#Highball House

[sukunasteeth]

Insomnia

You had always had trouble sleeping.

As a child, you would wander the house in search of something to do, as a teenager you utilized it for spending countless nights painting the town red with your childhood best friend Yuji, but, as an adult, you find yourself spending more and more nights sitting in front of the window, waiting for the sun to rise in a peaceful quiet. 

The view was always better from your partner Sukuna’s apartment. Tucked into the very top of a complex that scraped against the sky, the city stretched out before his ceiling length windows like an endless mirage of glittering light. Looking out of them, you would never know it was three o’clock in the morning. The city still bustled, people the size of ants crossed the main streets below you in swathes of different walks of life; business men lost to highballs with too much whiskey, friends on their way to the next nightclub, shop workers calling to anyone with a pulse on the sidewalk. It was a perfect people-watching spot and a perfect distraction from the nightmare replaying in your head like a broken record. 

You’re sitting on the cold tile floors of his living room, curled up in a blanket you had taken from the arm of the couch. You’re positive Sukuna had never used it before and that it’s always been a decoration before you had arrived. Now, it was part of your nightly routine when Sukuna had you over to unfold it and curl in, while you spent countless hours drifting off in your own mind waiting for morning. 

It wouldn’t be long before Sukuna was up now, he had a meeting at seven o’clock in the morning that day. The two of you hadn’t gone to sleep until around midnight, naked and content. You wished you could sleep as deeply as he had been when you carefully crawled out of his bed half an hour ago, but you had accepted your insomnia by now. You found ways to live with the burden of it, and you had long since made friends with the silence and peace of nightfall. 

You always did feel guilty when Sukuna was affected by it. Like tonight, when your ears catch the door to his bedroom clicking open and you hear his bare feet against the tile approaching the living room. 

Your heart momentarily skips a beat. You think about hiding- sprinting into the bathroom as an excuse for your late night absence from his bed, but he makes it into the threshold of the living room before you get a chance to decide. 

Despite the guilt washing over you like a bucket of cold water, your heart still warms at the sight of him. He’s slipped into a pair of sweats to come find you and is still in the middle of putting on a tank top when he appears, sleepy and squinting against the light of the city signs glaring in. His hair is still a mess from your fingers pulling on it before bed, which somehow makes him even more heart wrenching to look at. Even when his eyes find you on the floor, and he immediately frowns you’re still starstruck by his sleep drunk appearance. 

“Why are you so good at that?” His voice is thick with sleep, but he talks to you as though you were just in the middle of a conversation. 

You tilt your head at him, peering over your shoulder in confusion. “Good at what?” 

“Leaving without waking me.” He scratches at the back of his head, yawning as he makes his way across the room to come stand beside you. One of his hands sweeps down his face, like he’s trying to wipe away his clear exhaustion. 

“It’s no easy task.” You admit, hoping your innocent smile is enough for him not to push any further. He stares down at you for a moment, searching your eyes reflecting in the neon of the city line. 

He huffs through his nose when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for, muttering to himself as he plops down beside you and folds his legs into a cross-legged position. He’s close enough that his side is flush against yours, his knee resting over top of your own, grounding you. “So stubborn.” You hear him say. 

As if it were second nature, you immediately rest your head against his shoulder and his arm comes around your waist in turn, scooting you even closer to him. The two of you fit together perfectly by now. Constantly trading off between who was yin and who was yang, but always in equilibrium when you were side by side.

“I need to get you a bell.” He murmurs against the shadows of his living room.

You chuckle, “Yeah? Gonna collar me?” You’re just poking fun, but when you peek up at him expecting him to be chuckling too, you find his eyes honed in on your neck, like he’s considering it. 

He doesn’t give you an answer to that one, but you can see it in his eyes that your joke has been taken as a suggestion to be logged away for future use. You bury your face into his shoulder, feeling your cheeks burning in embarrassment. 

You don’t take it back.

 The two of you sit like that for a while, allowing Sukuna’s presence to diffuse the unease from your haunting dreams. He doesn’t have to do much to comfort you. When Sukuna was beside you, comfort was a given. He joins you in silent people-watching, his hand protectively curled over your backside as though he can feel the nightmares lingering just out of his sight. 

After a while, he squeezes you to catch your attention, but doesn’t ask you to pull away from your resting place against him. 

He turns his head to press his lips into your temple, and the way he whispers your name then has you convinced you’d tell him any secret you promised you’d take straight to the grave.  “Why are we awake?” He asks.  

“I couldn’t sleep.” You whisper back,  as though you were afraid that the nightmares would hear you and realize they had won. 

Sukuna takes a few seconds breathing in your scent, patiently waiting for you to give him more information. He hums in disappointment when it’s clear that that’s all you were willing to share at the moment. 

“Suppose I didn’t work you hard enough last night.” 

It’s a joke. Such an obvious one that you can’t help but let out a laugh despite your thoughts weighing heavily. 

“Please,” You plead in a groan, “I barely made it to the living room without crawling on my hands and knees.” This was not a joke. Your legs shook like jello the moment you were on your feet and they ache with the memory of overexertion even when you're sitting. 

“I do love you on your hands and knees.” Another suggestion that you can tell he’s logged away for future use. At this point you were doing it to yourself.

 You still don’t take it back, though. 

“Let’s see,” He clears his throat and his voice takes a different cadence now, no longer conscientious of the time of night… or day rather. “The last time you had a nightmare and I caught you out here, you asked me to make you pancakes. I think I still have the mix in the cupboard…” 

You freeze up against him, your head moving mechanically upwards until you’re face to face with him. The man who reads you like a book. When you’ve tried so hard to stay shut up. When you’ve worked your entire life at achieving the perfect poker face. Time and time again he proves to you that it’s useless when he’s got your soul tucked away in his hold, yet, it never stops surprising you. 

Sukuna tilts his head, smiling like you’ve confirmed his suspicions with just one glance. “What? You think I don’t know that much, at the very least? How aloof you are~” 

He takes the opportunity to scoop your hair away from your shoulder and tuck a few strands behind your ears so that he can see your sleep deprived face clearly. At the same moment, his free hand reaches over and finds yours in the blankets.

He's smug with your shock.

“How long are you going to try to hide from me?” 

“I’m not hiding…” You whisper, even your own voice cannot bear to lie to him. He makes a warning noise, leaning closer like he can tell. 

“One day I’ll know it all. Every secret you want to keep from me. Every dream you’re too shy to tell me.” His mere proximity is enough to scramble your mind. The way his lips play just out of your reach, the way his nose brushes yours ever so slightly, the way his thumb presses into your ring finger, all of it has your focus split into too many incapacitating directions. “Your burdens. Your nightmares. All mine to bear.” 

You don’t doubt him. It’s yourself that you find apprehensive to trust. Convinced that your own mind was going to torture you with him there or not. You had spent years battling insomnia alone, and while you hated to deny him, you hated to get your own hopes up too.

“You can’t scare away all my nightmares, my love.” 

"Hmm, is that right?” Sukuna lifts your hand to his face, presses it against his lips, and places a kiss to the very center of your palm. It's almost as sweet as his next words, “Sounds like I'll just have to give you so many good dreams you’ll forget about the bad ones, then.” 

You wonder if you looked as awestruck as you felt in that moment.

He’s won. He knows he’s won. You can tell by that prideful toothy grin you feel him hiding behind your hand, the one you can see in the curve of his eyes. 

The way your heart climbs into your throat, like it’s desperate to be home in the palm of his hands, has you instantly knowing that you were truly a hopeless cause at this point. 

“When did you become so soft and sweet?” 

Sukuna laughs under his breath, “When I found out that’s just how you like it.” He answers easily, like he’s asked himself the same question before.  

“Now, do you want the pancakes or not?” 

Before you can remind him that he has a meeting in only a few hours, before you can assure him that you weren’t thinking of food at three o’clock in the morning, your stomach releases a growl that’s begging for Sukuna’s undivided attention. 

He snorts, not even bothering to wait for a verbal answer before he’s maneuvering to his feet, still grasping your hand gently in his own. 

“Come sit pretty on the counter for me.” He tugs you. “It’s cold out here.”

You don't think you've ever felt warmer.

[sloppysequinz]

I'm making alcoholic mommy tops a thing

Concept: alcoholic former trophy wife gets you in her grasp. Maybe you're working service at some charity event and she stumbles up to you, in a too tight party dress that used to fit. She's already sloppy drunk but you can't bring yourself to cut her off. You watch her down highballs like water as she points out her husband flirting with younger women across the room, but she doesn't care as long as the booze as free. You blush as she asks for a shot and hand it over, confessing you've never seen someone drink like her. She asks, would you like to learn?

You start going over to her enormous fancy empty house. There's more booze in her liquor cabinet than you thought any human could drink. She's already tipsy when she starts your lessons, you spot a couple wine bottles in the recycling. That doesn't stop her being an excellent teacher. How to mix drinks, how to make drinks that go down smooth, how to take shots gracefully. By the end of your first lesson you can hardly stand, but she's going strong. She laughs drunkenly, too loud, and gets you into an opulent guest bedroom to sleep it off. She's unsteady and clumsy but so soft and warm and you can't help but nuzzle into her, which makes her laugh again.

At your third lesson, you're uninhibited and coherent enough to confess how wet it makes you to drink like this, and to watch her get drunk. That lesson ends with her holding a bottle of wine to your lips, letting you chug desperately as she slides her hands into your panties and circles your soaked clit, slurring her words as she coos over how your unfocused eyes cross at the sensation.

From there, things start to slide further and further out from under you. More substances start to appear--first a gentle request to smoke with her before your lesson, then an enthusiastic discussion of party drugs that is followed by an offering of molly you just can't say no to. Xanny isn't scary honey, it just makes the booze hit harder. No, darling, cocaine won't hurt; you'll just have the energy to drink more.

And every time you let her win you over, her hands are all over you. Groping your tits as you drunkenly mewl at the feeling, sliding her fingers into your cunt, convincing you to clumsily lap at her pussy as she finishes her bottle of wine, toys and strap ons to fill your soaking wet holes. The more fucked up she is, the more she wants to do to you, and the more fucked up she wants to get you.

After a few months, you're living in her guest bedroom, happy on a steady diet of booze and pills and whatever else Mommy wants to give you. Neither of you are ever sober, but your brain has melted so far that even Mommy can control you. You're a fucked up eager little pet who caters to her every perverse desire.

[madebyrolo]

Island boy ☼

Bahamas with Rafe headcanons

obx masterlist

─────────────────────

✿ spending 24/7 on the beach soaking up the sun and attempting to ride the waves

✿ Rafe taking spontaneous trips to the Bahamas with you just ‘cause he can

✿ Rafe yelling at you for going too deep mainly for the fact he’s scared you’ll drown or get swept into sea

✿ Rafe dragging you out for a fishing day on the boat

✿ Having the whole house to yourself for a week before the rest of the family comes

✿ Rafe inviting both of your families for a vacation and paying for an airbnb for them

✿ going out for dinner dates everywhere on the island trying the cuisine

✿ Rafe being more of a Stake man than fish and complaing how everywhere only serves fish

✿ Rafe buying you every bikini you want except for “non family friendly ones”

✿ Stopping at every small shop you see and not caring if they highball you for being a tourist

✿ fruit being 80% of you diet

✿ Rafe being the riches man alive and still arguing with the owners for scamming you an extra $20 bucks

✿ Rafe buying you a Jeep because even though he’ll never stop driving you around but you enjoy the drives

✿ going site seeing and hikes

✿ be friending other island girls your age and hanging out 24/7

─────────────────────

Something quick for you guys !!

[aurumacadicus]

Please please please remember fruit bats as October approaches please I'm begging you it will be so funny if AO3 gets inundated with fruit bat vampires for Halloween

--

Bucky smells the vampire approaching the bar before he senses them. They have a distinct aroma, like prey that sets his hackles up. "We're out of all AB and A negative, so if you want blood, I can only offer you O, B, and A positive," he says, not turning from putting new bottles on the back bar. They'd had a surprise hen night. Harpies liked their drinks strong. Steve had to refill the kegs twice.

"Oh, um," the vampire answers after a moment. "I just wanted a piña colada."

Bucky blinks at the bottles once, then blinks again, harder, just to be sure. Finally, he turns, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. "A piña colada?" he repeats, skeptical, just before his eyes land on the vampire in question.

He understands immediately upon seeing him. His fangs don't drop when Bucky makes eye contact with him, although he does stand straighter when he realizes Bucky is a werewolf. His eyes don't flash red, either. He keeps his head tipped forward, looking up at him through his lashes, but not in a way that says he's on the hunt. A fruit bat. He's seeing an honest to God fruit bat in his bar.

"...I didn't see a 'no bat' sign," the vampire adds hesitantly.

Bucky immediately leaned in, leering at him. "I don't discriminate, doll," he drawls, low and slow, and is delighted when the vampire's cheeks flush a pretty pink.

"Sounds like you're coming on to me," the vampire jokes, scratching his cheek.

"He is," Steve says flatly, slamming a highball glass down on the counter in front of the vampire. "Here, Tony. On the house for Bucky's assumption."

"Oh, thank you," Apparently Tony replies, taking the glass in both hands. He points at the corner booth. "And the rest want a pitcher of beer and a pitcher of margarita."

"I'll bring them by," Steve agrees, then grabs Bucky by the scruff and yanks him back from the bar. "Tony doesn't do casual," he growls, teeth going sharp in warning.

"Gran's been mentioning an arranged mating so this as good a time as any to settle down," Bucky says, because Steve hadn't turned him in a way that kept him from admiring the vampire's shapely rear.

"Make the margaritas," Steve barks, shaking him, before grabbing another pitcher to fill with beer. "And Tony's drink is coming out of your tips, just so you know."

"You know I can't stand tequila you are punishing me enough," Bucky hisses. He hears a laugh that makes his stomach flutter and turns, choking back a whine when he sees that Tony has thrown his head back and his neck is one long line of need-to-be-nibbled skin. "Fuck." His hackles are rising for a completely different reason and it's embarrassing.

"Make the pitcher," Steve growls, and there's an edge to it that makes him want to flash his belly in submission.

"Yeah okay," Bucky sighs miserably, grabbing down a bottle of top shelf.

[anlian-aishang]

Vampire!Levi & Cunnilingus

Tags: levi x reader, smut, cunnilingus, period sex, blood, reader is propped against the wall, modern AU, college party, alcohol mention, fem!reader Word count: 2200 A/N: Thank you @bluebellhairpin for putting on the incredible Friday Night Bash! Had too much fun with this event 🖤 A/N2: Wrote a similar fic here if you are interested 🖤

You supposed it was only natural. 

At this age, motivation was a scarce resource. The burlier men donned flannel and jeans and called themselves lumberjacks. Any girl could become any cat with enough black eyeliner. 

Levi was the only vampire here, yet his costume seemed to take no more effort than anyone else’s. If anything, he was born a natural. Thin brows and slivered eyes. Jet black hair and moonlit skin. Fangs just barely curtained by red lips. Simultaneously, somehow the most convincing yet the most casually constructed. 

He noticed, you did too, the utter contrast that your roles conveyed. Levi was dressed head to toe in black, sparing only the white cravat tucked beneath his chin. You, on the other hand, had whipped all the white out from your closet and feigned yourself an angel. In his eyes, you weren’t feigning. House party vape could be reimagined as clouds, a heavenly background to your character. It made you shine through the swarm of sweaty brats. You were one of a handful who was neither spilling their drink nor coughing it up. In the middle of the room, a wallflower, staring down at her virgin spirit and clutching it in two hands. 

White tights hugged your legs. Blank sheer skirt hardly hid that contour. Long sleeves for the cold Halloween night, the layers beneath had compounded to caress your curves. You were covered from top to bottom. Still, Levi could read you like a book. Hard cover. Soft cover. Levi clenched his teeth and growled. 

You looked lonely as ever, tugged in contradictory directions of yearning: begging for someone to start the conversation for you, praying that no one would notice you, imagining meeting a guy here, thinking up excuses to ditch this party early. Your desires, Levi saw them, and he longed to fill all of them.

His hands began to twitch, irritated that his thoughts were getting too sentimental for his liking. Indeed, when his thirst neared such dangerous levels, he found composure harder to retain. Nails curled against the glass highball: is she really the one? 

The one he had traversed miles for. The one he had craved for the past several days. A scent and taste he needed so badly, Levi would suffer a college party for it. After all, that was why he was here. He clutched his head with his hand, silk glove smooth against his forehead. Bangs pushed to the sides, he held that grip and released a heavy sigh. At first, he thought he had done well to pinpoint it to one apartment building, even better to one apartment unit. Only once he ascended the staircase, heard the blaring music and saw the glaring lights, did he realize that the hardest part of this search was yet to come. Over a hundred people here. Half of them potential subjects. All he could do was stand idle and observe feverishly: who was the source?

Already, the bias was brewing for you, it was why his pupils were particularly quick to snap at the sudden drop of red that soiled your pristine outfit. Your inner thigh. Levi blinked harshly, but that trickle did not fade. Better yet, it tracked along the inner seam of your pantyhose: blotting, darkening. 

Toes curled against the soles of his leather shoes. Calves strained to dilute his pace as he began to gravitate towards you. From your perspective, strobe flashes of red made his approach play like a slideshow. Before you could discern who he was and what he was doing, the room would turn black again. Suddenly, he was only inches away, steady eyes met your widened ones.

“H’Hey,” Inside of his gloves, Levi pinched the inside of his palm. The attempt to ground himself did not defeat his stutter. “I thought -” a clear of his throat, “- thought I should let you know…” Levi leaned in, his lips to your ear.

His breath was cold on your skin. Beneath your blouse and in the wake of his chill, you felt your nipples peak against the fabric - even more so when he whispered, “You’re bleeding.”

On your gasp, you nearly choked. Levi found it adorable how you immediately, instinctively, brought your hand between your legs. Shameful was your expression. Shameless were your actions. Beneath your skirt, you palmed around, frantically feeling for proof of his claim. Three fingers to the slip of your panties were quickly soaked. With your gaze deadset in shock then panic, Levi allowed himself a lick of his lips. 

You turned over your shoulder to examine your backside, inadvertently revealing it to him as well. A teardrop of crimson just below your spine, having seeped through your underwear, tights, and skirt, Levi was hyper-aware of how wet you must have been in order to achieve those levels of penetration. The thought, the image, of your skin slickened in syrup made his pants turn tight.

His erection surged further when you beckoned him towards the stairway. “Maybe you could help me find a change of clothes?” 

An invitation.

"And help me out of these ones?"

Though watching you bleed through this outfit would be a fantasy for the millennium, he felt his levels dripping to empty. He needed it. Your blood in him. Now. 

But his needs were far from your mind. It was one of the only reasons your roommates had convinced you to allow them to host this get-together in the first place. You can’t sleep with guys if you don’t meet some guys. They had made it their mission to help you find someone, and it didn’t even have to be an eternal someone - though Levi Ackerman happened to be. Someone to show you a good time, to help you unwind a little. Of course, you would not settle for a trash bag, but a man who was willing to display such honesty and no disgust about the symptoms of your period - he had to be a good one, and he wasn’t hard on the eyes either. 

Your expectations had been low, perhaps a little too low. Least of all nights did you expect a booze-filled Halloween party to be the night that you brought a guy up to your room. Flinging open the door, you were met with violent whiplash: why the hell didn’t I clean?!

Chocolate bar wrappers on the floor. Midol on the nightstand. A box of overnight pads at the foot of the bed. Triple-thick tampons in a plastic bag that hung around the other side of your door handle. Worst of all, blood-stained underwear that had sorely missed the hamper and instead carpeted your floor.

“Oh my god, I’m - I’m so sorry!” You darted into the room and tried to fling the evidence out of sight. Obviously, Levi had just been deathly upfront about noticing your period. Yet, you were mortified, back turned to him and hurling apologies, “This - This is not very sexy, I know.”

Levi could only shake his head and clench his teeth. You had that all wrong. He would take this menstruation-riddled bedroom over a honeymoon suite any night. Silent footsteps brought his front to your back, his palm to your waist, “Just leave it,” Levi exhaled, his voice teetered on moaning, “and leave yourself to me.”

His arousal solid and warm against your blood-soaked backside, your enamor spiked: not only cool about this time of the month, but hot for it. You ground yourself against his member, satisfied with his length, you reached your hand to his neck and pulled him close. “Undress me, Levi.”

You were the only one who viewed this as a one-night stand. If anything, Levi hoped that you would live with him forever, that you would continue to flow, and that he could spend eternity swallowing you down. However, the haste in his movements implied that the two of you shared that one-night fervor. Nails scraped down your hips as he yanked your bloodied tights to your feet. Instead of taking them off, he used the excess length to make knots around your ankles, binding your legs into a loop. 

With inhuman strength and alarming speed, Levi had you in his arms and slammed against your bedroom wall before you could summon the breath to screech. Levi slipped himself within the cage of your legs. Backs of your knees to his shoulders. Heels dug into his nape. Your sex dwindled tantalizingly close to his mouth. 

Holy hell, you gasped, no man had ever had you like this before. By this point, you had learned that period sex was a rarity, receiving head during that time of the month - an impossibility. Instead, Levi dove straight in, unlike any of the rest.

And oh, were you spot-on about that. Levi Ackerman was no man. His skills were no act. The hair, the outfit, the fangs no occasion. This was his truest self: out of this world. He was grateful for the holiday, the one day of the year that his vest, slacks, and perfectly polished shoes would stand out. Levi admired the red lights of the party, making everyone’s irises match his giveaway shade. The greatest obstacle - the invitation, the consent - you had granted before he even had to ask. All tells he had fretted over, you made yourself perfectly blind to them. As your sex bled right before his eyes, he could only chuckle and admit, “so fucking pathetic.” 

Perhaps he was projecting. He had not even tasted you yet, had not even stripped you free, and already, he felt he was on the edge. His tip swelled against the cold metal belt buckle. Black pants hid the damp that precum had created. For a second, his mind flickered: which one of you was more wet? The answer came to him, though, by a glob of blood that dripped from your core and onto his white cravat.

Looking down, you were horrified. Mouth fell agape, an utter loss for words. Levi made up for your shortcomings as his sentiment flowed freely. 

“Oh? What’s this? Having a hard time containing yourself?” At his waist, his arousal made a mockingly timed rise. 

His teasing pricked your skin, each capillary blazed in embarrassment. You could not bear to make eye contact, instead, glued to his pristine white cloth that you had forever tainted. Years of experience, you knew those stains did not come out. 

Levi had a way.

Slowly, his tongue slid over his bottom lip and dragged along the silk threads. One strong, deliberate swipe had erased your DNA from the garment. In the throes of midnight, your eyes struggled to be sure, but Levi himself knew. At the first taste of your blood, he was sparked with revival.

“Mmm,” Levi hummed, “tastes good.” For now, he withheld: even better than I anticipated.

Though neither his hunger nor thirst were yet satiated. Not until you were sucked bone-dry, not until your pussy ran clear. Eating you out, he snuck occasional glances to affirm you were not at those milestones. In his frame of mind, rather, he had not yet brought you to them. 

Levi was the kind to savor the taste, but there was little indication of that on this cold autumn night. The motions of his tongue were swift. His slurping was delectably crude, coating his throat and coaxing out even more dirty talk. His canines grazed your most sensitive spots. You thought to ask him to take his fangs off, but in the end, realized you adored them. Good thing, they were irremovable.

Not one drop of you made it past that cravat. Most of your mess had been clotted by his skin. A red stripe ran down his face as he brought his whole front to the middle of your battle. Sweet metal. Saccharine iron. A salted cocktail. That was your drink - one he guzzled. When you asked for his fingers, he would religiously lick them clean.

Your muscles had grown weak, having lost count of how many times you had climaxed thus far. He had kept you in ignorant, mutually selfish bliss for god knows how long. It was only when you reached your arm towards him, combing through his hair and petting his head, that you realized how drained you were. Hardly able to speak, faint and incoherent, “You like that, huh? Like that, Levi?”

Through drenched bangs, he gazed up to meet your eye contact. So fucked-out, you paid no mind to the scarlet of his stare. “It’s like you can’t get enough.”

Cruelly timed, he felt your ridges start to clench around his face again. Nonchalant, he spoke into you as you began to cum again. “Makes two of us, then.”

Words seemed to make rhythm with your waves, and each one, you swore was better than the last. Tilting your head back against the wall, you arched yourself further into him, “F’Fuck, Levi!!” 

How did he - in just one night - manage to do you like this? 

Little did you know, it was not just one night, but an entire lifetime that he had been waiting, anticipating, preparing for this moment. You would remember this encounter as a night that you happened to cross paths with the man of your dreams. Levi saw it a very different way, no chance happening: the evening that he had scoured enough of this goddamned earth. A tale of lifeblood: the clean freak to your mess, monthly or otherwise.

Kinktober Year 3 Masterlist

[jmdbjk]

He wears his heart on his sleeve

...maybe he should just get it tattooed there too.

Jungkookie was very quiet and reflective during his most recent Weverse live, at least at first.

Perhaps he was manifesting his Jimin to appear in the comments because he stared at them for a while... a long while.

Earlier in the evening, with Tae, he attended the movie premiere of Dream, a soccer movie with a ragtag team storyline. A team of misfits who come together and persevere. It stars Tae's friend, Park Seojoon, Wooga squad and fellow cast member on Jinny's Kitchen.

He looked happy to be there but self-conscious at the same time. Unused to the crowds and spotlight after being out of it for a while. He didn't have anyone to hide behind. It looks like maybe he said "oh my god" when he stepped up in front of the bank of cameras (haha).

After having a supposedly fun outing, Kookie came to visit us on Weverse live and seemed to have a lot on his mind. He said he missed us and wished us good health both physically and mentally. I imagine Hobi leaving for service and Moonbin's tragedy last week are fresh cuts to our Kookie's heart. It breaks MY heart that Kookie has to experience those things. I don't know how close Kookie was to Moonbin. But I do know losing someone so suddenly can make you so scary aware of your own mortality and makes you realize instantly what should truly be important and what is irrelevant.

I am thinking his evening out had him keyed up and he came to visit with us in order to decompress and relax. He said the only ones who could create a calming environment for him right now was Army. However, the (I'm sure inane) comments he was seeing were not doing the trick. He seemed a little perturbed at them so he turned them off.

But he said sitting there knowing we were on the other side was calming and enough for him at that moment. He felt at peace knowing we are all connected. And then he let out a big sigh. Sort of a "I'm doing the best I can" sigh. Oh Kookie, I feel you.

Incidentally, the song he said he was obsessed with that evening and that he had playing in the background on repeat was I Really Want to Stay At Your House by Rosa Walton & Hallie Coggins ... some of the lyrics:

Another evening I'll be sitting reading in between your lines Because I miss you all the time...

...I'm on top of you, I don't wanna go 'Cause I really wanna stay at your house

He said he's working hard on new music but its difficult. If he says its not easy, then the final result will probably be OUTSTANDING because he struggled to make HIS version of perfect. Masterpieces are sometimes not easy to create.

He was steadily sinking, sitting in the dark, sipping his highball through a straw but after 35 minutes of solemnity and saying he needed to go to sleep, he all of a sudden came alive when he began talking about food... go figure.

He waffled back and forth about whether he should just get off his butt and make the noodles or go to sleep, but then he really got into it and explained in great detail this recipe, down to the proper color of the perilla oil to use. Though he didn't have the correct perilla oil in his pantry, he made the sauce and boiled the noodles.

The whole idea of him puttering around his kitchen trying out new ways to make noodle or rice dishes is very endearing. He does have somewhat of a head start in advanced levels of cooking though because of the times they filmed Run BTS episodes with Chef Paik. He learned important cooking procedures like "reduce" the liquid in the pan and desirable "viscosity" of the sauce.

When he's into it, HE. IS. INTO. IT. He adjusted his recipe, repeated the ratios of ingredients, explained in great detail every step.

Please. Someone just hug him. JIMIN COME GET YOUR MAN.

[angelicguy]

at a hobbits house feet up eating his favorite snacks and he's too much of a wimp to say anything. pacing back and forth nervously oh bother oh bother i throw a highball glass at him as hard as i can and he falls to the ground

[burtonandtaylor]

Burton’s First Encounter with Taylor (1953)

“It was my first time in California and my first visit to a swank house. There were quite a lot of people in and around the pool, all suntanned and all drinking the Sunday morning liveners – Bloody Marys, boilermakers, highballs, iced beer. I knew some of the people and was introduced to the others. Wet brown arms reached out of the pool and shook my hand. The people were all friendly, and they called me Dick immediately. I asked if they would please call me Richard – Dick, I said, made me feel like a symbol of some kind. They laughed, some of them. It was, of course, Sunday morning and I was nervous.

I was enjoying this small social triumph, but then a girl sitting on the other side of the pool lowered her book, took off her sunglasses and looked at me. She was so extraordinarily beautiful that I nearly laughed out loud. I didn’t, of course, which was just as well. The girl was not, and, quite clearly, was not going to be laughing back. I had an idea that, finding nothing of interest, she was looking right through me and was examining the texture of the wall behind. If there was a flaw in the sandstone, I knew she’d find it and probe it right to the pith. I fancied that if she chose so, the house would eventually collapse.

I smiled at her and, after a long moment, just as I felt my own smile turning into a cross-eyed grimace, she started slightly and smiled back. There was little friendliness in the smile. A new ice cube formed of its own accord in my Scotch-on-the-rocks.

She sipped some beer and went back to her book. I affected to become social with the others but out of the corner of my mind – while I played for the others the part of a poor miner’s son who was puzzled, but delighted by the attention these lovely people paid to him – I had her under close observation. She was, I decided, the most astonishingly self-contained, pulchritudinous, remote, removed, inaccessible woman I had ever seen. She spoke to no one. She looked at no one. She steadily kept on reading her book. Was she merely sullen? I wondered. I thought not. There was no trace of sulkiness in the divine face. She was a Mona Lisa type, I thought. In my business everyone is a type. She is older than the deck chair on which she sits, I thought headily, and she is famine, fire, destruction, and plague, she is the Dark Lady of the Sonnets, the on lie true begetter. She is a secret wrapped in an enigma inside a mystery, I thought with a mental man-to-man nod to Churchill. Her breasts were apocalyptic, they would topple empires down before they withered. Indeed, her body was a miracle of construction and the work of an engineer of genius. It needed nothing but itself. It was true art, I thought, executed in terms of itself. It was smitten by its own passion. I used to think things like that. I was not long down from Oxford and Walter Pater was still talked of and I read the art reviews in the quality weeklies without much caring about the art itself, and it was a Sunday morning in Bel Air, and I was nervous, and there was the Scotch-on-the-rocks.

Like Miniver Cheevy I kept on drinking and, in the heady flow of the attention I was getting, told story after story as the day boozed slowly on. I went in swimming once or twice. So did she, but, lamentably, always after I’d come out. She swam easily and gracefully as an Englishwoman would and not with the masculine drive and kick of most American girls. She was unquestionably gorgeous. I can think of no other word to describe a combination of plentitude, frugality, abundance, tightness. She was lavish. She was a dark unyielding largesse. She was, in short, too bloody much, and not only that, she was totally ignoring me. I became frustrated almost to screaming when I had finished a well-received and humorous story about the death of my grandfather and found that she was turned away in deep conversation with another woman. I think I tried to eavesdrop but was stayed by words like – Tony and Janet and Marlon and Sammy. She was not, obviously, talking about me.

Eventually, with half-seas-ed cunning and with all the nonchalance of a traffic jam, I worked my way to her side of the pool. She was describing – in words not normally written – what she thought of a producer at M.G.M. This was my first encounter with freedom of speech in the U.S.A., and it took my breath away. My brain throbbed; I almost sobered up. I was profoundly shocked. It was ripe stuff. I checked her again. There was no question about it. She was female. In America the women apparently had not only got the vote – they’d got the words to go with it.

I was somewhat puzzled and disturbed by the half-look she gave me as she uttered the enormities. Was she deliberately trying to shock me? Those huge violet-blue eyes (the biggest I’ve ever seen, outside those who have glandular trouble – thyroid, et cetera) had an odd glint in them. You couldn’t describe it as a twinkle…. Searchlights can not twinkle, they turn on and off and probe the heavens and so on.

Still I couldn’t be left out. I had to join in and say something. I didn’t reckon on the Scotch though. I didn’t reckon that it had warped my judgment and my sense of timing, my choice of occasion. With all the studied frenzy of Dutch courage I waded into the depths of those perilous eyes.

In my best chiffon-and-cut-glass Oxford accent I said: “You have a remarkable command of Olde-Englishe.”

There was a pause in which I realized with brilliant clarity the relativity of time. Aeons passed, civilizations came and went, brave men and cowards died in battles not yet fought, while those cosmic headlights examined my flawed personality. Every pockmark on my face became a crater of the moon. I reached up with a casual hand to cover up the right-cheeked evidence of my acne’d youth. Halfway up I realized my hand was just as ugly as my face and decided to leave the bloody thing and die instead. But while contemplating the various ways of suicide and having sensibly decided, since I had a good start, to drink myself to death, I was saved by her voice which said, “Don’t you use words like that at the Old Vic?”

“They do,” I said, “but I don’t. I come from a family and an attitude that believe such words are an indication of weakness in vocabulary and emptiness of mind…. Despite Jones’s writing that in times of acute shared agony and fear, as in trench warfare, obscenities repeated in certain patterns can at times become almost liturgical, almost poetic….” I ran out of gas.

There was another pause; more empires fell. Captains and kings and counsellors arrived and departed. She said three four-letter words. These were, I think, “Well! Well! Well!”

Somebody laughed uneasily. The girl had turned away. I had been dismissed. I felt as lonely as a muezzin, as a reluctant piano lesson on a Saturday afternoon, as the Last Post played on a cracked bugle.

I went home and somebody asked, when I told them where I’d been, what she was like. “Dark. Dark. Dark. Dark. She probably,” I said, “shaves.” To nobody in particular I observed that the human body is eighty percent water.”

Words by Richard Burton

[jessaerys]

asked for huge amount of money from this publishing house (highballing for negotiating purposes) and they just emailed back and im TOO SCARED TO OPEN IT

[ask-jay-gatsby]

Dear Mr. Gatsby,

What is your go-to drink (besides champagne) to order at the speakeasy? I always get a gin and tonic but I’m looking to expand my horizons!

Yours,

L.L.

POST: LONG ISLAND, NY. 1 AUG 1922

Dear L. L.,

What a great pleasure it is to hear from you. However, I will say, I’m not quite so sure what you mean by the speak-easy…

…but at the ‘barber-shop’…

I know this might come as a surprise to many, but do tend to stay away from drink for the most part. At my parties—at my own house where I am legally allowed to have alcohol, mind you, because I’ve surely most definitely had it since before Volstead took effect—I keep sober to keep present.

When I’m at lunch or so, I’ll drink something just to avoid looking out of place, usually a highball of some sort, or something mixed with a heavy hand of fruit juice, typically orange juice.

Occasionally—and this stays between us—with familiar bartender barber, I’ll give him a special look and there will be nothing but juice in my glass. It’s better to do business with the upper hand, you know, and I’ll get that upper hand any way I can.

I’ll let you in on the recipe to a popular drink at my parties, however:

The French 75

2 ounces gin

1 teaspoon simple syrup

½ ounce fresh lemon juice

4 ounces Champagne

Serve over ice. Happy (legal) drinking!

Sincerely and emphatically,

Jay Gatsby

P. S. I cannot be held responsible for the illegal purchase of alcohol inspired by this pre-Volstead perfectly legal recipe.

[norabrice1701]

Coincidence - Ch. 5, Pt. II

Dr. Alan Grant x Predoctoral Student Fem!Reader

Series Main List

Ch. 5 Warnings: Explicit 18+ NSFW smut (including protected sexual intercourse); older man/younger woman relationship (no underage); explicit language; dinosaur PTSD; pining and inappropriate crush; Alan Grant’s canon upper-body strength

It doesn’t take long to exit the car and duck under the small awning on the backside of the house. The door opens and warm light floods the space to reveal a functional, tidy kitchen. At quick glance, you can’t tell if its neat state is because he seldom uses it or he’s just clean with his habits - but having seen his office, you suspect the former. He toes out of his shoes and drops his briefcase beside them before padding down the small hallway, turning on more lights as he goes. You follow suit with your wet shoes and set your purse down before following him. 

The house glows with golden light that bounces off warm wood paneling and shelves, leather couches and plaid armchairs. Piles of books rest here and there, intermixed with other curios of exploration - a globe on a spindle, binoculars and a leather case, magnifying glasses and various fossil specimens. It’s obviously a bachelor’s home, but it’s far from slovenly - more just… comfortably lived in. The thought brings a warm smile to your face as you silently follow him past the main living room and into a large, adjacent room. 

A tall and wide bookshelf dominates this room, lined with more books, spotted with artwork, and… are those vinyl records? You can’t help but step closer, squinting to better examine the narrow spines, and your smile widens. You’re not sure if you would have considered him to be a music fan, but there’s quite a surprising collection here. Glass clinks across the room, and you glance over your shoulder to see him standing at a bar cabinet opposite the worn, plaid couch and leather armchair. 

Brown liquid sloshes against a glass as he pours and meets your gaze. “What’s your poison?” 

“How about… whiskey?” It’s not your favorite, but it’s popular at the dig sites and you’ve acquired a taste for it. 

A smirk of approval flashes across his face before he tips the already open bottle over a second highball, and more liquid pours out. With both glasses in hand, he skirts around the couch to hand you one. 

With another heavy sigh, he holds his glass out. “Well, I guess… here’s to your next adventure.” 

“Thanks.” You sound sadder than you would like as your glass meets his with a gentle clink. The whiskey is surprisingly smooth as it slides down your throat, warming you from within. He motions towards the armchair before he drops to sit on the couch, taking another long pull of his drink. 

The chair’s springs feel a little worn, and you think it matches the style of the leather sofa in the living room - and the sudden thought that he bought two living room furniture sets and mixed them together makes you smirk against the rim of your glass. Swallowing another mouthful of whiskey, you glance back at the bookshelf. “I wouldn’t have guessed that you were a big music fan.” 

His gaze follows yours to the bookshelf, huffing an amused sigh. “I don’t think I am, really. I inherited most of that collection from the couple that used to live here.” He taps a finger against his glass. “They were an elderly couple, downsizing… and they asked if I had any interest in it. Truthfully, I’ve barely listened to any of it, but it was less furniture to have to buy.” 

You nod in consideration. “I suppose that does make sense.” Your gaze continues to sweep the room, and it looks like his office away from campus - or more like a study, perhaps. A desk rests behind the couch, flanking the bar cabinet, and the plaid couch looks comfortably broken-in as if it’s hosted him for many long nights of intellectual pursuits. Another silence falls, and maybe it should be awkward, but somehow… it’s not. Somehow, it’s enough just to sit with him now. 

“Thank you.” He says at length, drawing your attention to his small, appreciative smile. “For what you did back there and not… not making a big deal about it. Or… asking any questions.” 

“Of course.” You easily reply. “You… you didn’t make a big deal about it, either. Or ask any questions that day… of the storm.” 

If possible, he looks even more world-weary as he takes another sip of whiskey. “I just didn’t want to see you get hurt. With the amount of damage done to the main tent canvas during that storm, you would have been hurt had you stayed, and that would have been on me.” 

“No, it wouldn’t,” you counter genty. “I signed all the legal waivers to be there. If I hurt myself because of a fucking panic attack, then that would have been no one’s fault but mine for not… well, for not admitting that I was a safety hazard to the excavation.” 

“You’re not a safety hazard.” He shakes his head dismissively. “Not anymore than I am because I…” His words trail off with a sigh before bowing his head and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Honestly, I don’t know what I am…”

You wet your top lip before taking another sip of the heady liquor. “Well, who says that you have to be anything more than just yourself?” 

He goes still against the couch for a long moment before raising his head. His gaze finds yours as his brow furrows in deep contemplation. You can’t tell what he’s thinking behind those mesmerizing, slate-blue eyes of his, but you don't dare shy away from his gaze. In fact, you want to commit everything about it to memory as your heart starts racing. 

His eyes narrow with a familiar sharp, shrewd edge. “You know… out of all your peers, you’re the only one who hasn’t once asked me about it.” He tilts his head in further interest. “I know it’s not for your lack of curiosity - you’re far too bright for that - so, that must mean it was a deliberate choice on your part….” The corner of his mouth lifts with a knowing edge. “You’ve chosen not to ask me about the articles, the rumors, or about the island, about… any of it.”

Your mouth goes dry and you resist the sudden urge to fidget against the chair. “Because it’s none of my business. It never has been.” Your fingers tighten against the highball. “Ever since the dig was canceled - ever since you told us not to give any statements to the media - you’ve known more than what you’ve been saying, but if you’re not saying it, then there must be a good reason why. And asking you just seemed… disrespectful.” 

His shoulders sag under some invisible weight and he exhales another deep sigh before lifting his glass and draining it. His tongue darts out to catch a stray drop on his bottom lip as his eyes turn distant. “It’s worse at night,” he whispers solemnly. “The moving shadows, the flashing lights… yes, the T-Rex shook the ground when she walked, but she was adept at hiding it during the hunt. But the raptors…” his words trail off with a trembling sigh. “Both stunning - fascinating in their intelligence - and utterly… terrifying.” 

You forget how to breathe, shocked by the gravity of his words. 

He purses his lips, fingers clenching around the empty glass as if regretting its empty state. “There was one moment… the two raptors had us flanked, had the advantage… and there was nothing….” He shakes his head with a trembling breath and horrific memory. “Absolute death stared me in the face and all I could do was stare helplessly back…”

You wait on baited breath, speechless and dumbfounded. 

He gives another helpless shake of his head. “And, then when it didn’t come… and you find yourself back in the normal world - buying groceries, doing laundry, making small talk with the neighbors - but you’re still shell shocked by it, by all of it, by suddenly… coming face-to-face with creatures that have been extinct for 65 million years, that I’ve devoted my life to study-” His voice chokes up, suddenly pushing to his feet and avoiding your gaze as he returns to the bar cabinet. 

His sudden motion stirs you to action, and you swallow the rest of your whiskey before rising and joining him at the cabinet. He pours another measure for himself, and you hold your glass out for a second round. Your eyes linger on his profile all the while, wanting so desperately to reach out and touch him - to soothe his troubled brow, to wrap him in the tightest hug. 

Your heart beats so loud that you wonder if he can hear it. “And you’ve carried all of that with you since… since you returned? There’s been no one that you could tell?” 

“Ellie, of course.” He says before taking another hearty gulp. “But she was there, too - and we both… at first, we thought we could ignore it. But life never returned to normal, and neither did we.” 

Your heart breaks anew as the silence stretches. Too many thoughts run through your head and you take a big drink of whiskey to help clear your head. But the growing fog at the corners of your mind tells a different story. Emboldened with another drink, your gaze returns to linger on the handsome definition of his profile - the strong line of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the sweep of hair across his brow. What would it be to kiss his cheek? To trail your lips down to his, hearing his breath catch in the moment before his mouth meets yours? 

With a trembling breath, you shake your head to steady your thoughts. “T-thank you for telling me.” You say softly, your voice thready in the silence. “I have been concerned for you these last months, you know. Watching you just lose yourself in your work, like… if you stopped, something horrible would catch you. And now… now, it makes perfect sense.” Heat rises in your cheeks and you take another fortifying drink of whiskey. “You bore all the questions and media scrutiny with dignity, though - you’ve never once lost your temper or told anyone to fuck off. Sounds like you’d be well within your right if you did, though. Hell, I think I would have done it at least once by now.” 

Another wave of exhaustion overtakes him as he looks lost for words. Clearly everything he’s been through has taken quite the toll and continues to haunt him - and goodness, how can you leave him now? Err, not that you should stay the night - certainly not uninvited - but how can you go to New Mexico and leave him alone? If you’re the only person who knows what he’s been through, then that does mean he really has no one else…? 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers quietly, shaking his head with an air of shame. “That’s… a lot more than you bargained for tonight, I’m sure.” 

“No - please don’t apologize.” You reassure as your gaze roams freely over his face. “I think you needed the outlet, quite frankly. I’m just sorry that it manifested in a panic attack…” 

He glances over at you with a tired, lopsided smirk. “At least, I’m in good company - the best I could ask for, really.” 

Your heart warms at the sentiment and you’re helpless to hold back an answering smile as you all but melt under his gaze. “Same goes for you, you know.” 

Again, he holds out his glass to meet yours with another gentle clink before you each take another long drink. Endless questions swirl in the back of your brain because, seriously… what the fuck? Actual, living dinosaurs?! The how's and why's of such an impossible concept gnaw at your academic curiosity, urging you to keep asking him for details. But he looks so strung out and so tired, how could you possibly push him any further? In fact, maybe it's best if you just leave. Especially before you have the chance to do anything stupid  Swallowing the last mouthful of heady liquor, you take a deep breath. “Well, I should… I don’t want to be a bad houseguest and overstay my welcome.” 

“You haven’t overstayed anything,” he reassures gently. “It’s been nice to share a drink with you.” 

An appreciative smile curves your lips. “You, too.” You turn from the bar cabinet and thread back around the couch. The movement upends the lightheaded fog in your brain and your balance falters, tipping you towards the couch. You catch yourself with a steadying hand, and okay… maybe your meager dinner wasn’t enough for drinking whiskey. 

“Are you alright?” The gentle concern on his voice raises embarrassed heat in your cheeks as you try to offer a dismissive smile. 

“Yeah. I’m fine, thanks.” You try to ignore the dubious look on his face but your vibrato falters nonetheless. “Maybe just… my dinner wasn’t hearty enough for two glasses of whiskey.” 

An understanding look dawns on his face as he nods. “Well, if the dean would never forgive you for a car hitting me, then the dean would surely murder me if a former student gets a DUI on alcohol that can be traced back to my place.” His mouth curves with a suddenly shy, almost awkward smirk. “So, you can just… take my bed, and I’ll stay here on the couch.” 

Your mouth nearly falls agape as your cheeks flame. “Oh no, that’s… not necessary. You don’t need to be all chivalrous like that. I can just - the couch will be fine.” 

His eyes narrow with mild reproach as his grin sharpens. “Didn’t you just say that you don’t want to be a bad houseguest?” He taps a finger against his empty glass, waiting until you nod before continuing. “Then, stop refusing my hospitality.” 

Words choke in your throat as he starts to walk around the couch. Should you thank him again? Should you try to offer more protests? Your head spins as you suddenly feel deep in over your head and your heart threatens to beat out of your chest. 

“Just, uh…” He turns back around towards you, offering a small smile. “Make yourself at home, and I’ll be back in a few minutes.” 

You nod quickly. “Okay, thank you…” Your brain goes into overdrive, and, holy shit… you’re going to spend the night at Dr. Grant’s house. 

In his bed. 

By yourself. 

Nothing about any of that should be real, and truly, such thoughts are best left to your secret midnight fantasies… yet, here you are. You long for another steadying drink of whiskey - or, perhaps water, better yet - and you exhale nervously. There’s no reason for you to freak out about this - and despite your initial protests, he’s being the perfect gentleman about the whole thing - and really, why should you complain about that? Especially if it’s going to let you sleep in his bed. 

Looking for a distraction from your raging thoughts, you step back up to the wide bookcase and examine the spines of the vinyl record albums. Vaughn Monroe, Patsy Cline, Waylon Jennings, Dolly Parton - so many artists that you have passing knowledge about but can’t put your finger on any one specific song. It appears that the couple who used to live here had a heavy love of twangy country music. Was this their music room? Did they spend hours two-stepping or just listening and singing together? 

Somehow, you can’t picture Dr. Grant… Alan doing that. In fact, you can almost picture a grumpy scowl if the idea of dancing around a living room was even suggested. The image shouldn’t tug at your heartstrings, but it does all the same. 

The padding of bare feet on the hallway’s wood floor catches your attention, and you look up just in time to see him return. Gone are his clothes from the day, replaced with a soft looking white t-shirt, striped blue pajama pants and a bathrobe with a turquoise and brown Southwest-inspired pattern. It’s not the most coordinated look, but he seems perfectly at ease as he drops a pillow and blanket down to the couch. 

“The bed sheets are relatively clean - washed within the last two weeks,” he says softly. “And if you want to change, I laid out a clean shirt and shorts for you. Also, you’ll find a toothbrush still in the package and a new toothpaste on the bathroom counter.” 

Your heart warms with fond surprise. “Wow, uh - thanks. That’s all surprisingly thoughtful of you.” 

He tips his head, meeting your gaze from under his lowered brow with an almost teasing, admonishing edge. “Just because I’m not married doesn’t mean that I’ve always lived alone.” 

Your mouth curves to a soft smile. “I didn’t mean it like that… truly, I do appreciate it. I guess it’s just not what I expected…” Affection colors your voice as you hold his gaze for a long moment before blinking back to yourself. “Good night.” 

He nods in agreement. “Good night. If you need anything, please just ask.” 

You return his nod before stepping out into the hallway. Walking back to the kitchen, you retrieve your purse before disappearing into the bathroom. It doesn’t take you long to brush your teeth and get ready for bed - at least, to the best of your limited ability. His house is old enough to only have one bathroom in the main hallway, and you turn the light off, noticing that a faint yellow glow still shines out from his study. For a split-second, you debate going back to wish him good night again… but for what purpose? You don’t have anything else to say that hasn’t already been said. 

Closing the bedroom door behind you, you glance around at the tidy, cozy interior of his room. If he ran around in a mad dash to clean up the room or make the bed for you, it doesn’t show. In fact, the chair next to his closet still hosts an assortment of random clothing, and your heart warms at the knowledge that he didn’t make an attempt to be anything other than himself around you. A smile tugs at your face as you approach the bed, setting your purse down next to the nightstand. 

Your smile widens as you take in the quilted bedcover in shades of navy and maroon set against white sheets, along the clothes he laid out for you. Admittedly, sleeping in jeans and your shirt from the day doesn't sound comfortable, and you quickly shed your clothes. The cotton shorts’ elastic waistband rides low on your hips and his shirt hangs oversized on your bra-less shoulders, but they carry a clean, fuss-free scent that makes you even more eager to nestle under the bedcovers. 

Pulling back the quilt, you slide against the soft sheets before reaching to turn off the nightstand light. Settling against the pillow, your heart pounds in the darkness and you still can’t believe where you are… and who’s just sleeping down the hall. Though, that just makes his bed feel all the more empty. Especially as you drown in his scent, rolling onto your side and snuggling against the pillow. Your eyes drift closed as your fingers reach out against the mattress. 

What would it be to have him lying here beside you? To feel his body heat radiating under the covers and the promise of his skin within reach? Would his breathing grow steady as he falls asleep, or would it be heightened with anticipation, on the last verge of restraint like yours? And when your fingers find his arm in the stillness, would he roll towards you? Would his mouth find yours in a rush of unbridled desire as you finally learn the taste of his kiss? Your fingers would drift towards his waist, enticing him to settle atop you and let the weight of his body push you into the mattress while devouring each other. 

Your body comes alive with the runaway fantasy, gasping softly as your hips twitch with aching need against the mattress. Fuck, you want him in here with you - want to say whatever it takes for him to just fuck you with abandon. Not that you consider yourself well-versed in ways to drive men wild, but any of the scenarios that you can conjure sound so cheap and contrived - and you’re not just going to walk through his house naked. You want him to want you, too, and that’s a far harder thing to get. 

With a frustrated sigh, you roll over to your other side, gripping the sheet close. Before closing your eyes, you notice that no light shines under the door from the hallway. Perhaps it’s easier for him to just close his eyes on his couch and blissfully sleep, completely ignorant of the way you yearn for him. 

That thought doesn’t help you get to sleep any faster, tossing and turning to try and dispel the heat on your skin. When next you open your eyes, the room appears darker in the late unknown hour, and you roll over, drowsily snuggling back into the pillow. His scent wraps around you like a comforting blanket, and it’s easy to imagine that he’s spooned up behind you with the sleep-warmed weight of his arm draped across your midsection. But a faint glow of light from the crack under the door catches your attention. 

What is he possibly doing awake at - a quick glance to his bedside clock shows - 1:48 AM? 

Pulling back the covers, your feet connect with the carpet as you walk over to open the door. The light spills out from his study and with a quiet yawn, you do your best to ignore the hallway’s chilly wood floor as you approach. Leaning a shoulder against the door frame, you pivot around the corner and your brow furrows in confusion. The plaid couch is empty, but the pillow and blanket reveal that someone has at least tried to sleep there. You tilt your head to rest against the door frame and cross your arms as you suddenly hear the sound of running water in the dark kitchen. 

A smirk teases your lips as you glance over, watching him move in the shadows and emerge back into the soft glow from the study’s floor lamp. If possible, he looks more exhausted than you’ve ever seen him, not helped as his brow furrows with questioning concern. “Hope I didn’t wake you.” His voice carries the rasp of recent disuse and nothing about it should ripple goosebumps along your skin. 

“You didn’t.” You say softly, as if anything louder would be inappropriate at such a late hour. “I was already awake and I saw the light…” Your words trail off as you take in his appearance, noting the disappearance of his rather unflattering robe before lingering on the careworn lines of his face. “Trouble sleeping?” 

“Yeah…” His mouth curves with a tired smile. “You could say that.” He raises his right hand to scrub across his face, and your gaze zeroes in on the dark mark high on his forearm, just beneath his elbow. 

A strikingly elegant, black-ink tattoo in the shape of a double spiral rests on his skin, and everything about it sends your mind racing. You haven’t given it much thought since glimpsing it that one afternoon in his office, but it just seems so out of character for him. Yet here’s undeniable proof staring you in the face. 

And speaking of staring… your cheeks flush as you finally look away, only to see the knowing expression on his face as he catches your obvious interest. 

Your mouth goes dry as you search for something not too horribly awkward to say. “It’s beautiful,” you finally settle on. “A symbol of a rebellious youth?” 

“Not quite.” Distant fondness tinges his voice as he glances down at the swirling lines of ink. “It’s Kirituhi - an art form based on Māori-style tattoos. A reminder of my second home.” 

The excerpt of his bio from the newspaper flashes in your mind. “New Zealand, right?” 

He nods slowly. “We had several people of Māori descent on Joan’s digs over the years - and their culture is just fascinating. Their connection to the past, to the present - to honoring what came before as a way to look to the future… well, that stuck with me considering that I spend my career digging in the past to build my own future.” He pauses to draw a breath as you listen with rapt attention. “And the spiral symbolizes the continuity of life - and, just as the dinosaurs had their time on this earth, so will the human race.” His mouth quirks with a sardonic grin. “I guess all we can hope is that our skeletons fossilize just as well as the dinosaurs’ to preserve our own legacy.” 

Your heart melts as it goes out to him. It’s far more insightful than you would have expected, and that makes it all the more beautiful. Unable to stop yourself, you push off the wall and close the short distance between you. Your fingers reach out to his forearm, turning it for a better look in the low light. The piece reveals far more delicate, intricate lines up close, and you sweep an appreciative thumb over the inked art. “That makes it just…" Your voice drops to a whisper thin tone as the air thickens. "All the more beautiful." 

You raise your gaze to his, wanting to drown in the azure pools of his eyes, and electricity crackles between you. The heat from his forearm curls through you to settle low in your belly. He’s so close now, and your long simmering arousal rises to a boil. Can he see it on your face? Can he see how much you want to kiss him? To have him wrap you in his arms and hold you close? To make the outside world disappear under the weight of him above you and the touch of him deep inside you? 

Maybe it’s the late hour, maybe it’s the vulnerability of the moment, maybe it’s the fire singing in your blood - but you let your hand trail up from his tattoo, up over his exposed bicep and the sleeve of his t-shirt. A shuddering breath runs through him as he breaks your gaze, squeezing his eyes closed. 

Your breathing quickens as you rise to your tiptoes and lean in, letting your breath skim the shell of his ear. “Tell me to stop and I will.” You whisper, emboldened by the maddening scent of his skin as another shuddering breath leaves him. “Tell me that you want to go back to your couch, and I’ll go back to your bed.” Your voice trembles as you sigh. “And I’ll keep pretending that I haven’t been wet for you all night.”             

“Fucking hell…” His voice strains with the last thread of control as your fingers dance along the line of his shoulder. “You… we shouldn’t…” 

Your fingers find the fine hairs along the nape of his neck as the tip of your nose brushes the shell of his ear. “Stop looking for a way to make this wrong if this is what you want, too.” Your other hand searches out his left hand that’s clenched at his side. “It’s okay, Alan,” you breathe as you draw his hand towards you. “Touch me… please.”  

The sudden force of his kiss makes you dizzy as his arms envelop you with the strength that you've fantasized about. Your heart soars as it races, meeting his embrace head on, devouring him as you want to be devoured. You cling to the broad plane of his shoulders as he crushes you close, the heat of him burning through your - his - borrowed clothes. The heady thought sends more liquid heat pooling in your core and, God… why are you still in the hallway? 

You urge him forward, keeping the inferno of his body so close as you back towards the bedroom. His broad hands clench against the small of your back, groaning as he crowds you against the wall and the full press of your hips connect. The solid ridge of his erection makes your mouth water as you grind your hips forward. There's nothing about this man that you don't want, and you have no reason to hide. 

"You have no idea…" he groans with an intoxicating, wild edge. "What hearing you does to me…" 

Sparks shoot down your spine as your body burns. "Please, Alan," you whimper. "I need you."

The growl that rumbles in his chest bypasses all rational thought, and you nearly lose your feet as he pulls you away from the wall. Wrapped in his arms, tangled with his legs, trading kisses and nibbles and moans, your head spins until the solid weight of his bed appears behind you. 

You paw at the hem of his shirt until he lifts his arms and the fabric slides free. Your eyes widen with hungry appreciation, wanting to map each facet of his chest with your tongue but you burn too hot for that patience right now. He snakes a calloused hand under your oversized shirt, cupping your breast with a maddening squeeze and delicious pressure. Pleasure shoots straight to your dripping core, a needy moan echoing in your throat as you arch against him. 

"Please…" you breathe against his lips, gripping his waist to grind against his cock. "Fuck me… Alan." 

He groans and his arms clamp around your midsection, all but dragging you fully onto his bed. The force of his strength takes your breath away as you push at the waistband of his pajama pants and underwear. There's no grace in the kisses that dissolve to gasping breaths or the scramble of hands to reveal bare skin. And when the tip of his cock slides through your wetness, your tandem guttural groans echo in the stillness of the bedroom. 

"Wait, wait…" You manage to gasp, barely recognizing your own voice. "I'm not… we need -” your cheeks burn despite the intimate press of your bodies. "My bag has something, if you don't…"

He exhales a shuddering moan as if still struggling for control. Or perhaps he's embarrassed - a rational man of his intelligence so undone by his body. But then he skims his lips along your ear and his breath sears your skin. "And here I thought you were my innocent girl." The luscious, teasing rasp to his voice rushes more liquid heat through you. "Are you always so prepared, hmm?"

You struggle to breathe through the blinding surge of arousal. "A girl never knows when she'll meet the right guy…" Your nails dig into his back for emphasis, rewarded with his delicious gasp as you cradle his hips closer to yours. "And you've been the right guy for longer than I should admit." 

"Fuck, don't say that…" His head drops to the junction of your neck and shoulder as his hips surge forwards. The thick slide of him through your soaked folds nearly undoes you, but you paw at his shoulder with urgent need. 

"My bag… unless you have -" Your voice cuts off in a gasp as he shifts suddenly, reaching over you for the bedside table. The scrape of the wooden drawer and tear of foil heightens your anticipation before his strong, nimble fingers find purchase against your thigh. Following his coaxing movements, you spread your legs wide and wrap around his backside as he positions above you. His eyes blaze with wildfire as you lean up to kiss him, gasping as he eases forward in a slow, steady glide. 

Your eyes roll back at the thick, full stretch of him as your body adjusts to the delicious invasion. The kiss turns to a heavy, moaning breath as the connection threatens your sanity. You can't remember the last time - if ever - you've been so full of man, and your toes curl as you sink blissfully back against the mattress. 

"Having you in my clothes, in my bed… like this," his voice pitches deep as he drinks you in with dark, blown-wide eyes. "So goddamn gorgeous."

Words escape you as his hips roll back and surge forward, striking the deepest part of you. Electricity jolts through you as he thrusts again, and you surrender the last facet of your rational mind. Your body moves with his on primal instinct, driven to chase the euphoria promised each time he strikes your deep-rooted pleasure point. 

You cling to him as he moves over you, against you, inside you - and you’re so fucking close. The coil at the base of your spine winds tighter with each stroke that builds a rhythm to ruin you for life. His pleasured groans and grunts of exertion mingle with your staccato cries as your body goes taut, arching against him. Your orgasim hits hard, stars exploding behind your closed eyelids as waves of euphoria rock through you. His hips stutter to a stop as he buries himself in you with a strangled groan of relief.

The moment stretches to an eternity as you hold him close, wanting to burn the memory of him like this into your brain. Your lips trail along the defined line of his jaw as he nuzzles your cheek, and your breathing starts to settle out. His mouth finds yours for a long, lazy kiss as the afterglow deliciously numbs your senses. You hum contentedly against his lips. “That was so… beyond fucking good.” Every muscle relaxes against the mattress as your eyelids drop heavily with exhaustion. “I hope you’re able to sleep a little better now.” 

He half-sighs, half-laughs as the tip of his nose brushes yours. “Yeah… you, too.” 

You meet for another, slow kiss before you reluctantly let him go. It’s not nearly as awkward as you tell yourself it should be as he retreats to the bathroom, returns with a warm washcloth for you, and he steps into your - his - shorts before rejoining you in bed. You debate reaching for your discarded underwear but the hem of his shirt falls long enough, and a lingering thrill whispers through you as your bare lower half reconnects with his skin. 

In the room’s silence, he lays on his back as you snuggle up to his side. His arm comes around your shoulders, and you listen to the sound of his breathing, just existing with him as the waking world starts to yield to dreamland. 

You don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but you refuse to let him go until you have to. 

Series Main List

[alexihawleys]

Chenford + "Want me all to yourself, do you?"

"Ah, so you did start without me," Tim mutters, smirking at her over on the couch, shaking his head. He feels Lucy's on him as he drops his bag in the entryway of her apartment, kicking off his shoes before he looks over his shoulder at her. She's rosy-cheeked and smiling, biting on the inside of her cheek so she doesn't tell on herself.

Little did she know, if the half empty jug of egg nog and open bottle of cinnamon whiskey on the counter wasn't enough of a tell, her flushed face and the flood of laughter muffled by her hands would do the trick. He moves to double-check the door is locked and hears her shift on the couch, muttering something he can't quite catch under her breath as she stands up.

"Maybe," she bites down a grin as she walks over to him, "if you weren't oh, I don't know, several hours late, I would've waited for you."

"We got a call," he starts, but she presses her hand to his chest to stop him. He slides his own hand over hers, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. "Sorry," he offers, leaning down and kissing her cheek. "I wanted to be here."

"A likely story," she shakes her head, tut-tuting him with a soft smirk on her lips. She leans up on her toes and he meets her in the middle, steadying her with his palm against the small of her back as he kisses her gently. Her apartment is dim and as she pulls back and sinks down onto her flat feet, he registers that she's only wearing a goofy red Christmas t-shirt and a pair of white knee-high socks.

"Are we alone?" He dips his head down, pressing his lips to her jaw. "Is it a Christmas miracle?"

"Want me all to yourself, do you," she grins, tipping her head to the side so he can nip at her neck. "There was a holiday rager at this guy's house tonight and somebody got a personal invitation."

"A holiday rager?" Tim pauses and Lucy lets out a laugh, looping her arms around him and burrowing herself against his torso. "Sometimes you say things," he murmurs, scraping his teeth against her neck, "and I just have to wonder."

"What do you wonder," she hums, and he shakes his head before lifting it, raising his brow at her. "A rager can't be a foreign concept to you."

He purses his lips, rolling his eyes. "Please. More the holiday part – what, an ugly sweater rager? Someone funneling a beer through a Christmas tree?"

Lucy snorts. "You know, probably more innovative than Nick."

"The guy's name is Nick?" Tim huffs, trying not to laugh. "I'm going to need a double of that egg nog you've been drinking." Lucy squints at him. "Nick? You know...St. Nick? A big Christmas guy."

He grins at the sound of her laughter as she shuffles around the counter, grabbing a highball glass out of her dish drain and pouring a suspiciously large amount of whiskey into it. "You know, I think I know another big Christmas guy." Tim rolls his eyes, but follows her around the counter and wraps his arms around her from behind as she uncaps the egg nog. "It's you, by the way."

"Never would've guessed," he murmurs, kissing the side of her head. "Are you trying to get me festive with that drink?"

"I'm trying to get you something," she smirks, plucking a cinnamon stick out of a small bag and stirring his drink with it slowly. "Let's go with caught up, hmm?"

"Shame," he murmurs, taking the glass from her hand and tipping his head back, taking a long sip. "I was hoping you were going to say jolly."

He can feel her laugh reverberating against his chest as the egg nog and whiskey burns the back of his throat, warm in a way he hopes will stick around for a long winter's night.

[toskarin]

you also post about spilling your juice and young childhood memories so maybe your parents kicked you out of the house?

everyone always forgets that the loathsome juice story was about a highball and it happened in a bar lmao

[themirokai]

I'm posting the stories of my Mystrade spy series, His Professional Capacity, to tumblr in anticipation of posting the first new installment in three years.

The first three installments are here, here, and here.

But this is the one you actually need to read before the new one, because this is where I introduce my OCs.

When I was writing Spy Wedding (which isn't part of the series, but you may enjoy) I had this idea that Mycroft would have a soft spot for younger people who are brilliant but troubled, and when you took away all of the emotional family baggage with Sherlock, that could lead to some quite nice relationships. So, in this universe, Mycroft has work kids. One of them, who is introduced here and will be returning in the new story, ended up being incredibly popular with my readers. I hope you enjoy:

Protégé

Mycroft and Greg's date gets interrupted. Greg encounters one of Mycroft's protégés.

Tags: Action/Adventure, Assassins, Spies, Mycroft's job, BAMF Mycroft Holmes, Mycroft is a softie, Inappropriate flirting

~3,695 words, minor tweaks from the version on AO3.

Note: This takes place about 6 months after The Dangerous Parts and refers to events from that story, but that's not required reading. You just need to know that Mycroft is still recovering from a broken femur here.

Read it below or on AO3.

~*~

Mycroft had decided that Greg in summer was one of his favorite things to look at. The light dress shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing the strong forearms. The healthy glow of his skin, the way he held his highball glass, licked his fingers after he squeezed the lime wedge into his gin and tonic. 

Mycroft was enjoying the view at a small restaurant where he and Greg had placed their dinner orders. Their opportunities to go out to eat since Mycroft’s “car accident” nearly 6 months ago had been severely limited. First there was Mycroft’s reluctance to navigate any space besides his home and the office when he was still in the full leg cast, and then the brace, combined with the onslaught of issues to catch up on when he was back to work full time. But now he was walking fairly steadily with just a cane, the pain was tolerable compared to what it had been, and he and Anthea had managed to keep this evening and the upcoming weekend free. 

Greg finished describing a goal he had scored at the match his recreational football team had played the previous evening. Mycroft had encouraged him to return to the team several months ago, after Greg had given up the flat that he hadn’t been to in months and officially moved in with Mycroft. The exercise, the time spent with friendly acquaintances, the fresh air, and - most importantly - something out of the house that was just his, were all clearly good for Greg. “It sounds very exciting,” Mycroft replied to the story, “perhaps I shall come watch...” he trailed off. 

“Aw, it’s not really fit for spectators, darling, besides if you were there I’d spend all my time looking at you instead of playing.” 

But Mycroft’s attention had been taken by his driver entering the restaurant. Oh no. Greg must have observed his changed expression because he turned to follow Mycroft’s gaze. 

“Is that Lucy?” he asked. As Mycroft watched, the driver turned to look over her shoulder, and her jacket moved to give a glimpse of the gun from the car’s hidden compartment tucked into her waistband. Oh, this was bad. “Gregory,” he said quietly, “we may not be able to have dinner after all. … What is it, Simmons?” Mycroft asked, keeping his voice calm as the driver approached.

“I’m sorry, sir, but we’ve got to go,” Simmons replied. “Romer and Vaden clocked a couple suspicious blokes as you were coming in here and when they ran facial recognition it turns out they’re affiliated with-” her eyes slid sideways to Greg and she cleared her throat, “people who are not fans of yours, sir. Romer and Vaden went after them but lost them. Backup’s coming but we need to get you out of the open.” 

Mycroft grimaced. “I’m sorry, Gregory.” 

Greg was already on his feet and reaching for Mycroft. “None of that. Come on, let’s get you home.”  

“Office, I’m afraid,” Simmons said as Mycroft gathered the cane and let Greg help him to his feet. “A team will have to fully secure the house before you go back to it. Right now the top priority is getting you to safety, bringing those two in, and making sure they didn’t have more friends.” 

Mycroft winced a bit with his first step and kept hold of Greg’s arm as they moved off between the tables. 

“Got an extra gun, Lucy?” Greg asked Simmons quietly. “I’m not carrying.” 

“In the car,” she replied. “Under the back seat. Mr. Holmes can show you.” 

Greg positioned himself so that Mycroft was between him and Simmons as they reached the door. 

“Gregory,” Mycroft said, “you are the civilian in this situation, you don’t -“ 

Greg shook his head. “‘M not a civilian, darling, I’m an officer of the law and you’ve got a bum leg. Stay between me ‘n Lucy, alright?” 

“The car’s just at the kerb, sir. You and Lestrade get straight in while I go to the front.”

Mycroft took a breath and nodded. Simmons paused, looking around through the glass of the door, then pushed it open. 

Just as they stepped onto the pavement two figures came tumbling out of an alley ten feet away, struggling with each other. Mycroft caught a glimpse of a young face framed by shaggy brown hair and his heart sank. Romer. 

Simmons cursed and grabbed Mycroft’s arm, putting herself between him and the men. The unexpected motion made Mycroft stumble and he grabbed for Greg, who caught him easily. 

BANG! 

Oh god! “Romer!” 

BANG! BANG! 

Greg was shoving him bodily into the car, his previously injured thigh slamming painfully onto the seat and making him see stars. Then Greg was diving in after him and Simmons was in the front, peeling out with a screech of rubber. 

“Romer!” Mycroft gasped, “Is Romer alright? Was he shot?”

Greg was opening Mycroft’s jacket, running his hands over the waistcoat and his arms. “Are you alright, Myc? The fucker was shooting at you!”

“I’m - I’m fine. I wasn’t shot.” Greg continued feeling him all over. “Gregory,” he snapped. “I was not injured. I’m fine.”

Greg finally sat back, only to be knocked back onto Mycroft as Simmons took a sharp turn. They both righted themselves and put their seatbelts on. 

“Simmons, are you alright?” 

“Fine, sir!” 

“Are you on coms? Can you hear Romer?” 

“Yes, sir. I’m not sure what’s going on though. I think he’s fighting.” 

“Give me your earpiece, Simmons.” 

“Mycroft, let her drive,” Greg put in. 

“Simmons,” Mycroft said, ignoring his partner, “your earpiece. Now.” 

Without taking her eyes off the road Simmons ripped the com link out of her ear and tossed it in the back seat. Mycroft quickly wiped it on his pants then put it in his ear. He immediately heard panting breaths. “Romer … Peter, are you alright?”

“M-Mr. Holmes?” The thick Scottish accent was a balm to Mycroft’s soul. “Sir? That you? Ya weren’t shot were ya? I’m so sorry, Mr. Holmes, he never shoulda got that close.”

“It’s me, Peter, I’m fine, he missed. You’ve nothing to apologize for.”

The young man laughed and raised his voice. “Ya hear that you cocksucking motherfucking wanker?! Ya missed him ya mafia piece of shite!! Yeah what’re your Cossack big brother bosses gonna say to that ya fucker? Oh wait, you’ll never know cos you’ll spend the rest of your life rotting in a British prison. Oi!” A sharp intake of breath. 

“Peter!” Mycroft cried.

“S-sorry, sir. Bit of … bit of a knife fight going on here. Aaarrgh. I- uh- I may need some stitches, sir.” 

Before Mycroft could reply a female voice cut in. “This is Ahmad. I’m one minute out from Romer’s position. I have backup.”

Oh thank god. Mycroft kept his voice sharp. “I want to see you both in my office, in one piece, tonight. That is an order. Am I understood?” Both agents gave affirmative answers and Mycroft knew better than to listen to the subsequent fight. “Holmes out.” He removed the earpiece and handed it back to Simmons, then collapsed back into the seat, closing his eyes. 

Romer was injured. He’s a field agent, these things happen. Romer was injured protecting me. He was apprehending a foreign national who had committed assault and attempted murder. He was only in this situation because I recruited him. If I hadn’t recruited him he would probably be dead of an overdose by now or, best case, still living on the streets of Edinburgh. He volunteered for my security detail. … Ahmad is in jeopardy now too. Ahmad said she had backup. They are both skilled agents and together they can easily take down one thug, especially with backup. If it is just one thug. They have backup. 

The car stopped and Mycroft opened his eyes to see that they were in the underground parking structure of his office. Greg gave his hand a quick squeeze, then got out and came around to help him out of the car. Simmons was standing by the open driver side door. 

“Good work today and good driving, Simmons.” Mycroft squeezed her shoulder. 

“Thank you, sir. I’ll coordinate with the team securing the house and let Anthea know when it’s alright to leave.” 

“Thank you, Simmons.” 

Mycroft took Greg’s arm and proceeded into the building. “Damnit,” he muttered as they got onto the lift. 

“What is it?” Greg asked. 

“I didn't get a status on Vaden. I was so distracted by Romer.” Mycroft shook his head at himself in disgust. “I shouldn't have favorites,” he chided. 

“To be fair, the one you see grappling with a bad guy with a gun is pretty distracting,” Greg reasoned. “I’m sure you’ll be able to get a full update once we’re upstairs.” 

And in fact Anthea was waiting as soon as they exited the elevator. Though she was wearing a normal professional dress and blazer, her hair was up and she was wearing glasses, not contact lenses. Clearly she had gone home shortly after he had left for the day, only to be called back. Her gaze swept over him quickly and a flicker of relief showed on her face. 

“Sir. Glad you’re alright.” 

“Thank you, Anthea. Bring me up to speed please.” 

“Vaden and the team that went to back him up have already brought their target in. Romer, Ahmad, and their team should be back shortly with their target. Romer is injured. Ahmad thinks the doctor can handle it so I’ve asked the doctor to report here. A team is at your house now, securing it, but the preference is for you to stay here at least until we have a better sense whether the two that were caught were the only ones. Parnell is running point on that operation and will cover interrogating the targets. We’ll also need to reassign someone to cover Romer’s spot on your detail. Vaden should be fine to stick with you.” 

Mycroft felt his grip on Greg’s arm and the cane tighten as a wave of fatigue washed over him. He sighed. “Alright. It was the Solntsevskaya Bratva?” 

Anthea glanced at Greg. 

“His clearance is high enough now,” Mycroft said. 

“It is?” Greg’s voice lifted in surprise. 

“I had your clearance raised when you moved in with me,” Mycroft explained. “In the event something like this happened.” 

“We believe it’s Solntsevskaya, sir,” Anthea said. “Both the assassins are affiliated with them.” 

Mycroft nodded. “You’ll keep me apprised of any updates, of course, and send Romer and Ahmad in as soon as they get here.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Mycroft and Greg entered the large, beautifully appointed office and Greg shut the door behind him. “You’re shaking, love.” 

Mycroft steered them over to the couch. “I’m tired. My leg hurts. And I know if Ahmad didn’t think Romer needed the hospital then he’ll be fine, but -” Mycroft grunted as he lowered himself down to the couch and started trying to massage away the pain in his thigh, “I just worry about him. He’s barely more than a child, Gregory.” 

“Can I get you a drink?” Greg asked. 

Mycroft nodded. “Please.” 

Greg headed over to the drinks cart. “Romer is one of your proteges?” 

“I recruited him. Off the street, no less.” 

Greg returned with two tumblers of Scotch, handed one to Mycroft and sat beside him. “How did that happen?” 

“Thank you.” Mycroft took a sip. “When he was sixteen Peter’s parents turned him out of their home upon finding him in the arms of another boy. He ended up living rough in Edinburgh, mostly picking pockets and shoplifting to survive. About five years ago, two of my field agents were conducting an operation there, when they realized this homeless teenager kept showing up everywhere they were. Thinking he was working for the other side, they pulled him in but it turned out that he just noticed them following someone so he decided to follow them. This half-starved, occasionally stoned, untrained boy was managing to tail experienced agents. When I arrived at the conclusion of the operation, they brought him to meet me, and I could see he was special. I arranged for him to finish secondary school and go to university. He completed university in two years and came to work here.” 

“You care about him,” Greg said quietly.

Mycroft nodded, taking another sip of Scotch. “Peter’s instinct for the work is incredible and he’s blazingly brilliant. He needs more training and we’re working on self-discipline, but he will be an invaluable agent some day.” He sighed. “And yes, I care about him. Very much.”

Greg moved a little closer and placed his hand on the back of Mycroft’s neck, starting to massage the tense muscles. Mycroft sighed and leaned into the touch. “Thank you.”

“Can I ask a question about… this evening?”

Mycroft chuckled without humor. “After I’ve put your life in danger and am keeping you from your home? Yes, I’d say you deserve some answers, Gregory.”

Greg frowned. “You didn’t put my life in danger, darling. Those assassins did.”

“You easily could have caught a stray bullet when I was being shot at. And now that you live with me and are seen in the open with me, there’s the possibility that someone will think to use you to get to me.” 

Greg took Mycroft’s hand in both of his own and gently kissed each finger. “I’ve known that was a possibility since our third date, darling. I don’t care. You’ve got a dangerous job. I’ve got a dangerous job. Life is short and could be even shorter for both of us. I love you. I want to be with you. Even if that means dodging bullets now and again.”

Mycroft caressed Greg’s cheek then leaned in to kiss him. The scotch on their breath mingled together with the scents of their colognes. When the kiss ended Mycroft rested his forehead against Greg’s. “I love you so much, Gregory.” 

“More than words can say, darling.” Greg planted a light kiss on Mycroft’s lips and sat back with a chuckle. “I still get a kick out of you referring to the house as my home.”

“It is your home, my love. As long as you’re willing to occasionally be kept from it by a security team sweeping it for hidden assassins.” 

“The smallest of prices to pay.” Greg sipped his drink. “Who did you say it was? Solo Sky Bravo something?”

Mycroft chuckled. “Solntsevskaya Bratva. A part of the Russian mafia.”

“Is my clearance now high enough to ask why Sol… part of the Russian mafia is trying to kill you?”

Mycroft was torn, briefly, between an innate impulse for modesty and the desire for Greg to have a clear view of the danger. “Some years ago I was responsible for shutting down their operation in the UK.” Mycroft leaned back into the couch, closing his eyes. “Destroyed rather a lot of their infrastructure.” A small smirk crossed his lips with the memory. “That they are sending people after me now may be because they want revenge, but it is more likely that they see me as an obstacle to rebuilding here.” 

Anthea’s voice came over the intercom. “Mr. Holmes, Ahmad and Romer are here, as is the doctor. May I send them in?”

Mycroft pushed the button beside him to respond. “Yes, Anthea, thank you.” He gathered the cane and used it to push himself to his feet with a grimace. 

The door opened and Ahmad and Romer staggered in, Romer’s arm over Ahmad’s shoulders and Ahmad’s arm wrapped around Romer’s back. Mycroft started forward, his breath hissing through his teeth. “Peter.”

Romer squinted at him through one eye, the other swollen shut. “Sir? You’re really alright? He really missed you?” 

Mycroft crossed the rest of the way to them and cupped the back of Romer’s head. “I’m fine, Peter. He could hardly get a clean shot with you on top of him. You weren’t so lucky, my boy.” 

“I’ll be fine, sir. Doctor’ll stitch me up in no time. Nothing to worry about. And he looks much worse.” Romer looked up at Mycroft, his good eye shining with earnest intensity as the words tumbled out of him in a rush. “Sir, I’m so sorry! My first week back on your detail and I let him get that close. It never should have happened, sir! We shouldn’t have lost them! Especially when you’re still recovering from-”

“Peter,” Mycroft cut him off quickly, “that’s enough. You and Vaden did everything right. You identified the threat, you gave me ample warning, I got to safety without being injured, and you brought the targets in. I’m only unhappy that you were injured in the process.” 

Romer looked down, a blush starting to show around the bruising on his face. “I’ll be alright, sir.” 

Mycroft turned to the woman still supporting Romer. “Ahmad? Were you hurt?”

“Nah, sir. I came in armed, unlike this idiot.” 

“He got my gun away from me!” Romer protested. “I got his away from him too, and I still had my knives!” 

Mycroft stepped back and gestured to the doctor waiting in the doorway. “Let’s get you seen to, Romer.” 

Ahmad transferred Romer’s weight to the doctor and stepped back. “Sir, I believe Parnell is going to start the interrogations soon. Alright for me to join him?” 

“Yes, Ahmad, thank you. Please tell Parnell that I will speak to both of our guests in the morning and I would like them in a condition that they will be able to hear and understand what I have to say.” 

Ahmad smirked. “Yes, sir.” She drew herself to attention for a moment and gave him a curt nod, then left. 

Mycroft stepped out of the way for the doctor to help Romer to the couch. As he moved, Romer was able to see Greg for the first time since entering. The young agent’s face immediately brightened. “Ah, Silver Fox is here! Hullo, Silver Fox!”

Greg gave a good natured chuckle. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Romer, instead of seeing you out the window or across the street.” 

Romer squeezed his eyes shut and groaned a little as the doctor helped him lower himself onto the couch. “You’re even better looking up close than you are through a lens, Silver Fox,” he said breathily. 

“Romer.” The warning in Mycroft’s voice was tempered by the smile he was barely managing to conceal. 

“Sir, it’s not my fault you’ve taken up with someone this gorgeous.” Romer grinned. 

“Remove your shirt, Mr. Romer, let’s look at that slice you’ve got,” the doctor instructed.

“Oh, gladly,” Romer flashed a wink at Greg. When the bloody shirt was removed, Romer was revealed to have a three inch cut across his pec, as well as a deep gash in his left side. 

“I’ll just bandage the one on your chest, but we’ll do a local anesthetic and stitches in your side,” the doctor said. 

“Can I have a nip of that whiskey while you’re working, doc?” 

The doctor nodded, and Mycroft, who was about to sit in an armchair across from Romer, started to turn. 

“Sit, love,” Greg ordered, heading to the drinks cart. “I’ve got it.” 

“Romer, you were favoring your right leg too,” Mycroft observed, as he pulled out his mobile and started reading a message from Parnell “are you cut there as well?”

“No, sir. He got a kick in at my kneecap. Just bruised is all.” 

Greg brought Romer a tumbler of scotch, and the young man made sure to touch his hand when taking it. “Thank you very much, Silver Fox,” Romer purred. 

Greg gave him a patient smile. “You’re welcome, and you’re not my type.” 

“Well, I’m not exactly looking my finest now am I? But once I get cleaned up…” 

Greg shook his head. “You’re too young for me, kid.”

“Doesn’t bother me. Didn’t Mr. Holmes tell you I have daddy issues?”

“Not interested,” Greg said with a glance at Mycroft, who was typing something on his mobile. “And taken.”

Romer hummed. “He’s not interested either,” he said with a nod at Mycroft. “Never has been, more’s the pity for me. But he’s very interested in you, and now I fully see why.”

“Romer, that’s enough,” Mycroft cut in as he pocketed his mobile again. “Stop flirting with my partner or you will find yourself with a permanent posting to Beijing.”

“Aw, sir, you know my Mandarin’s crap.” 

“I do know that, Romer. I suspect that after a few years we shall see your skill much improved.” 

While Romer kept up a stream of cheeky banter through being stitched and bandaged, he did lay off of Greg and even addressed him as “Inspector.” When the doctor was done, Anthea brought Romer a clean, unripped shirt and the young man gingerly put it on. 

“Alright Romer, go home. Rest,” Mycroft instructed. 

“Sir, I was just going to nip downstairs and watch Parnell.” 

“Absolutely not. Go home and sleep, Romer.” 

“Aw, but sir-“

“You are lucky that I’m not putting you at an analyst’s desk for the next month.” Mycroft’s tone brooked no argument. “If you do as you’re told tonight, you may observe my interviews with our guests tomorrow morning.” 

Romer’s face lit up. “In the room, sir?”

“No, over the feed.” 

Romer shrugged. “Still a Holmes interrogation. Brilliant.” 

Anthea entered at that point and Mycroft turned his attention to her. Romer took a few steps towards Greg. “Oi, Silver Fox.”

Greg raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Listen, we’ve got eyes all over the outside of the house but… keep a gun in the bedroom at night, yeah? Just in case? Mr. Holmes may already have one, but I can’t ask him.” Concern shone through every bit of Romer’s bruised face. 

Greg patted his shoulder. “Yeah kid, I’ve got it. Go get some rest. He’ll know in the morning if you haven’t.”

Romer’s cheeky grin returned. “Yeah, right. Nice to properly meet ya, Silver Fox.”

“You too, kid.”

“Romer,” Mycroft called, “what did I say about flirting?” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir!” 

~*~

Thank you so much for reading! The last part (so far) of the series is up on tumblr now. It’s a direct follow up to this story, featuring Romer.