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Summary: Mycroft’s first foray in to gift giving for a significant other requires a little assistance.
Word Count: 1399 words
A/N: I know, I know, it's February... but have some Mycroft Christmas fluff.
Mycroft Holmes had faced international crises with less trepidation than he felt standing in front of the glass display case at Fortnum & Mason.
He stared at a watch. Then another watch. Then a third watch, which differed in ways he could classify with ease, and yet, all distinctions felt irrelevant
You were not a problem to be solved, he reminded himself. You were a person.
Someone who had, against all probability, slipped past his defenses: through late-night takeout shared at opposite ends of his sofa, through dry remarks over tea, through the easy silence of simply coexisting. And now it was Christmas. His first Christmas with you.
Mycroft adjusted his scarf, turning away from the watches, already aware that he was undeniably out of his depth.
He required assistance.
Anthea did not look up from her tablet when he entered his office, though she was perfectly aware of his presence. She rarely missed anything.
The room was quiet, cloaked in soft winter light filtering through the skylight. Every object in the space, leather-bound volumes, antique maps, gleaming brass instruments, sat in deliberate order, an environment curated for control. And yet, on his desk, a single unopened Christmas card disrupted the symmetry.
“You’re pacing,” she said mildly. “Which suggests either geopolitical collapse or a personal matter.”
“Christmas,” Mycroft said.
That earned him her full attention. It wasn’t often he gave weight to something so ordinary.
“I see,” Anthea replied. “And?”
“And I require advice.”
Anthea’s lips twitched. “For whom?”
“For… someone special,” he admitted reluctantly, the words tasting foreign and oddly weighty.
She smiled then, genuinely. “That narrows it down.”
Mycroft folded his hands behind his back. “I am uncertain what would be appropriate. Excess is… unwise. But underwhelming would be unacceptable.”
Anthea leaned back in her chair, considering him with the expression of someone deciding how much truth another person could handle.
“Well,” she said, “if you’re feeling festive, there’s always jewelry.”
Mycroft grimaced. “That is precisely the sort of thing I fear.”
“Not diamonds, necessarily,” Anthea continued smoothly. “Something tasteful. A piece with history. Something that says you paid attention.”
She tapped her tablet and turned it toward him. Vintage rings. A delicate necklace. Earrings that looked like they belonged to another era.
“Nothing ostentatious,” she said. “But meaningful. A symbol. Something they can wear and think of you.”
Mycroft studied the screen. He could see the appeal. Permanence. Tradition. A quiet statement of value.
“Jewelry implies ownership,” he said slowly.
Anthea shrugged. “It can also imply commitment.”
He thanked her and dismissed the suggestions without quite dismissing the idea. Anthea, he suspected, understood that better than most.
Still, the unease remained.
The corridor outside St. Bart’s morgue smelled faintly of disinfectant and cold air, the institutional quiet broken only by the distant hum of fluorescent lights. Mycroft Holmes had no particular reason to be there, at least none he would admit, when he rounded the corner and nearly collided with a familiar figure.
“Oh! Mycroft,” she said. “Sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going.” Molly looked up at him with the air of a startled rabbit, eyes wide and uncertain.
“No harm done,” he replied, then hesitated. Opportunity, however uncomfortable, rarely announced itself twice.
“Molly,” he said, “may I ask you something?”
She blinked, adjusting her grip on the file folder in her arms. “Of course.”
“It concerns… gift-giving.”
Her expression lit up with immediate understanding. “Oh! Christmas?”
“Yes.”
“For your..?”
“Yes.” Mycroft interrupted hastily, not enjoying the vulnerability which came with people being aware of his… affections.
Molly smiled, soft and knowing. “That’s sweet.”
“I assure you this is a logistical concern,” Mycroft said stiffly.
“Of course it is,” she said, entirely unconvinced. “Well, I don’t know them very well, but I sort of know you.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“You’re not flashy,” Molly continued. “But you notice things. Little things. So maybe something indulgent, but fun. Something they wouldn’t buy for themselves.”
“Such as?”
She thought for a moment. “A trip, maybe. Somewhere warm. Or something classic. Cashmere. Perfume. Something luxurious but personal.”
She paused, then added, “The kind of gift that says you want them comfortable. Happy.”
Comfort. Happiness. Those were concepts he understood, even if expressing them remained a challenge.
“Thank you,” he said, more sincerely than he’d expected.
She hesitated. “For what it’s worth… I don’t think they seem like the kind of person who cares about price tags.”
That lodged itself firmly in his mind.
He hadn’t planned to stop by Baker Street. He simply found himself there, cold and thoughtful, and somehow sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea in front of him before he could object.
“You look troubled, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said, setting down a plate of biscuits. “Is it your brother?”
“No,” Mycroft said. “It’s Christmas.”
Mrs. Hudson gave a knowing laugh. “Oh, that explains it. Men always look like that around Christmas. Like they’re about to be audited by Santa.”
He sighed. “What does one give someone whose presence in your life is already the greatest gift?”
“A car,” she said immediately. “One of those convertible ones in their favourite colour. Or a yacht. Oh! Or one of those diamond mines, like in that song! You know the one that Michael Buble changed the words to, as if he couldn’t flirt with Santa. I quite like the Ertha Kitt version myself. I wouldn’t recommend a sable though, fur and all…”
Mycroft gave her a confused look.
“Well, they deserve something stunning, don’t they?” she said, entirely unrepentant. “To make up for all the other men they haven’t entertained because they chose you.”
He sipped his tea, already regretting bringing this up. This was possibly even more painful that asking his mother for advice on the matter.
She chuckled. “Alright, alright. Let me be serious. Let’s start simple.” She stirred her tea and leaned forward, gentler now. “Do they need anything?”
“Not that I am aware of.”
“Do they want anything?”
“I don’t believe so. There have been no significant requests or hints.”
“Well then,” she said, with the confidence of someone who had once guided two consulting detectives through emotional disaster, “what do they enjoy?”
He didn’t answer right away, a soft frown on his brow as he considered the answer carefully. The silence lingered.
“You,” she supplied, kindly.
The word landed between them, soft and unavoidable.
Mrs. Hudson smiled. “Sometimes the best gift is time. Attention. Being there. You clever men forget that.”
He stared into his tea.
“It is lovely to be spoiled,” she continued. “but it means much more to be chosen.”
Christmas morning was quiet.
No snow. No dramatic soundtrack. Just the low winter light filtering through the windows of his Pall Mall apartment.
You padded into the living room in socks, hair still sleep-tangled, wearing one of his jumpers like it belonged to you.
Which, he supposed, it did.
“Merry Christmas,” you said, smiling.
“Merry Christmas,” he replied.
He handed you a small box. Modest. Wrapped neatly.
You opened it slowly.
Inside was a simple pendant. Antique. Subtle. The kind of thing Anthea had suggested. Something that felt like a story rather than a statement, a keepsake with a past, delicate but enduring..
“Oh,” you breathed. “It’s beautiful.”
Relief loosened something in his chest.
“And,” he said, clearing his throat, “there is also this.”
He held out a second envelope. Inside was not a ticket, nor a receipt, but a handwritten note. An itinerary of sorts. Days blocked off. Dinners planned. Walks. Evenings in.
Time.
You looked up at him, eyes shining.
“Mycroft,” you said softly, “you didn’t have to do all this.”
“I wanted to,” he replied.
You set everything aside and crossed the room, wrapping your arms around him. He stiffened for a fraction of a second before relaxing into it, still not entirely used to receiving affection and yet craving it from you. His chin rested against your hair, and for a moment, everything was still, the hush of the morning, the warmth of you in his arms.
“You know,” you murmured, “I don’t need diamonds or trips or anything like that.”
“I suspected as much.”
“I just want you,” you said simply. “That’s always been enough.”
He closed his eyes.
For once, Mycroft Holmes felt he had gotten it exactly right.
And that, he thought, was the best Christmas gift of all.
Summary: A festive experiment proves Sherlocks hypothesis and melts the Ice-man just a little.
Word Count: 3580 words
Prompt: Mistletoe and Wine – by Cliff Richard
A/N: @savv-devine666 threw this pairing at me, and I have definitely been smiling to myself as I got back to writing Mycroft, so thank you for the prompt. I hope you enjoy.
The first thing Sherlock noticed was the pause.
Mycroft Holmes did not pause. Mycroft Holmes moved through rooms the way weather moved through London: inevitable, controlled, never once caught off-guard by the petty physics of other people.
And yet, the moment you stepped into the kitchen at Baker Street with your hair still damp from the rain and your hands wrapped around a steaming mug like it was the only reasonable thing in the world, Mycroft paused.
It was a fraction, a stutter in the air. The smallest hitch in his gaze before he smoothed it away and asked Mrs Hudson, with polite precision, whether her gas meter had been repaired.
Sherlock had watched murderers keep their pulse steady and liars swallow their guilt, and still the pause interested him more.
You were there because you always were, these days. You’d started popping by in late autumn, “just for a cuppa,” you’d said, the first time, and then somehow Baker Street had become one of your regular places, like a bus stop you didn’t mind waiting at. You brought biscuits, and you argued with Sherlock when he forgot to eat, and you didn’t look at Mycroft like he was a particularly severe statue. You looked at him like he was… a man.
Sherlock had filed it away as a curiosity.
Then he noticed the second thing.
Mycroft, who usually treated the world as a well-run meeting, adjusted. Tiny changes in posture. A step angled to let you pass. His voice softened by half a shade when he addressed you directly. A question that wasn’t necessary, like: “Are you warm enough?” or “Did you get home safely last night?”
Sherlock had heard his brother speak to heads of state with less concern.
It was, from a purely scientific perspective, intolerable not to test.
The Christmas period presented itself like a wrapped gift with a bow.
London turned festive the way it always did, lights strung across streets, paper crowns on heads of people who didn’t know quite how ridiculous they looked, carols leaking from shop doors, and the thick, sweet smell of mulled wine and roasting chestnuts making you feel nostalgic for a childhood you couldn’t quite remember.
The saccharine tone of Cliff Richard seemed to follow you everywhere – mistletoe and wine, children singing Christian rhyme…
You hummed it under your breath as you entered the flat one evening in early December, stamping snow off your shoes. Mrs Hudson had gone all out, as usual. There was tinsel draped over the mantelpiece, a lopsided little tree in the corner, and a sprig of mistletoe pinned to the kitchen doorframe like a trap disguised as tradition.
“You do realise,” Sherlock said, without looking up from the violin he was tuning, “that mistletoe is a parasitic plant.”
You hung your coat and gave him the look you always gave him when he was being insufferable, which was, to be fair, most of the time. “You do realise,” you replied, “that Christmas is allowed to be nice.”
Sherlock plucked a string. “Nice is rarely useful.”
“Neither are you when you haven’t slept.”
Sherlock ignored that, because he didn’t have an answer that wouldn’t sound like sulking. Instead he glanced, casually, at the doorframe. Mistletoe. An excellent variable. A cultural tradition that came with a built-in behavioural expectation.
Mycroft arrived ten minutes later, an air of discomfort about him at the thought of forced social interaction. He didn’t remove his coat straight away, as if signalling his intention to leave at the nearest possible convenience, but he did pause again when he saw you.
You turned. “Mycroft! You made it.” You smiled brightly.
“I said I would,” he answered, and if Sherlock didn’t know his brother as well as he did, he might have missed the faint warmth in the words.
Sherlock set his violin down with exaggerated nonchalance and drifted, like smoke, toward the kitchen. “Oh,” he said, as if the thought had only just occurred to him, “you should stand there.”
You blinked. “Where?”
“Under the doorframe,” Sherlock said, pointing directly beneath the mistletoe. “The light’s better. I need to see if your pupils dilate when you smell cinnamon.”
“My pupils?” you repeated, amused. “What are you on about now?”
“Science.”
You rolled your eyes but stepped obediently into the spot he indicated. You stood directly under the mistletoe without noticing it, because you were still trying to work out what nonsense Sherlock was planning.
Mycroft noticed.
His gaze flicked upward for the barest instant. His throat moved. A swallow. His hand, which had been halfway to unbuttoning his coat, stalled.
Sherlock watched all of it, delighted in the way he always was when he found a new puzzle.
There. Proof.
And then the door banged open and Greg Lestrade stumbled in with a blast of cold air and a paper bag.
“Evening,” Greg called, cheeks pink from the weather, scarf half-unwound. “Sherlock, I brought those mince pies you said you didn’t want.”
Sherlock lifted his eyes. “I didn’t want them.”
“You did,” Greg said, already moving toward the kitchen. “You texted me three exclamation marks. That’s basically begging.”
“You text with the enthusiasm of a Labrador.”
Greg laughed, and then he saw you under the mistletoe.
His grin changed into something teasing. “Oh, no. Is that mistletoe?”
You looked up, finally registering the green sprig above your head. “Oh. Right. That’s… a thing, isn’t it.”
“It’s tradition,” Greg said, and his voice took on that gentle, joking warmth that made witnesses relax in interview rooms. He set the paper bag down and stepped closer. “And I’m a man of tradition.”
“You are,” you agreed, smiling because Greg made it easy.
Mycroft stood very still. Sherlock watched his brother’s fingers tighten, just slightly, into fists.
Greg leaned in and pressed a quick, friendly kiss to your cheek. “Merry Christmas,” he murmured.
You laughed. “Merry Christmas, Greg.”
Sherlock’s eyes darted to Mycroft like a cat watching a bird. Mycroft’s expression didn’t change.
Only his pulse, which Sherlock could see in the small movement at his throat, jumped once.
Interesting.
Mycroft cleared his throat. “Lestrade,” he said, and the word sounded like a correction.
“Holmes,” Greg replied cheerfully. “Didn’t expect you here.”
Sherlock filed the first trial away. Response: elevated heart rate, micro-tension, uncharacteristic attention. But no action taken. Perhaps inhibited by social setting, perhaps lacking confidence.
He needed more data.
Two days later, Sherlock engineered the second trial.
He did it, of course, by behaving so strangely that everyone ended up doing exactly what he wanted, purely to make him stop.
He’d insisted on stringing fairy lights across the sitting room “for observation.” Although observation of what, he declined to specify. He’d pinned another sprig of mistletoe over the doorway between the sitting room and hall. Mrs Hudson had squealed with delight and declared it “very romantic,” which made John groan and retreat behind his newspaper.
You arrived with a box of cheap baubles and a packet of gingerbread men, and the flat instantly smelled like sugar and spice and warm nostalgia.
“Mycroft’s coming by later,” Sherlock said, casual as a shrug.
You glanced up, surprised but pleased. “Is he?”
“Yes. He’s dropping off something for Mrs Hudson. Or rather, he’s sending someone to deliver something, and then he’ll arrive to ensure it’s been done correctly.”
You snorted. “That sounds about right.”
Sherlock pretended to rearrange the lights, but really he was watching you. You’d been humming again, that same song, as you hung little ornaments on the tree.
Mistletoe and wine…
It was, Sherlock decided, an irritatingly infectious tune. Like an idea you couldn’t stop thinking about once it got into your head.
Greg showed up again, because Greg always did, drawn to Baker Street as if it were a crime scene and he’d forgotten he could go home. He arrived with a bottle of wine and the look of a man who’d spent all day dealing with paperwork and would rather be anywhere else.
“Oh, thank God,” he said, dropping the bottle on the table. “Normal people. Or… you lot.”
“Flattering,” you said, and handed him a gingerbread man.
He bit its head off with dramatic satisfaction. “Cheers.”
Sherlock waited. Timing mattered.
“Can you pass the tinsel?” you asked, standing near the doorway to the hall.
“Sure,” Greg said, stepping toward you.
Sherlock, ever so gently, nudged you into the exact spot beneath the mistletoe. It didn’t take much. You were focused on the tree and the tinsel and the smell of gingerbread, not on where your feet landed.
Greg looked up, saw the mistletoe, and made a show of stopping short.
“Oh, come on,” you said, already laughing because you knew what was coming.
“I don’t make the rules,” Greg replied, mouth curving. “Christmas does.”
He leaned in and kissed you properly this time, quick and light, a peck on the lips that tasted faintly of gingerbread and wine.
The room went quiet for half a second, not because it was scandalous, but because John made a strangled noise into his paper and Mrs Hudson squealed again from the kitchen like she’d just watched the ending of a romantic film.
You pulled back, cheeks warm. “You’re impossible,” you said, but you were smiling.
Greg grinned. “Tradition.”
Sherlock’s gaze flicked, sharp and immediate, to the front door.
Mycroft had chosen that moment to arrive.
Of course he had.
He stood in the doorway, perfectly composed in his dark coat, his umbrella angled just so, snow melting on the toes of his shoes.
He took in the scene in one glance: tinsel, fairy lights, you with your lips still parted in laughter, Greg too close, the mistletoe overhead.
For a moment, something crossed his face so quickly Sherlock almost missed it.
Not anger. Mycroft didn’t do anger in public.
It was… something tighter. Something that looked dangerously like loss.
Mycroft blinked once, and it was gone. His mouth curved into a polite line.
“Good evening,” he said.
“Evening,” Greg replied, cheerful as ever, as if he hadn’t just kissed the person Mycroft was clearly staring at.
You stepped away from Greg, not flustered exactly, but aware. “Hi, Mycroft.”
“Hello,” Mycroft said, and for you, the word softened again. The pause returned, the slight delay before he added, “I hope the weather wasn’t too harsh on you.”
“It’s fine,” you said. “I’ve had worse.”
Mycroft’s eyes flicked to the faint red at the tip of your nose. “You should drink something warm.”
Sherlock watched his brother’s hands, because hands told the truth.
Mycroft’s right hand had tightened around the handle of his umbrella until the knuckles paled.
Sherlock’s hypothesis sharpened into something almost solid.
He didn’t need more trials to know. But he wanted confirmation with action, not just reaction.
Mycroft was a man who could love, perhaps, in the same way he did everything else: quietly, carefully, with a terrifying amount of restraint.
Sherlock was going to remove the restraint.
Christmas Eve was perfect. Everyone was softer on Christmas Eve, so he had been told, possibly even Mycroft, though he’d probably rather walk into traffic than admit it.
The city outside was all twinkling lights and late shoppers, carols floating out of pubs, and the distant sound of bells. Somewhere in the neighbourhood, children were singing badly, but with heart.
You arrived wrapped in a scarf and carrying a small paper bag. “I brought you something,” you said to Mrs Hudson, holding it out.
Mrs Hudson’s eyes widened. “Oh, love!”
“It’s just a little thing,” you said.
Sherlock, perched on the edge of the sofa like a vulture pretending to be a man, leaned forward. “What is it?”
“A tin of shortbread,” you said, batting him away. “Not for you. For Mrs Hudson.”
“Outrageous.”
John chuckled. “You’ll live.”
Sherlock’s phone buzzed. He glanced down and felt a rare sense of satisfaction. Mycroft: Arriving in ten.
Sherlock stood. “Everyone,” he announced, “I require the kitchen.”
John looked up. “For what?”
“An experiment.”
“Of course,” John sighed.
Greg, lounging with a glass of wine, raised an eyebrow. “Should I be worried?”
“Not unless you’re allergic to pine,” Sherlock said, and then he walked into the hall and, with the decisive calm of a man moving chess pieces, repositioned the mistletoe.
He didn’t just hang it. He placed it. Exactly at the threshold of the sitting room, where Mycroft would have to pass. Exactly where you were likely to stand while talking, because you always did, angled toward the tree, half in the doorway, half in the room.
He stepped back and admired his work.
Then he returned to the sitting room and waited.
Mycroft arrived precisely on time, because, much like a wizard, Mycroft was never early or late, he arrive exactly when he meant to.
He entered with a small gift bag for Mrs Hudson and a bottle of something expensive no one had asked for. His coat looked like it had never seen a speck of dust in its life.
“Mrs Hudson,” Mycroft said, and there was genuine fondness there, tucked under the formality. “Merry Christmas.”
You turned at the sound of his voice, and your whole face brightened in a way that made Sherlock’s fingers itch for a notebook.
“Mycroft,” you said, warm as mulled wine.
He paused. Again. “Hello.”
“You’ve been busy?” you asked.
“My schedule remains consistent,” he said, which was Mycroft for yes, but I also thought of you, and I hate that about myself.
Greg wandered over, glass in hand. “Well, look at this,” he said, and took a sip. “Family Christmas at Baker Street. Never thought I’d see the day.”
Mycroft’s eyes flicked to him. “Lestrade.”
Greg grinned. “Holmes.”
Sherlock watched them like a scientist watching chemicals. Greg was easy. Mycroft was not.
You stepped toward the doorway, because you were about to head to the kitchen to help Mrs Hudson with something, and Sherlock’s heart gave a little leap.
You landed exactly beneath the mistletoe.
Sherlock lifted his eyes to Mycroft.
Mycroft saw it. His gaze snapped upward. His shoulders stiffened by a fraction.
You, unaware, turned back to him. “Are you staying long?”
“I—” Mycroft began, and stopped.
There it was. The hesitation. The internal calculation.
Greg noticed the mistletoe too, because seemed to be programmed to notice you under mistletoe.
He stepped forward with an easy smile. “Well, looks like you’re trapped, then.”
You laughed, a little embarrassed. “Oh, no.”
“It’s Christmas Eve,” Greg said, as if that explained everything. He leaned in.
Sherlock’s eyes stayed on Mycroft.
Mycroft’s face stayed composed, but his entire body went taut. The hand at his side flexed, fingers opening and closing once, like he didn’t know what to do with them.
Then something changed.
Mycroft moved.
It wasn’t fast, not like Sherlock had anticipated, but it was decisive. A step forward. A shift that placed Mycroft between you and Greg with the smoothness of a man who’d spent his life positioning himself between threats and the people he protected.
Greg blinked, surprised, and stopped short. “Uh—”
Mycroft didn’t look at him. Mycroft looked at you.
And the expression on his face, the one he never wore in parliament or palaces or war rooms, softened into something almost unbearably human.
“May I,” Mycroft said quietly, “have a word?”
You blinked. “With me?”
“Yes.”
Your laughter faded into something gentler. “Okay.”
Sherlock held his breath. John was watching now too with a smirk, his eyes curious. Mrs Hudson hovered in the kitchen doorway, smiling like she could see the story writing itself.
Greg took a step back, palms up in surrender. “All yours, mate.”
Mycroft’s gaze flicked to him briefly, cool as winter. “Thank you.”
Then Mycroft turned back to you, and for the first time that evening, he looked… nervous.
It wasn’t obvious. It was in the way he swallowed. In the way his shoulders held a fraction too high. In the way his eyes didn’t quite know where to land, as though looking at you directly might undo him.
You looked up at the mistletoe and made a small sound. “Oh,” you said, suddenly understanding why everyone was staring. “Right.”
Mycroft’s mouth tightened. “If you would prefer—”
“It’s fine,” you said quickly, and your voice softened too. “It’s just… silly.”
“Yes,” Mycroft agreed, and there was something almost bitter in it. “It is.”
“But… it’s Christmas,” you added, like you were offering him an excuse to be human for a moment.
Mycroft’s eyes held yours.
Outside, somewhere in the street, someone started drunkenly singing, off-key but joyful
Christmas time… Mistletoe and wine…
Mycroft lifted a hand, very slowly, as if he were approaching a wild animal. His fingers brushed your cheek, not quite a caress, more like he was proving to himself you were real.
You didn’t move away.
That, Sherlock thought, was the crucial detail.
Mycroft leaned in and kissed you.
It wasn’t like Greg’s kiss, light and joking. It wasn’t quick, either. It was careful, controlled, and yet there was a tremor in it, like a man who had been holding back for so long that letting go felt like stepping off a ledge.
You made a small sound of surprise into his mouth, then melted into it, your hands lifting to rest against his coat.
For one breath, Mycroft forgot to be Mycroft.
When he pulled back, his forehead hovered close to yours, and his eyes were dark with something that made Sherlock’s chest tighten in a way he didn’t like.
Mycroft’s voice, when he spoke, was quieter than usual. “I apologise,” he said, as if this were a breach of protocol. “I should not have—”
You smiled, breathless. “Don’t apologise.”
Mycroft blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“You wanted to,” you said simply, as if stating a fact. “Didn’t you?”
Mycroft’s throat moved again. “Yes,” he admitted, and the single syllable sounded like surrender.
Your smile widened, soft and delighted. “Then don’t apologise.”
Mycroft’s eyes closed for a brief moment, and when he opened them, there was something in them that looked terrifyingly like relief.
Behind you, Greg cleared his throat awkwardly and decided to stare very hard at the Christmas tree as if it had suddenly become a fascinating object of police interest.
John’s mouth was hanging open.
Mrs Hudson pressed a hand to her chest and looked like she might cry.
Sherlock, for his part, smiled with the sharp satisfaction of a hypothesis confirmed.
“Well,” he said lightly, stepping forward. “There we are.”
Mycroft’s head snapped up, all warmth disappearing in a blink. “Sherlock.”
Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back. “You’re welcome.”
Mycroft stared at him, and something dangerous flickered behind his eyes. “What,” he said slowly, “have you done?”
Sherlock lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Provided the appropriate conditions for observation.”
You looked between them, confused. “Observation?”
John, finally finding his voice, sputtered, “Sherlock, you absolute—”
“Mycroft loves you,” Sherlock announced, with the bluntness of a man who saw no need for tact. “I needed proof.”
There was a moment of silence so thick it felt like you could cut it with a knife.
Then you burst out laughing, half disbelief, half delight. “Sherlock, are you serious?”
Mycroft went very still.
His ears, Sherlock noted with glee, had gone faintly pink.
“You manipulated—” Mycroft began, voice clipped.
Sherlock waved a hand. “Yes, yes. You’re furious. Save it for later. The important thing is that you’re in love.”
“I am not—” Mycroft started, and then his eyes flicked to you, and whatever denial he had lined up died on the spot.
Because you were looking at him like he was the best surprise you’d ever received.
“Mycroft exhaled, a sound that was almost a laugh but not quite. “I appear to be,” he admitted, as though he’d discovered it in a report.
Sherlock watched your face change, watched the way you softened, the way your fingers tightened gently around Mycroft’s sleeve.
“Well,” you said, voice low, “I’m glad you are being honest about it.”
Mycroft held your gaze. “So am I.”
Sherlock cleared his throat loudly, because he could feel the room shifting into something private and he hated being excluded from anything, even emotions. “Right. Experiment complete.”
John stood up and jabbed a finger at him. “You are not doing experiments on people at Christmas.”
Sherlock blinked. “Why not? It’s a time of tradition.”
Greg snorted. “You’re insufferable.”
Mrs Hudson beamed. “Oh, let him have his fun,” she said, dabbing at her eyes. “It’s Christmas. Peace and joy and all that.”
Mycroft turned his head slightly toward Sherlock, voice like ice wrapped in silk. “We will speak later.”
Sherlock’s grin widened. “Looking forward to it.”
You leaned into Mycroft a little, as if you’d decided you belonged there. “Ignore him,” you murmured.
Mycroft’s gaze softened again, just for you. “I’m trying.”
Sherlock watched the two of you, your heads bent close together under the green sprig he’d hung so carefully, and felt an odd, unfamiliar satisfaction that had nothing to do with being right.
Mycroft had always been his brother. A mind. A force.
Now, he was also a man who had been kissed under mistletoe and had let himself be changed by it.
Sherlock decided, reluctantly, that perhaps “nice” could be useful after all.
Notes: this is literally like 100 words I think it’s super short lol sorry 😕
Warnings: none
Gif creds to owner
Grumbling as you heard the door shut, your eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the morning light which was streaming through the gap in the curtains. You felt the bed dip, followed by the familiar warmth of your husband settling back into bed. Rolling over, you smiled blearily, shifting to sit up against the pillows.
“There we go… Mummy’s awake now,” Mycroft’s voice was low with sleep, but his lips were curled up in a fond smile as he rubbed your daughter’s back.
“Hi,” you smiled gently, nuzzling into Mycroft’s side and resting your head on his shoulder. “Is she alright?” You murmured, stroking the baby’s downy head.
“She was wide awake when I went into her room,” he replied. “You just wanted some company, didn’t you, little one?” You gazed at the two of them. Mycroft’s large hands cradled her against his chest, and one of her pudgy little starfish-hands grasped onto his thumb. You knew better than to move her for a cuddle; she truly was a daddy’s girl.
“I love you,” you murmured out of the blue, placing your hand over his.
“I’m glad,” he chuckled. “I love you too, sweetheart,”
requested by: anon ‘I would love a Mycroft holmes x younger wife reader. Celebrating christmas or easter or something at his parents house with the whole family, including their small children.’
warnings: none- just wholesome fluff :)
Also i don’t actually know what Mr and Mrs Holmes’ names are so i called them Violet and Tom ???
Hii ya, I love your writing, I was wondering if you could write a Mycroft Holmes x reader smut? Thanks so much, love your blog!
Hi anon! I hope you enjoy this 💕💕 also I can’t title lol
Pleasant Distractions
Warnings: smut, office sex
“Come,”
You slip into the grand office and grin. “I plan to,” you say softly, locking the door quietly as mycroft looks up from his Very Important papers.
“Ah, YN, dear. To what do I owe the pleasure?” he says, smirking, leaning back in his chair to survey you. Even from where he’s sat, he can see your blown pupils, the way your chest rises and falls more rapidly than normal, the flush spreading beneath the collar of your tailored dress... you’re aroused, and you had decided to come into his office in that state.
This would certainly be interesting.
“I... well...” you say bashfully, already scurrying to sit in the chair opposite him.
“Ah, Ah, Ah, darling. Don’t be silly. Come and sit across my knee, hmm?” You’re more than eager to obey, hurrying to his side of the desk and sitting on one of his broad thighs. “There’s a good girl,” he purrs in your ear, nipping the love and causing you to squirm slightly. “Now. Tell me what you came into my office for, YN. You said you planned to come?” He smirks, feeling your skin heat up even more.
You nodded slowly, closing your eyes and tipping your head back. “Mmhmm,” you confirm, nibbling your lip. He admires the sight before tapping your mouth. You release the lip and look up at him shyly. “I- I...” you stumbled under the Ice Man’s gaze, although you had done this plenty of times before. He arched his brows as you mumbled something.
“I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t quite catch that. Speak up for me, hmm?” He says, mouth hot against your neck. You shifted, pressing your thighs together. He loved how responsive you were to him.
“I... I want you to... to...”
“Go on,” he prompts.
“Fuck me right here in your office,” you blurt our, and he lets out a little chuckle. He gently eases your thighs apart, feeling the wetness pooling, even though the thin gusset of your knickers. You nibbled your lip as he traced his long fingers over the slight bump caused by the soaking fabric clinging to your swollen clit.
“Please?” You gasped, already circling your hips, bucking up to the probing finger as he stroked your needy heat.
“Please what, darling?” He asked you, pinching the bud slightly.
“Mycroft! Mycroft, please, please fuck me,” you begged, gripping his lapel desperately. He smirked and nodded, patting you thigh.
“Up on my desk, dear,” he murmured into your ear, giving you a little push. You whispered and clambered up onto the big posh desk and spread your legs eagerly, face flushing with shame and arousal. He smirked and stood up, prowling over to you. “Good girl. Unbuckle my belt,” he ordered, anf you complied, making quick work of his belt and zip. He grinned and slid your knickers to the side, admiring your pussy before smirking to himself, yanking the thin lacy fabric down your legs. He tucked the wet knickers into his trouser pocket. “You won’t be needing those,” he smirked, leaning to kiss your lips firmly, harshly, making you melt beneath him even more than you already were. He tugged his cock out of his trousers and brushed it up your slit, groaning softly. Slowly, he pressed forward, pushing into you as you spread your legs wider to accommodate him, whining out softly as he moved.
Gently, he stroked your hair, cooing gently, though he sounded cocky and condescending. You moaned louder, glad of the heavily sound proofed walls- Mycroft never wanted anyone listening in on his meetings. You pressed your face into his neck, already writhing around on his desk. Feeling your clenching cunt, Mycroft set a strong, hard pace, gripping you close as he fuck you on his desk. It was in no way gentlemanly.
“ Oh... oh... oh, god!” Your lusty pleas made him lose control, and he growled into your shoulder as the pens on his desk rattled and fell off. “Hard, Myc, faster!” you demanded, yelping when he complied. He slammed his hand over your mouth despite the sound proofed walls. He arched his brows at you, though he too was groaning and grunting. He felt the all to familiar flutter of your cunt and groaned, pressing his thumb to your clit. You whined out loudly, trembling around him as you came aslnd he spurted hot come into you.
Groaning he pulled out of you and used his handkerchief to mop you both up, handing you back your underwear as he sorted out his trousers. You were just slipping on your knickers when there was a loud knock on the door. You tugged on your skirt and hurriedly straightened your shirt, before opening the door. Sherlock brushed past you and was about to speak to Mycroft when he narrowed his eyes. Pens all over the floor, the desk at a... 37° diagonal as if it had been pushed... mycroft’s tie was looser, his collar crumpled. Your usually neat skirt and shirt were wonky and rumpled and you had messy hair and smudged lipstick...
Eyes widening, Sherlock turned on his heal and promptly left the room.
Summary: A criminal seeking to topple the British Government exposes your hidden past in a last attempt to break Mycroft Holmes.
Warning: Abusive childhood mentioned
You had been Mycroft Holmes’s wife for a little over three years.
Three years of quiet evenings, shared laughter that most people never heard from him, and a life built on routines that felt like safety rather than confinement.
His world was one of secrets, politics, and constant calculation, yet with you, he was gentler. Softer.
Even Sherlock approved of you, which some considered a miracle.
You fit into his life as though you had always been meant to be there.
Which made the cold sting of rope around your wrists feel all the more surreal.
Your eyes opened slowly, your vision swimming before the room came into focus.
The first thing you saw was Mycroft, bound to a chair just a few feet in front of you, his wrists tied behind him, his expression controlled but tight with fury.
The second thing you noticed was that your own wrists were bound just as tightly, your ankles fixed to the legs of your chair, facing your husband.
The kidnapper had arranged it so that the two of you could not look away from one another.
A sickening attempt to break you both.
"My lovely guests are awake," a voice chimed behind you.
Mycroft’s eyes flicked up, scanning your face first before turning sharply in the direction of the voice. His posture remained frozen, but you knew the slight narrowing of his eyes well.
Mycroft Holmes was assessing, planning, calculating a hundred steps at once.
The criminal moved into your field of vision, a tall man with a delighted grin.
He sauntered between the two of you, placing a hand on the back of Mycroft’s chair and leaning casually.
"I must say, this positioning is inspired, is it not? Husband and wife forced to watch one another come undone. Very poetic."
"Your theatrics are tedious." Mycroft replied, voice ice cold.
The criminal only smiled wider.
"Not tedious, Mr Holmes. Effective."
He walked to you and crouched so he could examine your face closely. You fought the urge to pull back.
But you remained cool and collected.
"I have uncovered such a fascinating little history about you. You must have known it would catch up eventually, Mrs Holmes."
You swallowed hard, your facade falling. Your heart hammered in your chest. You were ready for knives, guns, but this, this was worse.
Much worse than you could have even imagined.
Mycroft looked at you, his eyes steady, but you felt heat rise in your throat all the same.
The criminal straightened and walked between your chairs once again, holding a slim file.
"Let us start at the beginning, shall we? A charming, tragic childhood. A father who despised you, a mother who could not protect you, a home where survival was a miracle in itself. How many hospital visits was it? How many beatings? Is it true that you still flinch when someone talks too loudly?"
The words hit like old bruises.
"And then, we reach your rather creative adulthood. Wealthy men taken by your beauty, utterly unaware that you were robbing them blind. A scammer with impeccable technique, I must commend you. You took everything from them. And left no trace behind."
You bit your lip, shame washing over you like a cold shower.
Mycroft watched you carefully, an unreadable expression on his face. Yet there was no disgust. No anger. Only concern.
The criminal threw pictures of you in front of Mycroft. Your past in pictures, all laid out. The past you wanted to forget.
"Tell me, Mr Holmes, how does it feel to look into your wife's eyes and see who she really is?"
Mycroft did not look away from you even for a second.
"It feels the same as it always has," he said calmly.
The criminal blinked.
"What?"
"I knew everything."
Your breath stopped along with your heart. What did he just say?
The criminal looked between you both, confused.
"You knew?"
"Of course. I knew from the moment she approached me. I confirmed every detail before I ever asked her out. Do you think I'm as stupid as you are?" Mycroft looked at the criminal for a moment.
You stared at him, stunned.
"Then she tricked you. Used the same tactic on you as the rest."
"No, she approached me out of survival. She stayed because she loves me. I know the difference."
The criminal let out a harsh laugh.
"You cannot be serious. I reveal her darkest truth, and you sit there completely unfazed?" he was getting angry that his plan failed so miserably.
Mycroft lifted an eyebrow.
"If you believe this revelation threatens our marriage, then you have severely miscalculated your understanding of love, loyalty, and intelligence."
The criminal’s face twisted with frustration.
"I meant to break you both. I wanted the British Government to crumble from the inside. I wanted you to crumble, Mr Holmes."
"You targeted the wrong man," Mycroft said simply.
Sirens sounded in the distance.
The criminal froze.
"No! No, they were not supposed to find me so quickly."
"They did, I told Lestrade where to look an hour ago."
The criminal stared at him in disbelief before running for the exit.
The door burst open before he could reach it.
Armed officers stormed inside, shouting commands, tackling the man to the floor. You flinched at the abrupt chaos, but Mycroft remained still, eyes on you.
An officer rushed to you, cutting the ropes from your wrists. The moment they came free, your arms ached with returning sensation. Mycroft’s ropes were cut seconds later.
As soon as his hands were free, he came to you.
He knelt in front of you, cupped your face gently, and spoke so quietly that only you could hear him.
"I knew your past, and none of it ever scared me. Not then, not now."
Tears blurred your vision.
"Mycroft, I am so ashamed." you whispered, voice shaking as you cried.
"You survived. You did what you had to. You rose above it. And you loved me without deceit. That is what matters."
"I thought you would hate me."
His thumb brushed your cheek.
"My Darling, there is nothing in your past that could ever change my love for you. I love you. Entirely. Completely. And nothing that man said was capable of harming what we built."
A sob escaped you, raw and relieved.
You threw your arms around him.
Mycroft held you tightly, burying his face against your shoulder, pulling you close as if anchoring you to him. You felt the slight tremble in his breath, the one he would never allow anyone else to witness.
"It is over. You are safe. And I am here."
You clung to him with everything you had.
For the first time in your life, your past did not feel like a chain around your throat.
You had a man who had known every broken piece of you from the start and chose you anyway.
A man who saw you clearly and still called you beloved.
Summary: You swore you didn't do anything to betray your husband, but then what about all the evidence?
For years, your marriage to Mycroft Holmes had been steady, tender, and extraordinary.
You had worked so hard to build a life far away from the world.
Mycroft had once told you that your honesty was the greatest thing you had ever given him. You believed him.
Then the evidence appeared.
Anonymous intelligence files. Bank transfers. Secret meetings.
A burner phone found in your jewellery box.
Emails between you and a known foreign agent. Every document airtight and convincing. Enough to accuse you of espionage. Enough to destroy everything.
You were taken into a private facility.
No officers, no interrogators, no observers. Just your husband.
The room was silent.
A single lamp lit the table where you sat with your cuffs resting heavily against the cold surface.
Hours had passed without a sound. No guards. No analysts. Only the weight of accusations hanging over you like a storm.
The door opened.
Mycroft stepped in.
He carried a file thick enough to crush you.
His face was controlled, but cracked around the edges. The tension in his jaw was unlike anything you had seen in the years you had been married to him.
He sat across from you, opened the file and spoke without greeting.
“Explain this,” he said, pushing a photograph across the table.
It showed you meeting with a known foreign agent in a dark alley. You felt sick.
“Mycroft, that is not me.”
His eyes lifted to yours, colder than you had ever known them.
“It is your coat. Your posture. Your hair pinned in your usual manner.”
“It is not me,” you repeated, voice cracking.
He slid a bank statement next.
Large sums wired to an offshore account under your maiden name.
“Mycroft, listen to me.”
“No. You will listen,” he snapped.
The sharpness in his voice sliced through you. He never raised his voice. Not with strangers. Not with staff. Certainly not with you.
Your chest tightened with panic.
“Mycroft, I never touched those accounts, I swear it.”
“And how precisely am I meant to believe that?” He leaned forward, hands pressed flat on the table, voice strained. “Tell me why there are encrypted emails from you to a foreign operative. Tell me why there is a burner phone with your fingerprint on it. Tell me why all of this evidence paints you as a traitor.”
“Because someone is framing me,” you whispered.
“Who? Your past is not as dead as you would like to believe. Perhaps one of the delightful men you once swindled has returned for a favour.”
You flinched hard.
“You know I left that life behind.”
His voice came down, quiet and devastating.
“Did you?”
Tears blurred your vision.
“Mycroft, I love you. I would never betray you. I would never betray this country.”
He closed his eyes. For a moment, he looked almost pained. Then he forced himself back into composure.
“Everything here says otherwise.”
You felt your heart fracture. This was not anger. This was hurt wrapped in logic.
“Mycroft, please. Look at me. Do you honestly believe I could do this?”
For the first time, uncertainty flickered in his eyes. But before he could speak, the door burst open.
Sherlock walked in holding a coffee cup.
“You absolute idiots. Honestly, this is embarrassing for both of you.”
Mycroft’s expression iced over.
“Sherlock, this is classified.”
“Yes, classified stupidity. I had to intervene.”
Sherlock grabbed the folders from the table and started sorting through them with a dramatic flourish.
“Right, first of all, that photograph. Not her. Shadow length is wrong for the timestamp. Also, the woman is two centimetres taller.”
He tossed it aside and grabbed the bank statements.
“These transfers? Fabricated. The formatting is from an older banking software. Mycroft, you should have spotted that.”
Mycroft stiffened. “Sherlock-”
“Do not interrupt me while I am saving your marriage.”
Sherlock moved to the emails. “These were written by someone mimicking her style poorly. The comma placement is wrong, and she never uses the Oxford comma. Also, the encryption key was generated using an outdated algorithm. Very amateur.”
He then pulled out the burner phone.
“And this delightful object. Look at the dust. It is from the north side of your flat. Except she never sets things down on that shelf because she hates the colour of the wallpaper behind it.” Sherlock gave a self-satisfied shrug. “Obvious.”
You blinked.
“How did you even know that?”
“Mycroft never shuts up about you,” Sherlock replied without looking up. “It is actually quite nauseating.”
Mycroft shot him a murderous glare.
Sherlock continued.
“So, the culprit is clearly someone from her past. I already found him. I sent Lestrade an address, and now he is making the arrest.” He dusted off his hands as if finishing a simple chore. “You are welcome.”
Silence filled the room.
Sherlock stared between the two of you. Then he sighed loudly.
“Well? One of you apologise and the other one cry or kiss or whatever it is you two do. I am bored.”
He simply stood up and left.
The door clicked closed.
Mycroft did not speak immediately. He stared at the evidence strewn across the table, each piece now exposed as a lie. Slowly, he looked at you.
Your eyes were red. His eyes were filled with something else, regret.
“My love,” he whispered. “I am so sorry.”
The apology hit you harder than the accusations. You broke, sobs shaking your shoulders.
He stood, walked around the table and knelt beside you.
Mycroft Holmes, the Iceman of Whitehall, knelt at your feet and took your shaking hands.
“I should have trusted you. I should have remembered who you are rather than what the evidence suggested.”
“You hurt me,” you whispered.
“And I will spend the rest of my life making amends for it.”
You leaned forward, forehead touching his.
His hands cupped your cheeks gently.
“I love you, nothing will ever change that.”
You let out a trembling breath. “I love you too.”
He helped you stand and pulled you into his arms. You clung to him as though he could anchor the world.
In truth, he always had.
In the hallway outside, Sherlock’s voice echoed.
“Finally. Took you long enough.”
You both ignored him.
Mycroft pressed a kiss to your temple and held you close, a silent vow settling between you. This would not break you.
It would not even dent you.
If anything, it proved something Mycroft had never admitted aloud.
Mycroft Holmes liked to believe he was not a man capable of sentiment. Sentiment clouded judgement, impaired logic, and—worst of all—made one vulnerable. He had declared this many times to Sherlock growing up.
And yet, for over twenty years, sentiment had lived quietly, relentlessly, in the single corner of his mind reserved for her.
She had been Sherlock’s childhood best friend—clever, fearless, and somehow able to tolerate the Holmes brothers better than anyone else in the world. Mycroft remembered the way she used to sit cross-legged on the grass, telling Sherlock he was being impossible while giving him the fondest smile. She was the only person who ever scolded Mycroft and got away with it.
He had loved her then, in the silent, impossible way brilliant boys sometimes love people who make their world feel less sharp.
He loved her still.
But Mycroft Holmes did not confess. Mycroft Holmes endured. Mycroft Holmes merely watched her grow into a brilliant government analyst who occasionally shared cases with him, tea with him, even tiny slivers of her life with him.
And he was perfectly prepared to love her quietly for the rest of his years—
—until the night everything cracked.
---
It was past one in the morning when his phone buzzed—an encrypted channel, a brief message:
“Injury at field site. Agent Y/LN transported to St. Bartholomew’s. Condition: stable.”
For a moment, Mycroft simply stared.
Then, without a word, he was out the door, coat in hand, leaving a trail of stunned staff behind him. Cars were summoned, cleared routes established. It still wasn’t fast enough.
His mind kept running the same image: her falling, her bleeding, her breathing slowing—he could barely tolerate even the possibility.
---
Sherlock was already there, pacing violently in the corridor.
“You knew?” Mycroft demanded.
“Just arrived. They said she intercepted a threat meant for her team.” Sherlock’s voice was clipped, too tight. “She nearly died.”
Mycroft’s breath stilled.
He forced himself into the room when allowed. Machines beeped softly. She lay unconscious, bruised, bandaged—and still he thought she looked impossibly brave.
He sat in the chair beside her, fingers gripping the armrests as though he might collapse.
“This is quite unacceptable,” he whispered. “You… frightening me like this.”
A small, broken laugh escaped him. It didn’t sound like him at all.
“I have managed nuclear crises with more composure.”
He reached out before he could stop himself—just barely brushing the back of her hand with his fingers. It felt like sacrilege and relief all at once.
---
She stirred near sunrise.
“Easy,” he said, standing instantly. “You’re safe.”
Her eyes fluttered open, soft with pain—but she smiled. “Mycroft… you’re actually here.”
“Where else,” he said stiffly, “would I possibly be?”
She chuckled, then winced. “Ow. Don’t make me laugh yet.”
Something in him loosened—something he’d held shut for decades.
“You frightened me,” he said quietly.
She blinked at him, surprised. “You don’t… get frightened.”
“I was,” he admitted, voice low. “Profoundly.”
“Mycroft… I’m fine.”
“Yes. Now.” His façade was cracking, dangerously. “I find I can no longer pretend as I once did.”
She tilted her head. “Pretend what?”
Mycroft exhaled once—a slow, tremoring release.
“That I do not care for you,” he said, each word deliberate. “Deeply. More than is appropriate. More than I have any right to.”
The room went utterly still.
“I loved you as a boy. I love you still. And nearly losing you—”
His voice broke.
“I will not endure that again without you knowing.”
She stared at him, stunned—and then, gently, she reached for his hand.
“Mycroft,” she whispered, “you should’ve told me years ago.”
He froze. “Why?”
“Because,” she said softly, “you’re not the only one who never stopped caring.”
For the first time in decades, Mycroft Holmes was speechless.
Finally, he allowed himself to sit beside her, her hand resting in his.
Sherlock peeked in the doorway moments later, saw their linked hands, and rolled his eyes.
“Well,” Sherlock muttered, “about time.”
Mycroft didn’t bother looking at him.
For once, sentiment was not a weakness—it was the only thing that mattered.
This has been sitting in my drafts for a while, and I realise I haven't uploaded anything in a bit so hope people enjoy! (Even if he's a more obscure character 😅)
❝𝐏𝐞𝐭 𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠❞ « one-shot »
Pairing: Mycroft x GN!Reader
Wordcount: 0.5k
TWs: None
When your friend went away, they had asked if you’d be willing to look after their cat for the week. An event that, considering you and Mycroft didn’t have one of your own, you’d quickly jumped at the idea of doing. An event that, to your surprise, Mycroft had even offered to accompany you for.
You can’t help but feel distinctly judged as you try to open the door, cursing the stiffness of the lock before it finally swings open. Mycroft begins to come closer before a sudden movement inside the house makes him stop, and you both draw your attention to it. The cat sits at the top of the stairs, eyeing you with a mixture of slight suspicion and opportunistic tolerance that you’ve grown to expect from it. And hunger.
Then its gaze shifts from you to Mycroft, and both of them stand still as they take in the other. Standing between them, you look back and forth between the two of them as they just stare. Eventually it’s the cat that breaks off first, moving down the stairs and into the kitchen area. Mycroft’s gaze stills follows it, and you wait for him to come in, “So, is the cat a master criminal? A deductive genius like yourself? The mastermind behind the missing catnip scandal of ‘08?”
“I believe it’s hungry.”
The slight upturn of his lips clues you in to the fact he's joking, although it's almost certainly an accurate deduction. For a moment you try to hold out your hand to pet the cat, and it sniffs your hand gently before letting out a mournful meow and running into the kitchen. Standing up again you glance to Mycroft, "Here I hoped for something to love me."
Mycroft's nose wrinkles slightly at the jest, leaving you to start following the cat, "At least I do not require bribes of food to love you, my dear."
"No, you don't." It doesn't take long to catch up to Mycroft, although he's already taken a bowl and some of the food out after only glancing at the instructions.
Holding the sachet out delicately, and as though the cat food inside poses a genuine threat to him, Mycroft waits for you to take it. "Your bribe for its love."
"Thank you."
He waits patiently for you to open the food and placate the animal, before standing by your side as the two of you watch it eat. Mycroft observes the cat closely, and you find yourself wondering again if he can deduce animals. If he can look at its fur pattern and determine how long it's been a stray versus at a shelter versus in a loving home. How many hands reach out to stroke it in a day.
Reaching out, your hand wraps around his. For a moment the two of you enjoy the simple contact together. Then a small smirk comes onto your face, "Do you find yourself susceptible to bribes for your love, Mycroft?"
"I think my employers would rather frown on me being swayed upon any point." He answers the question formally first, then allows a little affection into his tone. "And I rather think that just your presence is enough to enamour me to you."
A/N: Me and the not-quite rarepair. Plus my opportunity to say I love cats, cats are just incredible creatures <3
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I'm certain I'm not the only one whose seen that Pussy Portal post and been absolutely gobsmacked by the idea. So here's a little something inspired by it. (There will definitely be more, whether anyone wants it or not, because I cannot get this idea out of my head).
Post here if you haven't seen it.
Smut below the cut.
You were flat-out broke. That was the only reason you considered the app in the first place. It had come to you in a desperate internet search for quick ways to make money on the side. Student loan payments were piling up and were at risk of going to collections, your car had finally bit the dust last week and would take far more to repair than it was worth, and you for sure couldn't afford a new one. The final cherry on top was your job cutting your hours. No announcement, no email, nothing. Just a gradual decline of your name on the schedule and some sleuthy coworkers putting two and two together. Everyone's hours were getting cut. At least you still qualified for health insurance. For now.
Most of the money-making schemes you found during your searches just weren't worth the trouble. You'd spent an hour filling out the most inane surveys for $10 and another three hours transcribing jail phone calls for lawyers just to earn less than a penny per word. You had begun to feel hopeless. And then it had popped up, like a boon from hell; Pussy Portal. Selling your body hadn't been out of the question. You had considered selling your feet pics online, and even found a website where you could send people your used panties for money. But the more you looked into it, the more you realized it would essentially be a full-time job if you wanted it to be lucrative, and one of the ways to make more money was to have a presence, put your face out there, let people see what they were buying. You weren't nearly confident enough for that. Pussy Portal on the other hand, sort of alleviated both of those concerns. The pay was pretty good, and no one was actually going to be looking at or interacting with you, you just had to give any creature of any nature, unfettered access to your pussy. Putting it bluntly, Pussy Portal was prostitution, but you wouldn't be meeting any of the clients and no one had to know who you were. You just couldn't think about it too hard.
So, here you were. App downloaded, background check and medical screenings passed, some sort of strange magi-tech contraption attached to your hip, now you just had to wait. You were promised by the Pussy Portal rep you'd been communicating with that your first time on the app would essentially be a quality check. One of their "testers" would get first dibs on you, give you a rating, and that was that; you were open for business.
The email they sent gave you a very large time frame, pretty much the entire day. You were glad you had off work, firstly, because you wouldn't have wanted to do this in the office (you most certainly would have been fired), and secondly, you were far too nervous to do anything else. You just settled onto your couch, turned the app on, and waited.
After about thirty minutes of staring at the ceiling while your stomach churned, you realized that you needed to distract yourself somehow or you'd go crazy with anticipation. So, you turned on your comfort show and doom scrolled for a while. You weren't sure if you needed to be in any sort of position for it to work; there weren't really any instructions on that, so you just lay back and tried not to focus on it. After a few hours, you started to wonder if anything was going to happen. You kept opening your email to double-check you had the date right, and pulling the band of your sweats down to check that the magi-tech device was still glowing green. You were almost tempted to email support. Maybe they'd mistyped the date. Then, when you were least expecting it, you felt it. A gentle prodding at your entrance. You sucked in a breath, the nerves gathering themselves in your stomach again. The being on the other end of the portal pushed into you slowly, your mouth fell open at the stretch. The app said it catered to all kinds of beings, and you weren't sure what creature might be currently pushing you open, but it was certainly larger and a bit more textured than a human. You were just grateful they hadn't decided to start with something huge like a minotaur. You weren't really sure what you should do now. Did you need to take your clothes off, or get into any certain position? You kept thinking about your thighs getting in the way, but it clearly wasn't an issue as you felt the cock begin moving slowly in and out of you. It felt odd not to do anything at all, so you adjusted yourself on the couch and spread your legs.
You were getting wetter by the second as the cock continued it's slow drag in and out of you, some of it's ridges catching on your insides and pushing on your sensitive spots. A moan fell from your lips, and you couldn't help but slip a hand inside the loose sweats you were wearing. Finding your clit, your fingers moved slow circles over it eased on by the juices now dripping out of you. It was strange to feel so full, to feel the push and pull of a cock in your tight cunt but not be able to see the dick itself. Your fingers travelled lower to your entrance where you felt your pussy being stretched by the invisible suitor.
The cock picked up it's pace and you groaned, fingers moving back up to your clit. The being on the other side of the portal seemed to be nearing his end, his thrusts more frantic than before. You were nearing your climax too, and your fingers picked up speed in time with the thrusts in and out of you. You were so close when you felt the cock snap forward and bury itself deep, deeper than anyone had ever reached, a rush of semen filling you in warm spurts. That was what pushed you over the edge and you spasmed hard around the cock, your walls clenching down. Before you were ready, the being pulled out.
You stared up at the ceiling, hand still down the front of your pants, breathing heavy, contemplating what you had just done. You'd just let a stranger, a non-human creature, fuck you, and other than the nerves at the beginning, you enjoyed it. You threw your free arm over your eyes and laughed at the ridiculous state you found yourself in. You only decided to get up from your couch when a trickle of cum slipped from inside you and dribbled down your ass.
When you returned from the bathroom after having cleaned yourself up, you noticed a notification had popped up on your phone. Your trial run was successful and you were officially approved to start making money on Pussy Portal. The Pussy Portal tester that had fucked you had even left a note on your profile for other potential clients to see. "Tight, human pussy. Larger beings may need the assistance of lubrication." The review made you feel a little weird; it was so dry and clinical for something that had felt so strange and intimate for you, but when the $500 signing bonus hit your bank account, that feeling dissipated. You could totally make this work.
Sticking your nose in a finnish conversation (Mycroft & Reader fanfic)
Contains: Mycroft is visiting Finland and can speak finnish, reader is finnish and can speak finnish, as you can see this is a specific dorky theme for a fic, I am a finnish person myself so I am writing this fic partly in finnish, Reader is younger than Mycroft, reader is Fem, this can be read both platonically and romantically, this fanfic contains finnish and english language and translations in the middle of the text
-
You dug through the contents of your backpack, smiling in satisfaction when you pulled out your headphones. Waiting for the bus in the bus stop seemed immediately more fun as you started watching a video while standing up, occasionally glancing at the road to see if the bus had arrived yet.
You were locked in, watching a hilarious animation on your screen. You had waited for a new episode to drop and it was finally here. The plot points were shocking and funny at the same time and your grin widened as you kept watching.
As the antics on your screen got more crazy and hilarious, you couldn't stop giggling more and more. A particularly shocking twist made you burst into laughter and you wiped your eyes as you cackled and wheezed.
Suddenly somebody interrupted you, speaking in finnish.
"Minä luulin, että suomalaiset pitävät etäisyyttä toisiinsa, eivätkä häiritse toisiaan metelöimällä", that somebody said.
("I thought that finnish people keep distance to each other and don't disturb each other by being noisy", that somebody said.)
Your eyes widened. You turned around. You had company. There was a man standing a few meters away waiting for a bus. He looked like a politician or somebody else clean-shaven and proper. He smiled, eyes glinting mockingly.
He had called you "suomalainen" ("finnish"). That meant that he was not one. But interestingly he was still speaking finnish.
You chuckled neutrally. You could be patient, even if your companion seemed as annoying as a gum in your shoe.
"Hyvin huomattu. On tietysti olemassa poikkeuksia. Harmi, ettei sulla ole mukana omia kuulokkeita, mutta nyt ainakin pääset seuraamaan yhtä tällaista poikkeustapausta ihan läheltä. Saat vaikutelman Suomesta, kun kerran olet tullut tänne asti ulkomailta. Täällä on varmaan aika erilaista. Ymmärrätkö sä, mitä mä puhun, vai-"
("Good job noticing that. Of course there are exceptions. It's a shame that you don't have your own headphones with you, but at least now you get to witness one example of an exception from a close range. In that way you will get an impression of what Finland is like, as you must have come here from another country. It must be pretty different here. Do you understand what I'm saying, or-")
"Ymmärrän kyllä, kiitos. Suomen kieli ei ole niin vaikeaa kuin te luulette. Me 'ulkomaalaiset' olemme kyvykkäitä oppimaan, vaikka te ehkä leimaatte meidät ulkopuolisiksi ja hidasälyisiksi. Huvittavaa, ottaen huomioon kuinka suuri osa suomalaisista ei ymmärrä englantia."
("I do understand you, thank you. Finnish language is not as difficult as you think. We ' 'foreigners' are capable of learning, even if you might think we are outsiders and less intelligent. Laughable, considering how many people in Finland don't understand english.)
"Sä ajattelet ilmeisesti, että olet kaukana hidasälyisestä. Siihen on varmaan syytäkin, kun kuuntelee sun puhetta. Mun ei tarvi hidastaa mun puhetta ollenkaan, kun mä puhun sulle, ja sä ymmärrät näköjään myös puhekieltä ja lyhenteitä. Vai ymmärrätkö?"
("Apparently you think that you are far from unintelligent. Understandably you have reason to believe that, when I listen to the way you speak. I don't have to slow down at all when I speak to you and it looks like you also understand spoken language and shortened words. Do you?")
"Suomen kielen lyhenteet ovat yksinkertaisia moniin muihin kieliin verrattuna. Ei tarvita paljonkaan kokemusta tai päättelykykyä pystyäkseen arvaamaan monien sanojen merkitykset ja pysymään keskustelussa mukana."
("The shortened words in finnish language are simple compared to many other languages. You don't need much experience or intelligence to be able to guess the meanings of most words and keep up with the conversation.")
"Vau... Damn!" you exclaimed, feeling like you were showing too much genuine appreciation for your opponent, but you couldn't help it. But on the other hand, you were getting embarrassed. Did it seem like you were obsessed with finnish? You were also capable of speaking english and you felt a rush of excitement when you imagined testing those skills. You had talked about finnish enough, right? You changed subject. "Tai siis... Mä osaan englantia, by the way."
(Wow... Damn!" you exclaimed, feeling like you were showing too much appreciation for your opponent, but you couldn't help it. But on the other hand, you were getting embarrassed. Did it seem like you were obsessed with finnish? You were also capable of speaking english and you felt a rush of excitement when you imagined testing those skills. You had talked about finnish enough, right? You changed subject. "I mean... I can speak english, by the way.)
"Pystyn kuvittelemaan, millä tasolla pystyt puhumaan äidinkieltäni. En tarvitse siitä demonstraatiota. Sitä paitsi vaikuttaa kiusallisen paljon siltä, että haluat käyttää suomen kieltä englannin kielen sijaan. Syitä ovat luultavasti sokea isänmaallisuus ja sisäänpäin kääntynyt maailmankuva, joka on johtanut epävarmuuteen käyttää englantia spontaanisti."
("I can imagine the level on which you can speak my first language. I don't need an demonstration of that. Also it seems embarrassingly much like you want to use finnish instead of english to speak. The reasons for that are probably blind patritionism and inwards turned worldview, which has lead to uncertainty in regards of using english spontaniously.")
"En mä menis noin pitkälle! Sä liioittelet mun huonoja puolia! Ihan sama! Mä tykkään puhua suomen kieltä, koska se on kaunis kieli! Säkin varmaan tykkäisit kuunnella sitä, kun mä puhuisin englantia, mutta voi voi! Sä sait kuulla sitä vain silloin kun mä sanoin 'damn' ja 'by the way' ja se saa riittää. "
("I wouldn't go that far! You are exaggerating my bad qualities! Whatever! I like to speak finnish, because it is a beautiful language! You would probably be happy to hear it too, if I spoke english, but boo hoo! You were only able to hear it when I said 'damn' and 'by the way' and now I'm finished with that!")
"Siinä on aivan tarpeeksi demonstraatiota, kiitos. On kiinnostavaa nähdä, kuinka sinä esittelet itsekkäitä puoliasi tuntemattomalle ihmiselle. Olen tähän mennessä kuvitellut, että oma persoonallisuuteni olisi esimerkki tyypillisestä itsekkyydestä, mutta sinä teet uuden ennätyksen siinä kisassa. Olet niin itserakas, että se saa sinut käyttäytymään kuin harhainen. "
("That's quite enough demonstration, thank you. It's interesting to see how you are showing your selfish qualities to a stranger. Up until now I have imagined that my own personality is an example of typical selfishness, but you are making a new record in that competition. You are so egoistical that it makes you delusional.")
"Harhainen? Jaa, että millä tavalla?" you asked and reminded yourself to calm down, slowing down your breathing.
("Delusional? Oh yeah? How?" you asked and reminded yourself to calm down, slowing down your breathing. )
"Se käy ilmi siitä oletuksesta, että luulet englannin ääntämyksesi olevan niin vaikuttavaa kuultavaa, että minä voisin nauttia siitä, mikä on tietysti väärä oletus."
("It's apparent from the fact that based on your assumption you think that the way you enunciate english would be so impressive to hear that I would enjoy it, which is of course a wrong assumption.")
That was shocking and weird at the same time. You were not sure if you felt rejected or challenged.
"Wow..." you said, your voice neutral. The man might have thought that you were hurt from how short your answer was. Or he might think that you were unbothered and just thinking of what to say, because your expression was calm.
You stayed silent for awhile. You stared across the street and glanced at the man every once in a while.
When you opened your mouth, it was an insult.
"Kahjo", you said.
("Wackjob", you said.)
"Typerys", he answered.
("Stupid", he answered.)
"Älykääpiö."
("Shit for brains.")
"Rääpäle."
("Squirt.")
"Kusipää."
("Pissbrain.')
"Idiootti."
("Idiot.")
"Ei paha! Vaikka 'idiootti' on melkein sama kuin englannin 'idiot'", you admitted, grinning a little.
("Not bad! Even though 'idiootti' is almost the same as 'an idiot' in english language."
"Huomasit siis sen", the man said, looking up in the sky. He seemed to actually agree, even if reluctantly.
("So you noticed", the man said, looking up in the sky. He seemed to actually agree, even if reluctantly.)
"'Rääpäle' oli hyvä. Siinä ei ollut yhtään epävarmuutta kun sä sanoit sen'
("'Rääpäle' was great. It didn't sound at all unsure when you said it.")
"Finnish has a rather satisfying curse word vocabulary. It would be shameful to mock someone in an insufficient fashion, when you could insult them so fiercely that they feel it in their bones", the man said in english.
"Just niin! Wait, are we using english now? Do I get a chance to impress you with my skills?
("Exactly! Wait, are we using english now? Do I get a chance to impress you with my skills?")
"Spare me from baring witness to that. Ovatko kaikki suomalaiset näin huomionhaluisia?"
("Spare me from baring witness to that. Are all finns such attention-seekers?")
"Sä aloitit! On sulla otsaa kommentoida miten kaikkien suomalaisten pitäisi käyttäytyä kuin hiljaiset erakot, kun sä itse aloitit tän keskustelun ilmoittamalla kovaan ääneen sun mielipiteen mun läsnäolosta tällä bussipysäkillä!"
("You started it! Holy cow, you really have the audacity to comment on how all the finnish people should act like quiet reclusives while you yourself started this conversation by announcing loudly your opinion of my presence on this bus stop!")
"Taidat unohtaa, että pakotit minut puuttumaan asiaan kun häiritsit minua lapsellisella naureskelullasi. Sen lisäksi muistutan sinua, että olen ulkomaalainen ja suomalaisten sosiaaliset normit eivät siksi koske minua", the man said, leaning down on your eye level to smile at you annoyingly.
("You must have forgotten that you forced me to intervene when you disturbed me with your childish cackling. In addition I will remind you, that I am a foreigner and therefore the finnish norms don't affect me", the man said, leaning down on your eye level to smile at you annoyingly.)
An expensive looking car drove to the bus stop. The man stepped towards it, ready to go inside. He opened the door and looked at you. You sneered at him playfully.
"Onpa siinä hypokraatti. Oletko sinä tullut Suomeen, koska palat halusta päästä haastamaan riitaa ja sen takia huutelet normaaleille ihmisille bussipysäkeillä?"
("What a hypocrat! Have you come to Finland to cause fights and that's why you are yelling at normal people on bus stops?")
"Siinä on yksi syy. Ja toinen syy on se, että pääsen kutsumaan sinua rääpäleeksi."
("That's one reason. And the other reason to come here was so that I would get to call you "rääpäle".)
You almost burst out laughing, but grinned impishly at him instead. But you had to set something straight before he would leave.
"On mulla oikea nimikin. Se on (Y/n)."
("I do have a real name. It's (Y/n).")
"Mycroft", the man introduced himself. Your eyes widened. You were delighted that had actually given you his real name. Mycroft looked at you appreciatively and nodded.
Mycroft stepped inside the expensive car and soon he was gone. You stayed on the bus stop, humming to yourself. You felt giddy.
will involve if continued: violence, trauma, death
word count: 1.5k
situation: Mycroft feels eyes on him everywhere he goes, is it paranoia or a ghost from the past decided to pay him a visit?
authors note: HELLO!! guess who's back after years of inactivity? :D ME!! Trying a new one, but definitely coming back to all COD themes too. Please if you like this LET ME KNOW and part 2 will be made!! Enjoy x
Mycroft was used to being the most powerful man in the room. Wherever he went, people felt the pure power seeping off of him. The way he held himself, the way he carried that power like a wallet in his pocket. People seemed to stay out of his path, even without being told to move.
Mycroft had eyes everywhere; he had all the cameras in the city under his control, and he had people in every country of the world feeding him information. He was everywhere, at all times, in any weather.
Obviously, he always denied his engagement in the British government’s affairs, yet his brother, who was considered one of the smartest people on Earth, called him The British Government. Mycroft found it hard to act normally and blend in with the commonwealth. He was treated like royalty by his colleagues, and even the Prime Minister loved spending his days off with his great friend, Mycroft.
His presence was always accompanied by at least two people, his driver and his bodyguard. He didn’t remember the last time he was at the wheel of his government-issued car or when he entered the room first, without his guard scouting the premises first. Obviously, he left his guard downstairs when he visited his little brother, but it was simply to save the poor ears of the man, to guard him from Sherlock’s nonsense.
Yet, on a rainy autumn day, it all changed. At first, it was a slight, almost unnoticeable change, a prickle on the back of his neatly shaven neck. He started turning around in the streets, feeling a heavy presence behind him, yet no one was ever there. When he sat in on the meetings, he felt like the cracks in the old wooden panels watched him too. He deduced he must have fallen ill with paranoia. For a man of his calibre, it was indeed a serious illness. How could he rule the country when he was constantly looking over his shoulder and expecting a threat from wooden panels?
The only place he felt safe was his office. The concrete walls had no cracks, and the ceiling windows were hidden well enough that no one could ever find them or see him through them, for that matter. He sat facing the door, so he would see if anyone was standing behind it or passing by. Maybe he should get a metal door done? Not a bad idea, Mycroft thought to himself.
His deductions couldn’t work on himself, or rather, the invisible threat he was imagining, or so he thought.
During the upcoming weeks, his paranoia only got worse. He added a second guard to his suite and didn’t go outside without them present. Obviously, he thought that whoever was going to attack him was utterly stupid, as he believed the attacker would never come out on top of that encounter. Yet, something kept him looking over his shoulder.
Even Sherlock, who doesn’t concern himself with his brother’s business, noticed the changes to his behaviour.
“Do tell, what lends this recent air of trepidation, brother?” Sherlock inquired once, just as Mycroft stepped into the room. John looked as confused as Mycroft to hear that question, and with a long look, he deduced that Mycroft was indeed off his game lately. His clothes weren’t as neat, his hair was just a tad bit dishevelled, as if he ran his hand through it several times on his way here.
“I'm afraid I'm not quite sure what you're referring to, brother mine,” Mycroft sneered, the dark spots under his eyes giving away the lie he just told.
“Good heavens, is it not apparent that you appear to be in a state of utter disarray, as if you've been wearing those clothes for the third time this week, and it's only Thursday, I might add?” Sherlock stood up, circling his older brother like a predator circles his prey, or in Sherlock’s case, like a detective assessing his client, “Your shoes, I daresay, are besmirched with the faintest speckles of dirt, despite the fact that the weather is remarkably dry. And, good gracious, your hair appears to be in a state of such dishevelment as if it's on the verge of making a break for it at the slightest touch of your comb.”
Mycroft held his head high even when deep down he knew his brother was right, and he hated to admit it on those rare occasions his brother was indeed in the right. So his next safest option was to turn the discussion around and switch the topic.
“I believe, Sherlock, you're simply fabricating the entire thing in your own mind, aren't you? I'm feeling quite well, thank you for inquiring after my well-being, and I must confess that I've taken the liberty of dropping by to see how you're doing, particularly because John still refuses to enlighten me about your, shall we say, state. I rather thought I'd pop in to see if you were merely indulging in a bit of subterfuge or, heaven forbid, lying in a ditch somewhere.”
“Oh, please! Don't try to change the subject. You are here because this is the only place that gives you some sort of relief, and whatever danger you are running from can't reach you here. So, please do sit down and tell us what it is that's following you around?” Sherlock finally sat down in his own chair with a dramatic swoosh of his robe. John kept standing in the doorway to the kitchen, not sure if he was needed for this conversation.
“Now that I saw for myself that you are indeed perfectly fine, brother mine, I must head to work. I have a job, you see, not something you can understand,” Mycroft completely ignored the words of his brother, turned on his heel and left the apart. Was there truth in Sherlock’s words? Absolutely. Was Mycroft going to admit it? Not a chance.
“I will see you later when you come crawling for answers!” Mycroft heard Sherlock’s dramatic attempt to disturb him, and he was thankful for almost being outside, or Sherlock might have gotten whacked on the head with an umbrella.
Yet when Mycroft stepped outside, it was a completely different world. The safety of the walls inside was no longer present around him, and when he took those steps towards the car, he felt those eyes fall on him again.
Your eyes. Your eyes were keeping him awake at night, tense at the office, and the only place you couldn’t get in without being caught was surprisingly not the government, but the apartment of Mycroft’s little brother. But considering their relationship, you weren’t concerned with Mycroft being there for too long.
You were Mycroft’s worst nightmare, and the paranoia that kept him tense at every conscious second he spent outside. He prided himself on being smarter than his brother, but he couldn’t even figure out who was watching him. You’d know if he did. He would look you up in the system, search your name in a database, and you’d get a notification of that straight away, yet there was nothing. He was oblivious to you coming back to make his life a living hell.
There was once a girl who was wronged by someone very dear to her, forcing her out of the country, out of her home and out of reach from everything she had ever loved and cared about. Now that the girl came back hungry for revenge, hungry for justice and in the instance where the justice could never be on her side, she knew she had to take matters into her own hands. Her name was Y/N, and she was on the missing persons’ list for the last 5 years.
A ghost from Mycroft’s past came to hunt him down, and he was too deep into his power play to know what was coming. You wanted his head on a stick for everyone to see, so he could feel the shame and burning hot rage that you also felt years ago when you had to flee.
Your hand was gripping the wheel to the point that your knuckles were going white. This car was cold, and the heating system was broken; you didn’t like that. Every day, you had to take a different car to make sure he didn’t see you, to make sure you blended in. If he could live his life in comfort, why couldn’t you?
For the past several weeks, you’ve been everywhere he went. Either in person or through the cameras you had installed. Your eyes were on him the entire time, and he didn’t even know it. That thought brought a great smile to your face. He deserved that and more, and you were going to make sure he got it.
Until then, you’d be his ghost, his shadow and his worst nightmare. He thought he could play with the lives of others and walk away with no consequences? Not anymore.
A stormy london night. Perfect for a lover’s spat to happen. You loathe him for his indifference, his carefully crafted superiority. It is fine if he does not care about you, but unacceptable for John and Sherlock.
Caring is an absolute advantage. You know that if Sherlock is gone, your boss, handler, enemy, something Mycroft will also be gone, and he does not understand that at all.
You fight at him, seeth at him in the london rain. You are soaked beneath it all, and you can barely see his face, hidden under the cover of his umbrella, remaining holy and dry. He knows where it hurts, especially when it comes to you, and the words kill you and you run inside.
“Don’t you dare run away. That’s an order. 008!” You hear him until he is muffled from the door you shut on him. He then follows after you.
You are cornered in the foyer, and he stalks towards you like something awfully akin to a predator. Your eyes dart to the lonely lamp throwing a pool of gold that made the walls loom over you. Water drips down you in a maddening rhythm, puddling to the carpet, and steams rises against your chilled skin. Everything is here.
The words don’t register, neither yours nor his. The final words you and him desperately swing at eachother for feeling semblance of control.
But then you know It is a kiss. His hand at your jaw. Bruising to the core. His mouth crashing down at yours before you can draw your furious words and sword.
Your head hits the wall. The wallpaper is cool and damp beneath your soaked hair.
You meant to shove him off. Meant to slap him, scream at him. But your body betrays you, melting before your mind could catch up. Your mouth opens under his, and then there was tongue, teeth, a clash more than a kiss, all anger and desperation.
The heat of him is overwhelming. He’s dry, warm, pressed against your drenched self, and every nerve in you screams at the difference, the electric shock of his mouth moving against yours while water drips down your collarbones. His hand braces against the wall beside your head, caging you in, and you let yourself fall into it, into him, because fighting him suddenly feels impossible.
You clutch at his lapels, dragging him closer, tasting the heat of his breath, the sting of teeth as he bites against your lower lip. You moan against him, hating yourself for it, hating him for pulling it from you. The kiss is war, but it’s also near unconditional surrender.
Your soaked clothes cling between you, but he is all tailored lines and heat, every inch of him pressed against you. You arch into him, into him, devouring his mouth as though you haven’t just been screaming at each other. His tongue sweeps against yours and you meet it, furious, hungry, until the foyer echoes with the wet sounds of both of you.
It’s obscene, and you don’t care.
You want more.
Want him closer, hotter, want to burn the cold rain out of your bones in his impossible, infuriating warmth. You feel selfish.
The kiss drags on, deepens, turns from an attack into something darker, something that makes your knees weaken even as your fists stay knotted in his coat. He groans low in his throat, a sound he’s never meant anyone to hear, and you swallow it down like victory.
When you finally tear apart, it’s only for breath. Your foreheads almost touch, both panting, his lips red and swollen, your chest heaving. Water still drips from your hair, running down between you, but his body is a furnace against yours, dry and searing and too much.
You stare up at him, lips trembling from the aftershock, eyes blazing. The sight of him flushed to the ears invades you.
He stares right back, and in the stormy, jagged, grey of his gaze, you find absolution.
"That’s the problem with you. You care too much." He leans into your mouth, not giving you the satisfaction of touch, "And for all your fire, you’ll burn for me first."
