's coming from somewhere to the right. His jaw clenched, his full blonde hair sticking to his forehead. He's an animal rutting into that poor woman (who doesn't look in pain at all). Suddenly, as if he's heard her thought, he looks up - straight into her eyes. Brienne freezes to the spot. She can't move. She can't breathe. She can't think. Like an idiot - or a pervert - she simply stands there and watching two people have sex. Dressed in merely a royal blue bathrobe. And the guy has the audacity to smirk at her. He doesn't stop. He doesn't slow down. He just smirks at and carries on. She keeps watching him. A few minutes and then he comes, his beautiful face turning into a grimace. Brienne can feel it. She feels it like a tiny explosion that's sending wave after wave of  shameful pleasure rushing through her. Seven hells, she's coming. Coming with him. They are totally in sync. When he's done, so is she, breathless and...alone. She looks up at him, feeling cold and so fucking empty, and he is looking right back, chest heaving. The smirk is gone and for a moment she imagines she can see...understanding. Finally, she runs. Back into the bathroom, where she's going to hide for an hour, trying not to die from embarrassment. Curtains. She definitely needs curtains. Tomorrow. At first light.

~oOo~

Brienne gets the curtains. Blue and pink, the colours of her old family sigil which still hangs above the mantel in Evenfhall Hall on Tarth. While she is hanging them up, he is watching her. Wearing a jeans, bare chested, a cup of coffee in his hand. His hair wet from the shower. It's 2 in the afternoon. Did he just get up? Don't engage, she thinks sternly and climbs on the foot latter, concentrating on hanging the blasted curtains. She thinks it again when he waves at her, smirking that knowing smirk. Her fingers work faster and as soon as they are on the rails, she angrily pulls them close. Keeps them drawn for a month. Works like crazy for a month. But then... But then, one night, when she's stressed, exhausted and lonely, her eyes are straying to the curtains. Wondering. It's after midnight. Too late? Not late enough? Maybe he isn't there. ...Maybe he is. Brienne withdraws her eyes, tries to focus on something else. Looks around in her giant apartment, walks the rooms for something to do. All she hears is silence. Her feet carry her back into the bedroom. To the curtains. Feeling somewhat save cloaked in darkness, her long fingers curl into the heavy cotton. Pulls it to the side, only one blue eye peeping through. He's there. Gods, he's there. And she watches. Watches him fuck this woman. A different one. Watches him thrust into her. Watches his hands grab her hips, her shoulder...her neck. Feels the ghosts of his fingers on her skin. The ghost of his cock inside of her. Like before, arousal floods her and her eyes focus on his face, this beautiful face, drinking in his sight, the power of his hips, the strong stance, the surity of his every move. When he comes, so does she. The woman is laughing and turns around, they speak and joke. They kiss. She hates it. The woman pats his cheek and slaps his ass as she walks away from the full length window. He chuckles, turns and looks after her (giving Brienne an excellent view of his absolutely perfect little hiny), runs a hand through his full blonde hair - and turns back to the window. Giving her the front view. Dear Gods in the seven heavens. And then he smiles at her. Directly at her. Brienne shrieks and jumps back, her heart pounding in her chest. How did he- ?! ~oOo~ Although she doesn't want to, she returns to the window. Night after night after night. For almost a month. She finds out his routine. And it is a routine. It's almost always the same. He brings home a woman - there are so many! -, he pours them a drink, they talk for  a while on the couch. Until he gives them that smile (it's so different from the ones he gives her, so...fake), takes their drink out of their hand, kisses their neck - and then the rest. Even from the distance she can see how fantastic he is. The women all leave satisfied. None of them stays over, never. He always showers after and, only wearing sweats, spends an hour or so in a black leather lounger, nursing a tumblr of alcohol, staring into the darkness - or at her. Sometimes, she lets him, her cheeks aflame with shame and embarrassment. It's only fair. In these moments, Brienne realizes how very alone she is. Because this, them sitting in their loungers and staring at each other gives her so much comfort. There is a calmness in his eyes that somehow soothes her to a point where she goes to bed and sleep. Sometimes, he watches her. She leaves her curtains open wide enough for him to see her as she settles in. He's always there, standing right in front of the window, giving her a sweet little smile. Watching over her until she falls asleep.   She hasn't slept that well in years. ~oOo~ If it had been up to her, it could have gone like this forever. Brienne was sleeping well, was attacking her day relaxed and energetic. It is one of these mornings, however, when this little bubble bursts. He's there. In the elevator. Her elevator. It dings, the doors slide open and. There. He. Is. Wearing shades and that damned smirk. Brienne's heart goes full stop. As does her mind and her body. He has to hold the door open for her. His arrogant chuckles shakes her out of it. She hates how this little noise rains down her back, leaving goosebumps. It turns her instinct to flee into stubborness. Straightening to her full height, she steps into the cabin. Her heart is pounding like crazy. She presses the button to the lobby and takes a step back. It's a long way down. Silently she begs him to not say a word. He does. "You smell lovely." She wants to punch him in the face. When he receives no answer, he chuckles. Adjusts his shades. He smells fantastic. He reaches into the backpocket of his very tight jeans and pulls out a card. Holds it out ot her. Brienne stares at it for a long moment. A golden lion on white paper. Then at his hand. She's spent hours watching his hand. A shiver down her front, pooling between her legs. She hates that her fingers are shaking when she finally takes the damn card. As she turns it around, her heart skips a beat. His name. His number. Jaime. It fits him perfectly. He couldn't have had a different name. Her heart is thumping in her throat. Involuntarily, her eyes rise up to his. Damn those shades. She would have loved to see those eyes. She never quite figured out if they are green or blue. His smile gets crooked and she realizes her mouth is hanging open. She snaps it shut. She doesn't know what to do. To say. How to act. At work, she has a firm personality in place. Confident, firm but fair. She can't slip into it now. This man has seen her in a towel. In her nightshirt. She has seen this man naked, having sex, climaxing and post-coital. She has seen him on his knees giving oral countless of times. Shouldn't she have the upper hand? Shouldn't she be the confident one? As if he is reading her mind, he explains all of these past weeks with one sentence: "I'm a whore." Brienne blinks. He is still smiling. "Companion. That's the fancy word the rich use. But in the end, that's what it is. They pay me, I fuck them. Sometimes accompany them to an event, a party, a charity, you name it. I clean up nice. You should see me in a tux." Another smirk. "I have time in my schedule for one more client." She's so busy trying to comprehend what is happening that she is completely missing what he is offering. "W-what?" she stumbles like an idiot. He takes a step towards her. Takes off his sunglasses. Green. His eyes are green. A deep, crystal sea green. Beautiful. His touch comes so unexpected she flinches. Once again she freezes to the spot. His fingertips slide up her bare arm. Goosebumps explode on the entirty of her skin. She doesn't like being touched. She longed to be touched by him for weeks. And now it's happening and her mind is so fuzzy she can't believe it's truly happening. Jaime... His eyes. His eyes. "I'll take good care of you", he whispers, his voice so soft, his look so tender. I'm not a ten-year-old, she wants to shout at him. Doesn't. Instead her lips part and she leans in. A flash of something in his eyes she recognizes too late. All of a sudden his hand is in her neck and he's pulling her down and - His lips are warm. Incredibly soft. When his tongue comes, she parts her lips and lets it in. A noise comes out of her she's never heard before. Immediately his arms come around her, pull her close. So close. He's so warm. So strong. So very strong. She sways. Wants to steady herself. "I've got you, sweetling", he whispers against her lips. Kisses her again. Tears fill her eyes. Before she knows what she's doing she's clinging to him like a drowning woman. He's so wonderfully tall and strong. For the first time in her life she doesn't feel like a freak in a man's arms. He's got her. She never wants to stop kissing him. Unfortunately, the elevator dings and the doors slide open. "Oh my!" Brienne jumps out of his arms. With a head red as a tomato she mumbles a hasty apology to the elderly woman waiting to get in the elevator. His hand curls around her wrist, but she pulls herself free and runs. Her driver Podrick hesitantly makes her aware that her lipstick is smeared. Brienne spends the next few minutes fixing it. Her fingers shaking. Her heart drumming. His taste lingering in her mouth.

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What do you think? This is just a first, rough draft. But I think there should be more sex worker AUs in our ship. I’m also playing around with an escort!Brienne idea...

So, this is a snippet of a WIP I haven’t posted yet. However, I really like this scene. 

In need for some soft stump cuddles? Please see below: